The “travelling merchants” of this country were generally what their customers called “Yankees”—that is, New-Englanders, or descendants of the puritans, whether born east of the Hudson or not. And, certainly, no class of men were ever better fitted for an occupation, than were those for “peddling.” The majority of them were young men, too; for the “Yankee” who lives beyond middle age, without providing snug quarters for the decline of life, is usually not even fit for a peddler. But, though often not advanced in years, they often exhibited qualities, which one would have expected to find only in men of age and experience. They could “calculate,” with the most absolute certainty, what precise stage of advancement and cultivation, was necessary to the introduction of every article of merchandise their stock comprised. Up to a certain limit, they offered, for example, linen table-cloths: beyond that, cotton was better and more saleable; in certain settlements, they could sell numbers of the finer articles, which, in others, hung on their hands like lead; and they seemed to know, the moment they breathed the air of a neighborhood, what precise character of goods was most likely to pay.
Thus—by way of illustration—it might seem, to one not experienced in reading the signs of progress, a matter of nice speculation and subtle inquiry, to determine what exact degree of cultivation was necessary, to make profitable the trade in clocks. But I believe there is no instance of an unsuccessful clock-peddler on record; and, though this fact may be accounted for, superficially, by asserting that time is alike important to all men, and a measure of its course, therefore, always a want, a little reflection will convince us, that this explanation is more plausible than sound.
It is, perhaps, beyond the capacity of any man, to judge unerringly, by observation, of the usual signs of progress, the exact point at which a community, or a man, has arrived in the scale of cultivation; and it may seem especially difficult, to determine commercially, what precise articles, of use or ornament, are adapted to the state indicated by those signs. But that there are such indications, which, if properly attended to, will be unfailing guides, is not to be denied. Thus, the quick observation of a clock-peddler would detect among a community of primitive habits, the growing tendency to regularity of life; for, as refinement advances, the common affairs of everyday existence, feeling the influence first, assume a degree of order and arrangement; and from the display of this improvement, the trader might draw inferences favorable to his traffic. Eating, for example, as he would perceive, is done at certain hours of the day—sleep is taken between fixed periods of the night and morning—especially, public worship—which is one of the best and surest signs of social advancement—must be held at a time generally understood.
The peddler might conclude, also, when he saw a glazed window in a house, that the owner was already possessed of a clock—which, perhaps, needed repairing—or, at least, was in great need of one, if he had not yet made the purchase. One of these shrewd “calculators” once told me, that, when he saw a man with four panes of glass in his house, and no clock, he either sold him one straightway, or “set him down crazy, or a screw.”
“Have you no other 'signs of promise'”? I asked.
“O yes,” he replied, “many! For instance: When I am riding past a house—(I always ride slowly)—I take a general and particular survey of the premises—or, as the military men say, I make a reconnaissance; and it must be a very bare place, indeed, if I can not see some 'sign,' by which to determine, whether the owner needs a clock. If I see the man, himself, I look at his extremities; and by the appearance of hat and boot, I make up my opinion as to whether he knows the value of time: if he wears anything but a cap, I can pretty fairly calculate upon selling him a clock; and if, to the hat, he has added boots, I halt at once, and, without ceremony, carry a good one in.
“When I see the wife, instead of the husband, I have no difficulty in making up my mind—though the signs about the women are so numerous and minute, that it would be hard to explain them. If one wears a check-apron and sports a calico dress, I know that a 'travelling merchant' has been in the neighborhood; and if he has succeeded in making a reasonable number of sales, I am certain that he has given her such a taste for buying, that I can sell her anything at all: for purchasing cheap goods, to a woman, is like sipping good liquor, to a man—she soon acquires the appetite, and thenceforward it is insatiable.
“I have some customers who have a passion for clocks. There is a man on this road, who has one for every room in his house; and I have another with me now—with a portrait of General Jackson in the front—which I expect to add to his stock. There is a farmer not far from here, with whom I have 'traded' clocks every year since I first entered the neighborhood—always receiving about half the value of the article I sell, in money, 'to boot.' There are clock-fanciers, as well as fanciers of dogs and birds; and I have known cases, in which a man would have two or three time-pieces in his house, and not a pair of shoes in the family! But such customers are rare—as they ought to be; and the larger part of our trade is carried on, with people who begin to feel the necessity of regularity—to whom the sun has ceased to be a sufficient guide—and who have acquired some notions of elegance and comfort. And we seldom encounter the least trouble in determining, by the general appearance of the place, whether the occupant has arrived at that stage of refinement.”
