 | Dukesborough tales |  |
THE GOOSEPOND SCHOOL.
“You call this education, do you not?
Why, 'tis the forc'd march of a herd of bullocks
Before a shouting drover.”
1. CHAPTER I.
THE incidents which I propose to relate in these sketches, and
those which may follow hereafter, occurred, for the greatest part,
either at or in the neighborhood of Dukesborough, once a small village
in Eastern Georgia. For many years it has ceased even to be mentioned,
except by the very few persons now living who knew it before
the Dukes, from whom it was named, moved away. It has suffered
the most absolute decay that I have known ever to befall any village.
It had not been laid off in its beginning according to any definite plan.
Dukesborough seemed indeed to have become a village quite unexpectedly
to itself and to everybody else, notwithstanding, that instead
of being in a hurry to become so, it took its own time for it, and that
amounted to some years. The Dukes first established a blacksmith
shop. This enterprise succeeded beyond all expectation. A small
store was ventured. It prospered. After some years other persons
moved in, and buying a little ground, built on both sides of the road
(a winding road it was), until there were several families, a school, and
a church. Then the Dukes grew ambitious and had the place called
Dukesborough. It grew on little by little until this family had all
gone, some to the counties farther west, and some to the grave. Somehow,
and now a small mound or so, the site of an ancient chimney, is the
only sign of a relic of Dukesborough.
It would be useless to speculate upon the causes of its fall. The
places of human habitation are like those who inhabit them. Some
persons die in infancy, some in childhood, some in youth, some at
middle age, some at threescore and ten, and some linger yet longer.
But the last, in their own times, die as surely as many of the former.
Methuselah, comparatively speaking, was what might be called a very
old man; but then he died. The account in Genesis of those first
generations of men is, after all, a melancholy one to me. The three
last words closing the short history of every one are very sad — “And
he died.”
So it is with the places wherein mortals dwell. Some of them become
villages, some towns, and some cities: but all — villages, towns,
and cities — have their times to fall, just as infants, youths, men, and old
men, have their times to die. People may say what they please about
the situation not being well chosen, and about the disagreeableness of
having the names of their residences all absorbed by the Dukes whom
few persons used to like. All this might be very true. But my position
about Dukesborough is, that it had lived out its life. It had run
its race, like all other things, places, and persons, that have lived out
their lives and run their races: and when that was done, Dukesborough
had to fall. It had not lived very long, and it had run but slowly, if
indeed it can be said to have run at all. But it reached its journey's
end. When it did, it had to fall, and it fell. So Babylon, so Nineveh.
These proud cities, it is highly probable, had no more idea of their
own ruin than Dukesborough had immediately after its first store was
built. But we know their history, and it ought to be a warning.
Ah, well! It is not often, of late years, that I pass the place where
it used to stand. But whenever I do, I feel somewhat as I feel when
I go near the neglected grave of an old acquaintance. In the latter
case, I say to myself, sometimes, And here is the last of him. He
was once a stout, hearty, good-humored fellow. It is sad to think of
him as having dropped everything, and being covered up here where
the earth above him is now like the rest all around the spot, and the
grave, but for my recollection of the place where it was dug, would be
indistinguishable even to me who saw him when he was put here.
But so it was. It could not be helped, and here he is for good. So
it once stood, I can but linger a little and muse upon its destiny.
Here was once a smart village; no great things of course, but still a
right lively little village. It might have stood longer and the rest of the
world have suffered little or no harm. But it is no use to think about
it, because the thing is over and Dukesborough is no more. Besides
myself, there may be two or three persons yet living who can tell with
some approximation to accuracy where it used to stand. When we
are dead, whoever may wish to gather any relic of Dukesborough
must do as they do upon the supposed sites of the cities of more ancient
times: — they must dig for it.
These reflections, somewhat grave I admit, may seem to be unfitly
preliminary to the narratives which are to follow them. But I trust
they will be pardoned in an old man who could not forbear to make
them when calling to mind the forsaken places of his boyhood, albeit
the scenes which he describes have less of the serious in them than of
the sportive. If I can smile, and sometimes I do smile at the recital
of some things that were done and words that were said by some of
my earliest contemporaries, yet I must be allowed a sigh also when I
remember that the doings and the sayings of nearly all of them are
ended for this world.
