Soon after my arrival in Australia I went to a pub just to see what kind of a place an Australian pub was.

I asked for a glass of beer and while I was sipping it the barman, who had noticed that I was a stranger, asked me which country I had come from and how did I like Australia.

In course of further conversation he asked me what I would like to do when my contract time was over.

"I don't know," I answered, "I shall decide later."

This simple sentence had a strange and rather unexpected influence on hire. He straightened himself, hastily rearranged his necktie, took a glass and knocked at an empty bottle.

"Attention, gents!" he shouted. "Attention! I have the pleasure to let you know that a clergyman is among us. So don't use, please, indecent language and don't make such a bloody noise! He is a New Australian. so let him have a good impression of our drinking habits and our institutions."

"Why do you think I am a clergyman?" I asked in a state of confusion and astonishment.

"You cannot hide it, Sir," answered he, "it is quite obvious to everybody."

And he insisted that I should have a couple of drinks with him. The first of these drinks we drank for my success in this country and the second for the prosperity of his native Scotland. For the first drink he charged me full price, but for the second he took twopence less.

Thereafter everybody in the bar wished to have a drink with me. At the same time, everybody showed me great respect, naming me Reverend or Sir, and trying, sometimes without much success, to avoid bad expressions. It was very confusing and I left the bar as soon as I could.

I tried, of course, to find out the reason for the strange misunderstanding, but it was in vain. I simply couldn't work it out.

Then it happened again.

At my first employment place in this country I had a boss who was a very bad man. He was rude and malevolent towards his workers. Yet he was very friendly towards me. I couldn't realise why. An explanation came about only when I was leaving my job and saying farewell to him.

"My friend," said he, leading me aside, "my friend! Now as you are leaving, confess that you are a priest."

"Why?" said I. "I am far from being a priest."

"I think you are," insisted he. "If you really are not a priest, then it is in the sense only that you are something bigger than just a simple parish priest, a bishop may be. But never mind! I am not offended that you refuse to tell me the truth. I understand that you wish to hide your vocation in your present circumstances. Good luck to you, Reverend!"

This strange thing now began to puzzle me in a serious way. A few days later I again was mistaken for a clergyman.

It happened on the way to another state. In a country town an old woman entered the compartment where I sat alone, and took a seat opposite of me. We exchanged a few words about the weather and the price of tea. As soon as I opened my mouth she became confused and lost her easy manners. Before she left the train in the next country town, she made me a deep bow and whispered:

"Give me your blessing, Father!"

I couldn't do it, of course, and she became very sad, for she concluded I thought her to be unworthy of my blessing.

All that was very puzzling indeed, but I was still unable to get at the cause of it, and I couldn't help often wondering about the cause, as things like that happened again and again, keeping me in a state of constant confusion. In shops, streets, trams, offices — where I ever came in contact with people, — I was often called Reverend as soon as I opened my mouth. Yet many months were to go before the mystery was solved.

During these months I worked in a big factory. My working mate there was a young Australian who had a vivid interest in everything German. He therefore asked me to teach him the German language. His name, by the way, was John, but he insisted I should call him Johannes.

Of course, as it usually is with similar students of foreign languages, the words, he was mainly interested in, were bad ones. At first I refused to teach them to him at all. Later I agreed, but only on the condition that for every bad word he would learn 50 good ones. He was ready to learn only 20. We bargained in a hard way and finally agreed upon 25.

So we worked together and learned German. As he wished to know all the bad German words as quickly as possible, he industriously learned hundreds of decent ones, too. Soon he was able even to speak German.

However one day he quarrelled with our boss and was given a week's notice. On his last day we worked, as usual, together, repeating, for the last time, all those German words and expressions he had learned from me. Soon the working hours of that sad day were over and the moment of farewell arrived. With the farewell the unexpected explanation of the mystery, which had puzzled me since I came to Australia, also came about.

"Friend," said Johannes, when we were saying farewell to each other, "you may say whatever you wish, but you can't fool me: you are a clergyman."

"No, Johannes, I am not," I answered. "Why do you think I am? Why so many people think I am?"

He was not prepared to believe that I really was no clergyman, but at last, after having received my word of honour, he was persuaded.

"Then," he said solemnly and gravely, "then one day I will tell my children and grand-children (if I am going to have any) what a funny man you were. I will tell them that once upon a time I used to work in this factory with a New Australian who was the funniest man I ever knew."

I couldn't understand anything. "Why?" was the only word I could say.

"I will tell them," continued Johannes, in the same solemn way, "that this New Australian did a simple manual job in this factory, like me and like any other decent chap, but while doing that simple job he used to speak Bible English."

"Bible English?" exclaimed I. "Isn't English I speak just the usual English, as it is being taught in schools?"

"The usual English?" laughed Johannes. "Oh, no, it isn't! It is just an archaic, biblical English, English of the Scriptures; You say: I shall, we shall. Who ho speaks like that, besides clergymen in their sermons? For you not to be fenny and not to make an impression that you are a clergyman, you must say: I will, we will. Then it will be the English of our century, — nice and correct English."

I followed his advice and nobody thinks any more that I am a clergyman. Everything is allright now. I only wonder what my old, dear teachers would say, if they were still alive!

David Marquis

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