We perceive that the principal study of the peddler is human nature; and though he classifies the principles of his experience, more especially with reference to the profits of his trade, his rapid observation of minor traits and indications, is a talent which might be useful in many pursuits, besides clock-peddling. And, accordingly, we discover that, even after he has abandoned the occupation, and ceased to be a bird of passage, he never fails to turn his learning to a good account.
He was distinguished by energy as well as shrewdness, and an enterprising spirit was the first element of his prosperity. There was no corner—no secluded settlement—no out-of-the way place—where he was not seen. Bad roads never deterred him: he could drive his horses and wagon where a four-wheeled vehicle never went before. He understood bearings and distances as well as a topographical engineer, and would go, whistling contentedly, across a prairie or through a forest, where he had not even a “trail” to guide him. He could find fords and crossings where none were previously known to exist; and his pair of lean horses, by the skilful management of their driver, would carry him and his wares across sloughs and swamps, where a steam-engine would have been clogged by the weight of a baby-wagon. If he broke his harness or his vehicle in the wilderness, he could repair it without assistance, for his mechanical accomplishments extended from the shoeing of a horse to the repair of a watch, and embraced everything between. He was never taken by surprise—accidents never came unexpected, and strange events never disconcerted him. He would whistle “Yankee Doodle” while his horses were floundering in a quagmire, and sing “Hail Columbia” while plunging into an unknown river!
He never met a stranger, for he was intimately acquainted with a man as soon as he saw him. Introductions were useless ceremonies to him, for he cared nothing about names. He called a woman “ma'am” and a man “mister,” and if he could sell either of them a few goods, he never troubled himself or them with impertinent inquiries. Sometimes he had a habit of learning each man's name from his next neighbor, and possessing an excellent memory, he never lost the information thus acquired.
When he had passed through a settlement once, he had a complete knowledge of all its circumstances, history, and inhabitants; and, the next year, if he met a child in the road, he could tell you whom it most resembled, and to what family it belonged. He recollected all who were sick on his last visit—what peculiar difficulties each was laboring under—and was always glad to hear of their convalescence. He gathered medicinal herbs along the road, and generously presented them to the housewives where he halted, and he understood perfectly the special properties of each. He possessed a great store of good advice, suited to every occasion, and distributed it with the disinterested benevolence of a philanthropist. He knew precisely what articles of merchandise were adapted to the taste of each customer; and the comprehensive “rule of three” would not have enabled him to calculate more nicely the exact amount of “talk” necessary to convince them of the same.
His address was extremely insinuating, for he always endeavored to say the most agreeable things, and no man could judge more accurately what would best please the person addressed. He might be vain enough, but his egotism was never obtruded upon others. He might secretly felicitate himself upon a successful trade, but he never boasted of it. He seemed to be far more interested in the affairs of others than in his own. He had sympathy for the afflictions of his customers, counsel for their difficulties, triumph in their success.
Before the introduction of mails, he was the universal news-carrier, and could tell all about the movements of the whole world. He could gossip over his wares with his female customers, till he beguiled them into endless purchases, for he had heard of every death, marriage, and birth within fifty miles. He recollected the precise piece of calico from which Mrs. Jones bought her last new dress, and the identical bolt of riband from which Mrs. Smith trimmed her “Sunday bonnet.” He knew whose children went to “meeting” in “store-shoes,” whose daughter was beginning to wear long dresses, and whose wife wore cotton hose. He could ring the changes on the “latest fashions” as glibly as the skilfulest modiste. He was a connoisseur in colors, and learned in their effects upon complexion. He could laugh the husband into half-a-dozen shirts, flatter the wife into calico and gingham, and praise the children till both parents joined in dressing them anew from top to toe.
He always sold his goods “at a ruinous sacrifice,” but he seemed to have a dépôt of infinite extent and capacity, from which he annually drew new supplies. He invariably left a neighborhood the loser by his visit, and the close of each season found him inconsolable for his “losses.” But the next year he was sure to come back, risen, like the Phœnix, from his own ashes, and ready to be ruined again—in the same way. He could never resist the pleading look of a pretty woman, and if she “jewed” him twenty per cent. (though his profits were only two hundred), the tenderness of his heart compelled him to yield. What wonder is it, then, if he was a prime favorite with all the women, or that his advent, to the children, made a day of jubilee?