2. CHAPTER II.
“Books!” There is nothing terrible in this simple word. On the
contrary, it is a most harmless word. It suggests quiet and contemplation;
and though it be true that books do often produce agitations in
the minds of men and in the state of society, sometimes even effecting
great revolutions therein, yet the simple enunciation of the word, even
in an elevated tone, could never be adequate, it would seem, to the production
of any considerable excitement. As little would it seem, in
looking upon it from any point of view in which one could place oneself,
to be capable of allaying excitement however considerable. I never
could tell exactly why it was, that, as often as I have read of the custom
in England of reading the Riot Act upon occasions of popular tumult,
and begun to muse upon the strangeness of such a proceeding and its
apparent inadequacy for the purposes on hand, my mind has recurred
to the incidents about to be narrated. For there was one point of view,
result by the utterance of the first word in this chapter twice a day for
five days in the week. It was the word of command with which Mr.
Israel Meadows was wont to announce to the pupils of the Goosepond
schoolhouse the opening of the school morning and afternoon.
The Goosepond was situated a few miles from Dukesborough, on
the edge of an old field, with original oak and hickory woods on three
sides, and on the other a dense pine thicket. Through this thicket
there ran a path which led to the school from a neighboring planter's
residence where Mr. Meadows boarded. The schoolhouse, a rude hut
built of logs, was about one hundred and twenty yards from this thicket
at the point where the path emerged from it.
One cold, frosty morning near the close of November, many, very
many years ago, about twenty-five boys and girls were assembled as
usual at the Goosepond waiting for the master. Some were studying
their lessons, and some were playing; the boys at ball, the girls at
jumping the rope. But all of them (with one exception), those studying
and those playing, the former though the most eagerly, were watching
the mouth of the path at which the master was expected. Those
studying showed great anxiety. The players seemed to think the game
worth the candle: though the rope jumpers jumped with their faces
toward the thicket, and whenever a boy threw his ball, he first gave
a look in the same direction. The students walked to and fro in
front of the door, all studying aloud, bobbing up and down, exhibiting
the intensest anxiety to transfer into their heads the secrets of knowledge
that were in the books. There was one boy in particular, whose
eagerness for the acquisition of learning seemed to amount to a most
violent passion. He was a raw-boned lad of about fifteen years, with
very light coarse hair and a freckled face, sufficiently tall for his years.
His figure was a little bent from being used to very hard work. But
he had beautiful eyes, very blue, and habitually sad. He wore a roundabout
and pants of home-made walnut-dyed stuff of wool and cotton,
a seal-skin cap, and red brogan-shoes without socks. He had come up
the last. This was not unusual: for he resided three miles and a half
from the schoolhouse, and walked the way forth and back every day.
He came up shivering and studying, performing both of these apparently
inconsistent operations with great violence.
“Halloo, Brinkly!” shouted half a dozen boys, “got in in time this
morning, eh? Good. You are safe for to-day on that score, old fellow.”
“Why, Brinkly, my boy, you are entirelee too soon. He won't be here
for a quarter of a hour yit. Come and help us out with the bull-pen.
Now only jist look at him. Got that eternal jography, and actilly studyin'
when he is nigh and in and about friz. Put the book down, Brinkly
Glisson, and go and warm yourself a bit, and come and take Bill Jones'
place. It's his day to make the fire. Come along, we've got the
Quses.”
These words were addressed to him by the `one exception' before
alluded to, a large, well grown, square-shouldered boy, eighteen years
old, named Allen Thigpen. Allen was universally envied in the school,
partly because he had once upon a time been to Augusta, and knew,
or was supposed to know, all the wonders of that great city, and partly
because he could go to Dukesborough whenever he pleased, and above
all, because he was not afraid of Mr. Israel Meadows. But it was the
boast of Allen Thigpen that he had yit to see the man that he was
afraid of.
Brinkly paid no attention to Allen's invitation, but came on up
shivering and studying, and studying and shivering. Just as he passed
Allen, he was mumbling — “A-an em-em-pire is a co-untry go-overned
by a-an em-per-or.”
Now ordinarily, the announcement of this proposition would be incapable
of exciting any uncommon amount of risibility. It contains
a simple truth expressed in simple language. Yet so it was that Mr.
Allen burst into a roar of laughter; and as if he understood that the
proposition had been submitted to him for ratification or denial, answered,
“Well, Brinkly, supposin' it is. Who in the dickence said it
weren't? Did you, Sam?”