But the peddler, like every other human “institution,” only had “his day.” The time soon came when he was forced to give way before the march of newfangledness. The country grew densely populated, neighborhoods became thicker, and the smoke of one man's chimney could be seen from another's front-door. People's wants began to be permanent—they were no longer content with transient or periodical supplies—they demanded something more constant and regular. From this demand arose the little neighborhood “stores,” established for each settlement at a central and convenient point—usually at “cross-roads,” or next door to the blacksmith's shop—and these it was which superseded the peddler's trade.
We could wish to pause here, and, after describing the little dépôt, “take an account of stock:” for no store, not even a sutler's, ever presented a more amusing or characteristic assortment. But since these modest establishments were generally the nuclei, around which western towns were built, we must reserve our fire until we reach that subject.
But the peddler had not acquired his experience of life for nothing, he was not to be outdone, even by the more aristocratic stationary shop-keeper. When he found his trade declining, he cast about him for a good neighborhood, still uninvaded by the Lombards, and his extensive knowledge of the country soon enabled him to find one. Here he erected his own cabin, and boldly entered the lists against his new competitors. If he could find no eligible point for such an establishment, or if he augured unfavorably of his success in the new walk, he was not cast down. If he could not “keep store,” he could at least “keep tavern,” an occupation for which his knowledge of the world and cosmopolitan habits, admirably fitted him. In this capacity, we shall have occasion to refer to him again; and have now only to record, that in the progress of time, he grew rich, if not fat, and eventually died, “universally regretted.”
In the progress of society, the physical wants are felt before the intellectual. Men appreciate the necessity for covering their backs and lining their stomachs before storing their minds, and they naturally provide a shelter from the storms of heaven, before they seek (with other learning) a knowledge of the heavenly bodies. Thus the rudest social system comprises something of the mechanic arts—government begins to advance toward the dignity of a science—commerce follows the establishment of legal supremacy—and the education of the citizen comes directly after the recognition of his social and political rights. So, the justice of the peace (among other legal functionaries) indicates subjection, more or less complete, to the regulations of law; the peddler represents the beginning of commercial interests; and the schoolmaster succeeds him, in the natural order of things.
It may be possible to preserve a high respect for a calling, while we despise the men who exercise it: though I believe this is not one of the rules which “work both ways,” and the converse is, therefore, not equally true. A man's occupation affects him more nearly than he does his occupation. A thousand contemptible men will not bring a respectable profession into so much disrepute, as a contemptible profession will a thousand respectable men. All the military talents, for example, of the commander-in-chief of our armies, would not preserve him from contempt, should he set up a barber-shop, or drive a milk-cart; but the barber, or the milkman, might make a thousand blunders at the head of an army, should extravagant democracy elevate him to that position, and yet the rank of a general would be as desirable, because as honorable, as ever.
It is certainly true, however, that the most exalted station may be degraded by filling it with a low or despicable incumbent, for the mental effort necessary to the abstraction of the employment from him who pursues it, is one which most men do not take the trouble to make: an effort, indeed, which the majority of men are incapable of making. A vicious priest degrades the priestly vocation—a hypocrite brings reproach upon the religious profession—a dishonest lawyer sinks the legal character—and even the bravest men care but little for promotion in an army, when cowardice and incompetency are rewarded with rank and power. But manifest incapacity, culpable neglect of duty, or even a positively vicious character, will not reduce a calling to contempt, or bring it into disrepute so soon, as any quality which excites ridicule.
An awkward figure, a badly-shaped garment, or an ungainly manner, will sometimes outweigh the acquirements of the finest scholar; and the cause of religion has suffered more, from the absence of the softer graces, in its clerical representations, than from all the logic of its adversaries. A laugh is more effectual to subvert an institution, than an argument—for it is easier to make men ashamed, than to convince them. Truth and reason are formidable weapons, but ridicule is stronger than either—or both.
Thus: All thinking men will eagerly admit, that the profession of the schoolmaster is, not only respectable, but honorable, alike to the individual, and to the community in which he pursues it: yet, rather than teach a school for a livelihood, the large majority of the same men would “split rails” or cut cord-wood! And this is not because teaching is laborious—though it is laborious, and thankless, too, beyond all other occupations; but because a number and variety of causes, into which we need not inquire, have combined to throw ridicule upon him, who is derisively called the pedagogue—for most men would rather be shot at, than laughed at. Cause and effect are always inter-reactive: and the refusal of the most competent men, to “take up the birch”—which is the effect of this derision—has filled our school-rooms with men, who are, not unfairly, its victims. Thus the profession—(for such is its inherent dignity)—itself, has fallen into discredit—even though the judgment of men universally is, that it is not only useful, but indispensable.
Nor is that judgment incorrect. For, though home-education may sometimes succeed, it is usually too fragmentary to be beneficial—private tutors are too often the slaves of their pupils, and can not enforce “attention,” the first condition of advancement, where they have not the paraphernalia of command—and, as for self-education, logically there can be no such thing: “one might as well attempt to lift himself over the fence, by the straps of his boots,” as to educate himself “without a master.”
The schoolmaster, then, is a useful member of society—not to be spared at any stage of its progress. But he is particularly necessary to communities which are in the transition state; for, upon the enlightenment of the rising generation depend the success and preservation of growing institutions. Nor does his usefulness consist altogether—or even in a great measure—in the number of facts, sciences, or theories, with which he may store the minds of his pupils. These are not the objects of education, any more than a knowledge of the compartments in a printer's “letter-case,” is the ultimate result of the art of printing. The types are so arranged, in order to enable the compositors more conveniently to attain the ends, for which that arrangement is only a preparation: facts and sciences are taught for the improvement of the faculties, in order that they may work with more ease, force, and certainty, upon other and really important things; for education is only the marshalling of powers, preliminary to the great “battle of life.”
The mind of an uneducated man, however strong in itself, is like an army of undisciplined men—a crowd of chaotic, shapeless, and often misdirected elements. To bring these into proper subjection—to enable him to bind them, with anything like their native force, to a given purpose—a prescribed “training” is necessary; and it is this which education supplies. If you can give a mind the habit of attention, all the power it has will be made available: and it is through this faculty, that even dull minds are so frequently able to mount the car of triumph, and ride swiftly past so many, who are immeasurably their superiors. The first element of the discipline which develops this power, is submission to control; and without such subordination, a school can not exist. Thus, the first lesson that children learn from the schoolmaster, is the most valuable acquisition they can make.
But it was no easy task to teach this principle to the sturdy children of the early Western “settler;” in this, as in all other things, the difficulty of the labor was in exact proportion to its necessity. The peculiarities of the people, and the state of the country, were not favorable to the establishment of the limited monarchy, requisite to successful teaching. In the first place, the parents very generally undervalued, what they called “mere book-learning.” For themselves, they had found more use for a rifle than a pen; and they naturally thought it a much more valuable accomplishment, to be able to scalp a squirrel with a bullet, at a hundred paces, than to read the natural history of the animal in the “picture-book.” They were enthusiastic, also, upon the subject of independence; and, though they could control their children sternly enough at home, they were apt to look, with a jealous eye, upon any attempt to establish dominion elsewhere. The children partook largely of the free, wild spirit of their fathers. They were very prompt to resist anything like encroachment upon their privileges or rights, and were, of course, pretty certain to consider even salutary control an attempt to assert a despotism. I believe history contains no record, whatever the annals of fiction may display, of a boy, with much spirit, submitting without a murmur to the authority of the schoolmaster: if such a prodigy of enlightened humility ever existed, he certainly did not live in the west. But a more important difficulty than either of these, was the almost entire want of money in the country; and without this there was but little encouragement for the effort to overcome other obstacles. Money may be only a representative of value, but its absence operates marvellously like the want of the value itself, and the primitive people of those days, and especially that class to which the schoolmaster belonged, had a habit, however illogical, of considering it a desirable commodity, per se.
All these impediments, however, could, in the course of time, be conquered: the country was improving in social tone; parents must eventually take some pride even in the accomplishments they despised; and patience and gentleness, intermingled, now and then, with a little wholesome severity, will ultimately subdue the most stubborn spirit. As for the pecuniary difficulty, it was, as the political economists will tell us, only the absence of a medium at the worst: and, in its stead, the master could receive boarding, clothing, and the agricultural products of the country. So many barrels of corn, or bushels of wheat, “per quarter,” might not be so conveniently handled, but were quite as easy to be counted, as an equal number of dollars; and this primitive mode of payment is even yet practised in many rural districts, perhaps, in both the east and west. To counter-balance its inconvenience of bulk, this “currency” possessed a double advantage over the more refined “medium of exchange” now in use: it was not liable to counterfeits, and the bank from which it issued was certain not to “break.”
So the schoolmaster was not to be deterred from pursuing his honorable calling, even by the difficulties incident to half-organized communities. Indeed, teaching was the resort, at least temporary, of four fifths of the educated, and nearly an equal number of the uneducated young men, who came to the west: for certainly that proportion of both classes arrived in the country, without money to support, friends to encourage, or pride to deter them.