“Did I do what?” answered Sam Pate in the act of throwing the
ball.
“Did you say that a empire weren't — what Brinkly said it was?”
“I didn't hear what Brinkly said it was, and I don't know nothin'
about it, and I haint said nothin' about it and I don't keer nothin'
about it.” And away went the ball. But Sam had thrown too suddenly
after looking toward the mouth of Mr. Meadows' path, and he
missed his man.
Brinkly scarcely noticed the interruption, but walked to and fro,
and studied and shivered. He bowed to the book; he dug into it.
He grated his teeth, not in anger, but in his fierce desire to get what
was in it. He tried to fasten it in his brain whether or not by slightly
“An yem-pire,” said he fiercely, but not over loudly, “is a ke-untry-ge-uvend
by a ye-emperor.”
“And what is a ye-emperor, Brinkly?” asked Allen.
“Oh Allen, Allen, please go away from me! I almost had it when
you bothered me. You know Mr. Meadows will beat me if I don't
get it, because you know he loves to beat me. Do let me alone. It
it just beginning to come to me now.” And he went on shivering and
studying, and shiveringly announcing among other things that “an
yem-pire was a ke-untry ge-uverned by an ye-emperor,” emphasizing
every one of the polysyllables in its turn: sometimes stating the
proposition very cautiously, and rather interrogatively, as if half inclined
to doubt it; at others, asserting it with a vehemence which
showed that it was at last his settled conviction that it was true, and
that he ought to be satisfied and even thankful.
“Poor fellow,” muttered Allen, stopping from his ball-play, and looking
towards Brinkly as the latter moved on. “That boy don't know
hisself; and what's more, Iserl Meadows don't.” Allen then walked
to where a rosy-cheeked little fellow of eight or nine years was sitting
on a stump with a spelling-book in his lap and a pin in his right hand
with which he dotted every fourth word, after reciting the following:
“Betsy Wiggins; Heneritter Bangs; Mandy Grizzle; Mine!”
(Dot).—“Betsy Wiggins; Heneritter Bangs; Mandy Grizzle;
Mine!” (Dot).
“I-yi, my little Mr. Asa,” said Allen, “and supposin' that Betsy Wiggins
misses her word, or Heneritter Bangs hern, or Mandy Grizzle hern,
then who's goin' to spell them, I want to know? And what'll you give
me?” continued Allen, placing his rough hand with ironical fondness
upon the child's head, “what'll you give me not to tell Mr. Meadows
that you've been gitting your own words?”
“Oh, Allen, please, please don't!”
“What'll you give me, I tell you?”
“Twenty chestnuts!” and the little fellow dived into his pockets and
counted twenty into Allen's hand.
“Got any more?” Allen asked, cracking one with his teeth.
“Oh, Allen, Allen, will you take all? Please don't take all!”
“Out with 'em, you little word-gitter. Out with the last one of 'em.
A boy that gits his own words in that kind o' style aint liable, and
oughtn't to be liable to eat chestnuts.”
Asa disgorged to the last. Allen ate one or two, looking quizzically
into his face, and then handed the rest back to him.
“Take your chestnuts, Asa Boatright, and eat 'em, that is if you've
got the stomach to eat 'em. If I ever live to git to be as afeard of a
human as you and Abel Kitchens and Brinkly Glisson are afeard of
Iserl Meadows, drat my hide if I don't believe I would commit sooicide
on myself — yes, on myself, by cuttin' my own throat!”
“Yes,” replied Asa Boatright, “you can talk so because you are a
big boy, and you know he is afraid of you. If you was as little as me,
you would be as afraid as me. If I ever get a man —” The little
fellow, however, checked himself, took his pin again, and mumbling,
“Betsy Wiggins; Heneritter Bangs; Mandy Grizzle; Mine!” — resumed
his interesting and ingenious occupation of dotting every fourth
word.
Brinkly had overheard Allen's taunt. Closing his book after a moment's
pause, he walked straight to him and said:
“Allen Thigpen, I am no more afraid of him than you are; nor than I
am of you. Do you think that's what makes me stand what I do? If
you do, you are much mistaken. Allen, I'm trying all the time to keep
down on mother's account. I've told her of some of his treatment, but
not all; and she gets to crying, and says this is my only chance for an
education, and it does seem like it would break her heart if I was to lose
it, that I have been trying to get the lessons, and to keep from fighting
him when he beats me. And I believe I would get 'em if I had a chance.
But the fact is, I can't read well enough to study the jography, and my
'pinion is he put me in it too soon just to get the extra price for jography.
And I can't get it, and I haven't learnt anything since I have
been put in it,— and I am not going to stand it much longer;— and,
Allen Thigpen, I'm not going to pay you chestnuts nor nothing else
not to tell him I said so neither.”
“Hooraw!” shouted Allen. “Give me your hand, Brinkly.” Then
continuing in a lower tone, he said, “By jingo! I thought it was in you.
I seen you many a time, when, says I to myself, it wouldn't take much to
make Brinkly Glisson fight you, old fellow, or leastways try it. You've
stood enough already, Brinkly Glisson, and too much too. My blood
has biled many a time when he' been a beatin' you. I tell you, don't
you stand it no longer. Ef he beats you again, pitch into him. Try
to ride him from the ingoin'. He can maul you, I expect, but — look at
this,” and Allen raised his fist about the size of a mallet.
Brinkly looked at the big fist and brawny arm, and smiled dismally.
“Books!” shouted a shrill voice, and Mr. Israel Meadows emerged
from the thicket with a handful of hickory switches. In an instant,
there was a rushing of boys and girls into the house — all except Allen,
who took his time. Asa Boatright was the last of the others to get in.
He had changed his position from the stump, and was walking, book
in hand, apparently all absorbed in its contents, though his eye was on
the schoolmaster, whose notice he was endeavoring to attract. He
bowed, and digged, and dived, until, just as the master drew near, he
weariedly looked up, and seeing him unexpectedly, gave one more
profound dive into the book and darted into the schoolhouse.
It was a rule at the Goosepond, that the scholars should all be at
their seats when Mr. Meadows arrived. His wont was to shout `Books'
from the mouth of the path, then to walk with great rapidity to the
house. Woe to the boy or girl who was ever too late, unless it happened
to be Allen Thigpen. He had been heard to say, “Ding any
sich rule, and he wasn't goin' to break his neck for Iserl Meadows nor
nobody else.” If he got in behind the master, which often happened,
that gentlemen was kind enough not to notice it,— an illustration of
an exception to the good discipline of country schoolmasters which
was quite common in the times in which Mr. Meadows lived and flourished.
On this occasion, when Mr. Meadows saw Allen, calculating
that the gait at which himself was walking would take him into the
house first, he halted a little, and stooped, and, having untied one of
his shoe strings, tied it again. While this operation was going on,
Allen went in. Mr. Meadows, rising immediately, struck into a brisk
walk, almost a run, as if to apologise for his delay, and then entered
into the scene of his daily triumphs.
But before we begin the day's work, let us inquire who this Mr.
Meadows was, and whence he came.
3. CHAPTER III.
Mr. Israel Meadows was a man thirty-five or forty years of age, five
feet ten inches in height, with a lean figure, dark complexion, very
black and shaggy hair and eyebrows, and a grim and forbidding expression
of countenance. The occupation of training the youthful
interesting as it is, was not in fact Mr. Meadows' choice, when, on
arriving at manhood's estate, he looked around him for a career in
which he might the most surely develop and advance his being in this
life. Indeed, those who had been the witnesses of his youth and young
manhood, and of the opportunities which he had been favored withal
for getting instruction for himself, were no little surprised when they
heard that in the county of —, their old acquaintance had undertaken,
and was in the actual prosecution of the profession of a schoolmaster.
About a couple of days' journey from the Goosepond, was the spot which
had the honor of giving him birth. In a cottage on one of the roads
leading to the city of Augusta, there had lived a couple who cultivated
a farm, and traded with the wagoners of those days by bartering, for
money and groceries, corn, fodder, potatoes, and suchlike commodities.