They were almost all what western people call “Yankees”—born and bred east of the Hudson: descendants of the sturdy puritans—and distinguished by the peculiarities of that strongly-marked people, in personal appearance, language, manners, and style and tone of thought. Like the peddlers, they were generally on the sunny side of thirty, full of the hopeful energy which belongs to that period of life, and only submitting to the labors and privations of the present, because through these they looked to the future for better and brighter things.
The causes which led to their emigration, were as many and as various as the adventurers whom they moved. They were, most of them, mere boys: young Whittingtons, whom the bells did not ring back, to become lord-mayors; who, indeed, had not even the limited possessions of that celebrated worthy; and, thus destitute, they wandered off, many hundreds of miles, “to see the world and make their fortunes,” at an age when the youth of the present day are just beginning to think of college. They brought neither money, letters of introduction, nor bills of exchange: they expected to find neither acquaintance nor relatives. But they knew—for it was one of the wise maxims of their unromantic fathers—that industry and honesty must soon gather friends, and that all other desirable things would speedily follow. They had great and just confidence in their own abilities to “get along;” and if they did not actually think that the whole world belonged to them, they were well-assured, that in an incredibly short space of time, they would be able to possess a respectable portion of it.
A genuine specimen of the class to which most of the early schoolmasters belonged, never felt any misgivings about his own success, and never hesitated to assume any position in life. Neither pride nor modesty was ever suffered to interfere with his action. He would take charge of a numerous school, when he could do little more than write his own name, just as he would have undertaken to run a steamboat, or command an army, when he had never studied engineering or heard of strategy. Nor would he have failed in either capacity: a week's application would make him master of a steam-engine, or a proficient (after the present manner of proficiency) in tactics; and as for his school, he could himself learn at night what he was to teach others on the following day! Nor was this mere “conceit”—though, in some other respects, that word, in its limited sense, was not inapplicable—neither was it altogether ignorant presumption; for one of these men was seldom known to fail in anything he undertook: or, if he did fail, he was never found to be cast down by defeat, and the resiliency of his nature justified his confidence.
The pursuit of a certain avocation, for a long period, is apt to warp one's nature to its inequalities; and as the character gradually assumes the peculiar shape, the personal appearance changes in a corresponding direction and degree. Thus, the blacksmith becomes brawny, square, and sturdy, and the characteristic swing of his arm gives tone to his whole bearing: the silversmith acquires a peering, cunning look, as if he were always examining delicate machinery: the physician becomes solemn, stately, pompous, and mysterious, and speaks like “Sir Oracle,” as if he were eternally administering a bread-pill, or enjoining a regimen of drugs and starvation: the lawyer assumes a keen, alert, suspicious manner, as if he were constantly in pursuit of a latent perjury, or feared that his adversary might discover a flaw in his “case:” and so on, throughout the catalogue of human avocations. But, among all these, that which marks its votaries most clearly, is school-teaching.
There seems to be a sort of antagonism between this employment and all manner of neatness, and the circle of the schoolmaster's female acquaintance never included the Graces. Attention to personal decoration is usually, though not universally, in an inverse ratio to mental garniture; and an artistically-tied cravat seems inconsistent with the supposition of a well-stored head above it. A mind which is directed toward the evolution of its own powers, has but little time to waste in adorning the body; and a fashionable costume would appear to cramp the intellect, as did the iron-vessel the genius of the Arabian tale. Although, therefore, there are numerous exceptions—persons whose externals are as elegant as their pursuits are intellectual—men of assiduously-cultivated minds are apt to be careless of appearances, and the principle applies, with especial force, to those whose business it is to develop the minds of others.
Nor was the schoolmaster of early days in the west, an exception to the rule. He might not be as learned, nor as purely intellectual, as some of our modern college-professors, but he was as ungraceful, and as awkwardly clad, as the most slovenly of them all. Indeed, he came of a stock which has never been noted for any of the lighter accomplishments, or “carnal graces;” for at no period of its eventful history, has the puritan type been a remarkable elegant one. The men so named have been better known for bravery than taste, for zeal than polish; and since there is always a correspondence between habits of thought and feeling and the external appearance, the physique of the race is more remarkable for rigor of muscle and angularity of outline, than for accuracy of proportion or smoothness of finish. Neither Apollo nor Adonis was in any way related to the family; and if either had been, the probability is that his kindred would have disowned him.
Properly to represent his lineage, therefore, the schoolmaster could be neither dandy nor dancing-master; and, as if to hold him to his integrity, nature had omitted to give him any temptation, in his own person, to assume either of these respectable characters. The tailor that could shape a coat to fit his shoulders, never yet handled shears; and he would have been as ill at ease, in a pair of fashionable pantaloons, as if they had been lined with chestnut-burrs. He was generally above the medium height, with a very decided stoop, as if in the habit of carrying burthens; and a long, high nose, with light blue eyes, and coarse, uneven hair, of a faded weather-stain color, gave his face the expression answering to this lathy outline. Though never very slender, he was always thin: as if he had been flattened out in a rolling-mill; and rotundity of corporation was a mode of development not at all characteristic. His complexion was seldom florid, and not often decidedly pale; a sort of sallow discoloration was its prevailing hue, like that which marks the countenance of a consumer of “coarse” whiskey and strong tobacco. But these failings were not the cause of his cadaverous look—for a faithful representative of the class held them both in commendable abhorrence—they were not the vices of his nature.
There was a sub-division of the class, a secondary type, not so often observed, but common enough to entitle it to a brief notice. He was, generally, short, square, and thick—the latitude bearing a better proportion to the longitude than in his lank brother—but never approaching anything like roundness. With this attractive figure, he had a complexion of decidedly bilious darkness, and what is commonly called a “dish-face.” His nose was depressed between the eyes, an arrangement which dragged the point upward in the most cruel manner, but gave it an expression equally ludicrous and impertinent. A pair of small, round, black eyes, encompassed—like two little feudal fortresses, each by its moat—with a circle of yellowish white, peered out from under brows like battlements. Coarse, black hair, always cut short, and standing erect, so as to present something the appearance of a chevaux de frise, protected a hard, round head—a shape most appropriate to his lineage—while, with equal propriety, ears of corresponding magnitude stood boldly forth to assert their claim to notice.
Both these types were distinguished for large feet, which no boot could enclose, and hands broad beyond the compass of any glove. Neither was ever known to get drunk, to grow fat, to engage in a game of chance, or to lose his appetite: it became the teacher of “ingenuous youth” to preserve an exemplary bearing before those whom he was endeavoring to benefit; while respectable “appearances,” and proper appreciation of the good things of life, were the alpha and omega of his system of morality.
But the schoolmaster—and we now include both sub-divisions of the class—was not deficient as an example in many other things, to all who wished to learn the true principles of living. Among other things, he was distinguished for a rigid, iron-bound economy: a characteristic which it might have been well to impart to many of his pupils. But that which the discreet master denominated prudence, the extravagant and wrong-headed scholar was inclined to term meanness: and historical truth compels us to admit, that the rigor of grim economy sometimes wore an aspect of questionable austerity. Notwithstanding this, however, when we reflect upon the scanty compensation afforded the benefactor of the rising generation, we can not severely blame his penurious tenacity any more than we can censure an empty wine-cask for not giving forth the nectar which we have never poured into it. If, accordingly, he was out at the elbows, we are bound to conclude that it was because he had not the money to buy a new coat; and if he never indulged himself in any of the luxuries of life, it was, probably, because the purchase of its necessaries had already brought him too near the bottom of his purse.
He was always, moreover, “a close calculator,” and, with a wisdom worthy of all imitation, never mortgaged the future for the convenience of the present. Indeed, this power of “calculation” was not only a talent but a passion: you would have thought that his progenitors had been arithmeticians since the time of Noah! He could “figure up” any proposition whatsoever: but he was especially great upon the question, how much he could save from his scanty salary, and yet live to the end of the year.
In fact, it was only living that he cared for. The useful, with him, was always superior to the ornamental; and whatever was not absolutely necessary, he considered wasteful and extravagant. Even the profusion of western hospitality was, in his eyes, a crime against the law of prudence, and he would as soon have forgiven a breach of good morals as a violation of this, his favorite rule.
As might have been expected, he carried this principle with him into the school-room, and was very averse to teaching anything beyond what would certainly “pay.” He rigidly eschewed embellishment, and adorned his pupils with no graceful accomplishments. It might be that he never taught anything above the useful branches of education, because he had never learned more himself; but it is certain that he would not have imparted merely polite learning, had his own training enabled him to do so: for he had, constitutionally, a high contempt for all “flimsy” things, and, moreover, he was not employed or paid to teach rhetoric or belles-lettres, and, “on principle,” he never gave more in return than the value of the money he received.