It was a matter never fully accountable, how it was that Mr. Timothy
Meadows, during all seasons, had corn to sell. Drought or drench
affected his crib alike — that is, neither did affect it at all. When a
wagoner wished to buy corn, Timothy Meadows generally, if not always,
had a little to spare. People used to intimate sometimes that it was
mighty curious that some folks could always have corn to sell, while
other folks couldn't. Such observations were made in reference to no
individual in particular; but were generally made by one farmer to
another, when, perchance, they had just ridden by Mr. Meadows' house
while a wagoner's team was feeding at his camp. To this respectable
couple there had been born only one offspring, a daughter. Miss Clary
Meadows had lived to the age of twenty-four, and had never, within the
knowledge of any of the neighbors, had the first beau. If to the fact
that her father's always having corn to sell, without his neighbors
knowing exactly how he came by it, had to a considerable extent discouraged
visiting between their families and his (though it must be
owned that this was not the fault of the Meadowses, who had repeatedly,
in spite of their superior fortune, shown dispositions to cultivate
good neighborhood with all the families around)—if to this fact be added
the further one, that Miss Clary was bony, and in no respect possessed
of charms likely to captivate a young gentleman who had thoughts upon
marriage, it ought not to be very surprising that she had, thus far,
failed to secure a husband. Nevertheless, Miss Meadows was eminently
affable when in the society of such gentlemen of the wagoners
who paid her the compliment to call upon her in the house. So that
on such occasions that her prolonged state of single blessedness was
owing to any prejudice to the opposite sex.
Time, however, brings roses, as the German proverb has it, and to the
Meadows family he at last brought a rose-bud in the shape of a thriving
grandson. As it does not become us to pry into delicate family matters,
we will not presume to lift the veil which the persons most concerned
chose to throw over the earlier part of this grandson's history; suffice
it to say that the same mystery hung about it as about the inexplicable
inexhaustibility of Timothy Meadows' corn crib, and that the
latter — from motives, doubtless, which did him honor — bestowed
upon the new-comer his own family name, preceded by the patriarchal
appellation of Israel.
There were many interesting occurrences in the early life of Israel
which it would be foreign to the purposes of this history to relate. It
is enough to say that he grew up under the eye and training of his
grandfather, and soon showed that some of the traits of that gentleman's
character were in no danger of being lost to society by a failure of
reproduction.
In process of time, Mr. and Mrs. Meadows were gathered to their
fathers, and Miss Clary had become the proprietress of the cottage
and the farm. Israel had the luck of the Meadowses to be always able
to sell corn to the wagoners. But unluckily, the secret which lay hidden
in such profundity during the lifetime of his grandfather, of how
this wonderful faculty existed, transpired about six months previously
to the period when he was introduced to the reader — a circumstance
which would induce one to suspect, in spite of the declaration of the
law in such case made and provided, that there was something in the
blood of Israel which was not all Meadows.
One Saturday night, a company of the neighbors on patrol found a
negro man issuing from the gate of Miss Meadows' yard with an empty
meal bag. Having apprehended him, they had given him not more
than a dozen stripes with a cowhide before he confessed that he had
just carried the bag full of corn to Israel from his master's corn crib.
The company immediately aroused the latter gentleman, informed him
what the slave had confessed, and although he did most stoutly deny
any and all manner of connection with the matter, they informed him
that they should not leave the premises until they could get a search-warrant
from a neighboring magistrate, by which, as their spokesman, a
him to terms. Seeing his uneasiness, they pushed on, and in a careless
manner proposed that if he would leave the neighborhood by the next
Monday morning, they would forbear to prosecute him for this as well
as many similar offences, his guilt of which they intimated they had
abundant proof to establish. Israel was caught; he reflected for a
few moments, and then, still, however, asserting his innocence, but declaring
that he did not wish to reside in a community where he was
suspected of crime, he expressed his resolution to comply with their
demand. He left the next day. Leaving his mother, he set out to
try his fortune elsewhere, intending by the time that the homestead
could be disposed of, he would remove with her to the West. But determining
not to be idle in the meantime, after wandering about for
several days in search of employment, it suddenly occurred to him one
night, after a day's travel, that he would endeavor to get a school for
the remainder of the year.
Now, Israel's education had been somewhat neglected. Indeed, he
had never been to school a day in his whole life. But he had at home,
under the tuition of his mother, been taught reading and writing, and
his grandfather had imparted to him some knowledge of arithmetic.
But Mr. Israel Meadows, although not a man of great learning, was
a great way removed from being a fool. He had a considerable
amount of the wisdom of this world which comes to a man from
other sources besides books. He was like many other men in one
respect. He was not to be restrained from taking office by the consciousness
of parts inadequate to the discharge of its duties. This is
a species of delicacy which, of all others, is attended by fewest practical
results. Generally, the most it does is to make its owner confess
with modesty his unfitness for the office, with a `he had hoped some
worthier and better man had been chosen,' and then — take it. Israel
wisely reflected, that with a majority of mankind the only thing necessary
to establish for oneself a reputation of fitness for office is to run
for it and get into it. A wise reflection indeed; acting on which, many
men have become great in Georgia, and, I doubt not, elsewhere, with
no other capital than the adroitness or the accident which placed them
in office. He reflected further, and as wisely as before, that the office
of a schoolmaster in a country school was as little likely as any he
could think of to furnish an exception to the general rule. Thus, in
less than six weeks from the eventful Saturday night, with a list of
for, and had obtained, and had opened the Goosepond school, and
was professing to teach the children spelling, reading, and writing, at
the rate of a dollar a month; and arithmetic and geography at the
advanced rate of a dollar and a half.
Such were some of Mr. Meadows' antecedents.
4. CHAPTER IV.
It was the custom of the pupils in the Goosepond, as in most of
the other country schools of those times, to study aloud. Whether
the teachers thought that the mind could not act unless the tongue
was a-going, or that the tongue a-going was the only evidence that
the mind was acting, it never did appear. Such had been the custom,
and Mr. Meadows did not aspire to be an innovator. It was his rule,
however, that there should be perfect silence on his arrival, in order
to give him an opportunity of saying or doing anything he might wish.
This morning there did not seem to be anything on his mind which required
to be lifted off. He, however, looked at Brinkly Glisson with
some disappointment of expression. He had beaten him unmercifully
the morning before for not having gotten there in time, though the
boy's excuse was that he had gone a mile out of his way on an errand
for his mother. He looked at him as if he had expected to have had
some business with him, which now unexpectedly had to be postponed.
He then looked around over the school and said:
“Go to studyin'.”
It was plain that in that house Mr. Meadows had been in the habit
of speaking but to command, and of commanding but to be obeyed.
Instantaneously was heard, then and there, that unintelligible tumult,
the almost invariable incident of the country schools of that generation.
There were spellers and readers, geographers and arithmeticians,
all engaged in their several pursuits, in the most inexplicable
confusion. Sometimes the spellers would have the heels of the others,
and sometimes the readers. The geographers were always third, and
the arithmeticians always behind. It was very plain to be seen that
these last never would catch the others. The faster they added or
subtracted, the oftener they had to rub out and commence anew. It
so they generally concluded to adopt the maxim of the philosopher, of
being slow in making haste. The geographers were a little faster and
a little louder. But the spellers and readers had it, I tell you. Each
speller and each reader went through the whole gamut of sounds, from
low up to high, and from high down to low again; sometimes by regular
ascension and descension, one note at a time, sounding what musicians
call the diatonic intervals; at other times, going up and coming
down upon the perfect fifths only. Oh! it was so refreshing to see the
passionate eagerness which these urchins manifested for the acquisition
of knowledge. To have sliced out about five seconds of that
studying, and put the words together, would have made a sentence
somewhat like the following:
“C-d-e twice e-an c-three r-ding-i-two l-v-old. My seven vill times
a-de-l-cru-i-l coin-g-f-is man o-six-h-nin-four ni-h-eight cat p-c-a-t-r ten
e-light is ca-light i-light x tween-by-tions fix de-a-bisel-cru-fa-cor-a-light-bisel-rapt-double-fe-good
ty-light man cra-forn-ner-ci-spress-fix-Oh!!!”
To have heard them for the first time, one would have been reminded
of the Apostles' preaching at Pentecost, and it might not have been
difficult to persuade a stranger, unused to such things, that there were
then and there spoken the languages of the Parthians and Medes,
Elamites and the dwellers in Mesopotamia, and in Judea and Cappadocia;
in Pontus and Asia; Phrygia and Pamphylia; in Egypt and
in the parts of Syria about Cyrene; and strangers of Rome, Jews and
Proselytes, Cretes and Arabians. Sometimes these cloven tongues
would subside a little, when it might be half a dozen would stop to
blow; but in a moment more, the chorus would swell again in a new
and livelier accrescendo. — When this process had gone on for half an
hour, Mr. Meadows lifted up his voice and shouted “Silence!” and all
was still.
Now were to commence the recitations, during which perfect silence
was required. For as great a help to study as this jargon was, Mr.
Meadows found that it did not contribute any aid to the doing of his
work.
He now performed a feat which he had never performed before in
exactly that manner. He put his hand behind the lappel of his coat-collar
for a moment, and then, after withdrawing it and holding it up, his
thumb and forefinger joined together, he said:
“There is too much fuss here. I'm going to drop this pin, and I
falls. Thar!”