With this reservation, his duties were always thoroughly performed, for neither by nature, education, nor lineage, was he likely to slight any recognised obligation. He devoted his time and talents to his school, as completely as if he had derived from it the income of a bishop; and the iron constitution, of both body and mind, peculiar to his race, enabled him to endure a greater amount of continuous application than any other man. Indeed, his powers of endurance were quite surprising, and the fibre of his mind was as tough as that of his body. Even upon a quality so valuable as this, however, he never prided himself; for, excepting the boast of race, which was historical and not unjustifiable, he had no pride. He might be a little vain; and, in what he said and did, more especially in its manner, there might occasionally be a shade of self-conceit: for he certainly entertained no mean opinion of himself. This might be a little obtrusive, too, at times; for he had but slight veneration for men, or their feelings, or opinions; and he would sometimes pronounce a judgment in a tone of superiority justly offensive. But he possessed the uncommon virtue of sincerity: he thoroughly believed in the infallibility of his own conclusions; and for this the loftiness of his tone might be forgiven.
The most important of the opinions thus expressed, were upon religious subjects, for Jews, puritans, and Spaniards, have always been very decided controversialists. His theology was grim, solemn, and angular, and he was as combative as one of Cromwell's disputatious troopers. In his capacious pocket, he always carried a copy of the New Testament—as, of old, the carnal controvertists bore a sword buckled to the side. Thus armed, he was a genuine polemical “swash-buckler,” and would whip out his Testament, as the bravo did his weapon, to cut you in two without ceremony. He could carve you into numerous pieces, and season you with scriptural salt and pepper; and he would do it with a gusto so serious, that it would have been no unreasonable apprehension that he intended to eat you afterward. And the value of his triumph was enhanced, too, by the consideration that it was won by no meretricious graces or rhetorical flourishes; for the ease of his gesticulation was such as you see in the arms of a windmill, and his enunciation was as nasal and monotonous as that of the Reverend Eleazar Poundtext, under whose ministrations he had been brought up in all godliness.
But he possessed other accomplishments beside those of the polemic. He was not, it is true, overloaded with the learning of “the schools”—was, in fact, quite ignorant of some of the branches of knowledge which he imparted to his pupils: yet this was never allowed to become apparent, for as we have intimated, he would frequently himself acquire, at night, the lessons which he was to teach on the morrow. But time was seldom wasted among the people from whom he sprang, and this want of preparation denoted that his leisure hours had been occupied in possessing himself of other acquirements. Among these, the most elegant, if not the most useful, was music, and his favorite instrument was the flute.
In “David Copperfield,” Dickens describes a certain flute-playing tutor, by the name of Mell, concerning whom, and the rest of mankind, he expresses the rash opinion, “after many years of reflection,” that “nobody ever could have played worse.” But Dickens never saw Strongfaith Lippincott, the schoolmaster, nor heard his lugubrious flute, and he therefore knows nothing of the superlative degree of detestable playing.
There are instruments upon which even an unskilful performer may make tolerable music, but the flute is not one of them—the man who murders that, is a malefactor entitled to no “benefit of clergy:” and our schoolmaster did murder it in the most inhuman manner! But, let it be said in mitigation of his offence, he had never received the benefit of any scientific teaching—he had not been “under the tuition of the celebrated Signor Wheeziana,” nor had he profited by “the invaluable instructions of the unrivalled Bellowsblauer”—and it is very doubtful whether he would have gained much advantage from them, had he met the opportunity.
He knew that, in order to make a noise on the flute, or, indeed, anywhere else, it was necessary to blow, and blow he did, like Boreas! He always carried the instrument in his pocket, and on being asked to play—a piece of politeness for which he always looked—he drew it out with the solemnity of visage with which a tender-hearted sheriff produces a death-warrant, and while he screwed the joints together, sighed blasts like a furnace. He usually deposited himself upon the door-sill—a favorite seat for him—and collecting the younger members of the family about him, thence poured forth his strains of concentrated mournfulness.
He invariably selected the most melancholy tunes, playing, with a more profound solemnity, the gloomiest psalms and lamentations. When he ventured upon secular music, he never performed anything more lively than “The Mistletoe Bough,” or “Barbara Allen,” and into each he threw a spirit so much more dismal than the original, as almost to induce his hearers to imitate the example of the disconsolate “Barbara,” and “turn their faces to the wall” in despair of being ever again able to muster a smile!
He was not a scientific musician, then—fortunately for his usefulness—because thorough musicians are generally “good-for-nothing” else. But music was not a science among the pioneers, though the undertone of melancholy feeling, to which all sweet sounds appeal, was as easily reached in them as in any other people. Their wants in this, as in other things, were very easily satisfied—they were susceptible of pleasure from anything which was in the least commendable: and not feeling obliged, by any captious canon, to condemn nine true notes, because of the tenth false one, they allowed themselves to enjoy the best music they could get, without thinking of the damage done their musical and critical reputation.