“I heerd it, Mr. Meadows! I heerd it, Mr. Meadows!” exclaimed
simultaneously, five or six little fellows.
“Come up here, you little rascals. You are a liar!” said he to each
one. “I never drapped it; I never had nary one to drap. It just
shows what liars you are. Set down and wait a while, I'll show you how
to tell me lies.”
The little liars slunk to their seats, and the recitations commenced.
Memory was the only faculty of mind that underwent the smallest
development at this school. Whoever could say exactly what the book
said was adjudged to know his lesson. About half of the pupils on
this morning were successful. The other half were found to be delinquent.
Among these was Asa Boatright's class. That calculating
young gentleman knew his words and felt safe. The class had spelled
around three or four times, when lo! the contingency which Allen
Thigpen had suggested did come to pass. Betsy Wiggins missed her
word; Heneritter Bangs (in the language of Allen) hern, and Mandy
Grizzle hern; and thus responsibilities were suddenly cast upon Asa
which he was wholly unprepared to meet, and which, from the look of
mighty reproach which he gave each of these young ladies as she
handed over to him her word, he evidently thought it the height of
injustice that he should have been called upon to meet. Mr. Meadows
closing the book, tossed it to Asa, who, catching it as it was falling
at his feet, turned, and his eyes swimming with tears, went back to his
seat. As he passed Allen Thigpen, the latter whispered:
“What did I tell you? You heerd the pin drap too!”
Now, Allen was in no plight to have given this taunt to Asa. He
had not given five minutes' study to his arithmetic during the whole
morning. But Mr. Meadows made a rule (this one with himself, though
all the pupils knew it better than any rule he had), never to allow Allen
to miss a lesson; and as he had kindly taken this responsibility upon
himself, Allen was wont to give himself no trouble about the matter.
Brinkly Glisson was the last to recite. Brinkly was no great hand
at pronunciation. He had been reading but a short time when Mr.
Meadows advanced him into geography, with the purpose, as Brinkly
afterwards came to believe, of getting the half dollar extra tuition.
This morning he thought he knew his lesson; and he did, as he understood
it. When called to recite, he went up with a countenance expressive
his hands in his pockets, awaited the questions. And now it was an
interesting sight to see Mr. Meadows smile as Brinkly talked of is-lands
and promonitaries, thismuses and hemispheries. The lad misunderstood
that smile, and his heart was glad for the unexpected reception
of a little complacency from the master. But he was not long in error.
“Is-lands, eh? Thismuses, eh? Take this book and see if you can
find any is-lands and promonitaries, and then bring them to me. I
want to see them things, I do. Find 'em if you please.”
Brinkly took the book, and it would have melted the heart of any
other man than Israel Meadows to have seen the deep despair of his
heart as he looked on it and was spelling over to himself the words as
he came to them.
“Mr. Meadows,” he said, in pleading tones, “I thought it was is-land.
Here it is, Is-l-a-n-d-land: is-land;” and he looked into his face beseechingly.
“Is-land, eh? Is-land! Now, thismuses and promonitaries and
hemispheries—”
“Mr. Meadows, I did not know how to pronounce them words. I
asked you how to pronounce 'em, and you wouldn't tell me; and I
asked Allen, and he told me the way I said them.”
“I believe that to be a lie.”
Brinkly's face reddened, and his breathing was fast and hard. He
looked at the master as but once or twice before during the term he
had looked at him, but made no answer. At that moment Allen leaned
carelessly on his desk, his elbows resting on it, and his chin on his
hands, and said, dryly:
“Yes, I did tell him so.”
Mr. Meadows now reddened a little. After a moment's pause, however,
he said:
“How often have I got to tell you not to ask anybody but me how
to pronounce words? That'll do, sir; sit down, sir.”
Brinkly went to his seat, and looking gloomily towards the door a
minute or two, he opened his book, but studied it no more.