But his flute was not the only means of pleasing within the schoolmaster's reach: for he could flatter as well as if the souls of ten courtiers had transmigrated into his single body. He might not do it quite so gracefully as one of these, nor with phrases so well-chosen, or so correctly pronounced, but what he said was always cunningly adapted to the character of the person whom he desired to move. He had “a deal of candied courtesy,” especially for the women; and though his sturdy manhood and the excellent opinion of himself—both of which came to him from his ancestry—usually preserved him from the charge of servility, he was sometimes a “cozener” whose conscience annoyed him with very few scruples. Occasionally he might be seen fawning upon the rich; but it was not with him—as it usually is with the parasites of wealthy men—because he thought Dives more respectable, but more useful, on account of his money: the opulent possessed what the indigent wanted, and the shortest road to the goal of Cupidity, lay through the region of Vanity. There was none of that servility which Mr. Carlyle has attempted to dignify with the name of “hero-worship,” for the rich man was rather a bird to be plucked, than a “hero” to be worshipped. And though it may seem that I do the schoolmaster little honor by the distinction, I can not but think cupidity a more manly trait than servility: the beast of prey a more respectable animal than the hound.
But the schoolmaster's obsequiousness was more in manner than in inclination, and found its excuse in the dependence of his circumstances. It has been immemorially the custom of the world, practically to undervalue his services, and in all time teaching and poverty have been inseparable companions. Nobody ever cared how poorly he was clad, how laborious his life, or how few his comforts; and if he failed to attend to his own interests by all the arts in his power, no one, certainly, would perform the office for him. He was expected to make himself generally useful without being particular about his compensation: he was willing to do the one, but was, very naturally, rather averse to the other: that which justice would not give him, he managed to procure by stratagem.
His manners thus acquired the characteristics we have enumerated, with also others. He was, for example, very officious; a peculiarity which might, perhaps, be derived from his parentage, but which was never repressed by his occupation. The desire to make himself agreeable, and his high opinion of his ability to do so, rendered his tone and bearing very familiar; but this was, also, a trait which he shared with his race, and one which has contributed, as much as any other, to bring the people called “Yankees” into contempt in the west. The men of that section are not themselves reserved, and hate nothing more than ceremonious politeness: but they like to be the first to make advances, and their demonstrations are all hearty, blunt, and open. They therefore disliked anything which has an insinuating tone, and the man who attempts to ingratiate himself with them, whether it be by elaborate arts or sidelong familiarity, at once arms them against them.
The schoolmaster was inquisitive, also, and to that western men most decidedly object. They have little curiosity themselves, and seldom ask impertinent questions. When they do so, it is almost always for the purpose of insulting the man to whom they are put, and never to make themselves agreeable. The habit of asking numerous questions was, therefore, apt to prejudice them against men whose characteristics might be, in other respects, very estimable; and it must be acknowledged, that vulgar and obtrusive impertinence is an unfortunate accompaniment to an introduction. But the schoolmaster never meant to be impertinent, for he was far from being quarrelsome (except with his scholars), and the idea that any one could be otherwise than pleased with his notice, however given, never entered his mind. Though his questions were, for the most part, asked to gratify a constitutional curiosity, he was actuated in some degree, also, by the notion that his condescension would be acceptably interpreted by those whom he thus favored. But, like many other benevolent men, who put force upon their inclinations for the benefit of their neighbors, he was mistaken in his “calculation;” and where he considered himself a benefactor, he was by others pronounced a “bore.” The fact is, he had some versatility, and, like most men of various powers, he was prone to think himself a much greater man than he really was.
He was not peculiarly fitted to shine as a gallant “in hall or bower,” but had he been the climax of knightly qualities, the very impersonation of beauty, grace, and accomplishment, he could not have been better adapted than, in his own estimation, he already was, to please the fancy of a lady. He was blissfully unconscious of every imperfection; and displayed himself before what he thought the admiring gaze of all dames and demoiselles, as proudly as if he had been the all-accomplished victor in some passage of arms. Yet he carried himself, in outward appearance, as meekly as the humblest Christian, and took credit to himself accordingly. He seldom pressed his advantages to the utter subjugation of the sighing dames, but deported himself with commendable forbearance toward the weak and defenceless whom his perfections had disarmed. He was as merciful as he was irresistible: as considerate as he was beautiful.