5. CHAPTER V.
Mr. Meadows now set about what was the only agreeable portion
of the duties of his new vocation, the punishment of offenders. The
lawyers tell us that, of all the departments of the law, the vindicatory
is the most important. This element of the Goosepond establishment
had been cultivated so much that it had grown to become almost the
only one that was consulted at all. As for the declaratory and the
directory, they seemed to be considered, when clearly understood, as
impediments to a fair showing and proper development of the vindicatory,
insomuch that the last was often by their means disappointed
of its victim. Sometimes, when his urchins would not “miss,” or
violate some of his numerous laws, Mr. Meadows used, in the plenitude
of his power, to put the vindicatory first — punish an offender, and then
declare what the latter had done to be an offence, and then direct him
that he had better not do so any more. This Mr. Meadows seemed
to owe a grudge to society. Whether this was because society had not
given him a father as it had done to almost everybody else, or because
it had interfered in the peaceful occupation which he had inherited
from his grandfather (as if to avenge itself on him for violating one of
its express commands that such as he should inherit from nobody),—
did not appear. But he owed it, and he delighted in paying it off in
his peculiar way; this was by beating the children of his school, every
one of whom had a father. Eminently combative by nature, it was
both safest and most satisfactory to wage his warfare on this general
scale. So, on this fine morning, by way of taking up another instalment
of this immense debt, which like most other debts seemed as if
it never would get fully paid, he took down his bundle of rods from
two pegs in one of the logs on which he had placed them, selected one
fit for his purpose, and taking his position in the middle of the space
between the fireplace and the rows of desks, he sat down in his chair.
A cheerful, but by no means a gladsome smile overspread his countenance
as he said:
“Them spellin' classes and readin' classes, and them others that's
got to be whipped, all but Sam Pate and Asa Boatright, come to the
circus.”
Five or six boys and as many girls, from eight to thirteen years old,
came up, and sitting down on the front bench which extended all along
The boys then rolled up their pants, and the girls lifted the
skirts of their frocks to their knees, and having made a ring around
Mr. Meadows as he sat in his chair, all began a brisk trot. They had
described two or three revolutions, and Mr. Meadows was straightening
his switch, when Asa Boatright ran up, and, crying piteously, said:
“Please sir, Mr. Meadows — oh pray do sir, Mr. Meadows — let me
go into the circus!”
Mr. Meadows rose up and was about to strike; but another thought
seemed to occur to him. He looked at him amusedly for a moment,
and pointed to his seat. Asa took it. Mr. Meadows resumed his chair,
and went into the exciting part of the exhibition by tapping the legs,
both male and female, as they trotted around him. This was done at
first very gently, and almost lovingly. But as the sport warmed in interest,
the blows increased in rapidity and violence. The children began
to cry out, and then Mr. Meadows struck the harder; for it was a
rule (oh he was a mighty man for rules, this same Mr. Meadows) that
whoever cried the loudest should be hit the hardest. He kept up this
interesting exercise until he had given them about twenty-five lashes
apiece. He then ceased. They stopped instantly, walked around him
once, then seating themselves upon the bench they resumed their shoes
and stockings, and went to their seats. One girl, thirteen years old,
Henrietta Bangs, had begged him to let her keep on her stockings;
but Mr. Meadows was too firm a disciplinarian to allow it. When
the circus was over she put on her shoes, and taking up her stockings
and putting them under her apron, she went to her seat and sobbed as
if her heart was broken.
Allen Thigpen looked at her for a moment, and then he turned his
eyes slowly around and looked at Brinkly Glisson. The latter did not
notice him. He sat with his hands in his pockets and his lips compressed.
Allen knew what struggle was going on, but he could not tell
how it was going to end. Mr. Meadows rested three minutes.
It has possibly occurred to those who may be reading this little history
that it was a strange thing in Asa Boatright, who so well knew all
the ways of Mr. Meadows, that he should have expressed so decisive a
wish to take part in this last described exhibition, — an exhibition
which, however entertaining to Mr. Meadows as it doubtless was, and
might be perchance to other persons placed in the attitude of spectators
merely, could not be in the highest degree agreeable to one in the
to assume had Mr. Meadows vouchsafed to yield to his request. But
Asa Boatright was not a fool, nor was he a person who had no care for
his physical wellbeing. In other words, Asa Boatright knew what he
was about.
“Sam Pate and Asa Boatright!” exclaimed Mr. Meadows, after his
rest. “Come out here and go to horsin'.”
The two nags came out. Master Pate playfully inclined himself
forward, and Master Boatright leaped with some agility upon his back.
The former, gathering the latter's legs under his arms, and drawing as
tightly as possible his pants across his middle, began galloping gaily
around the area before the fireplace. Mr. Meadows, after taking a
fresh hickory, began to apply it with great force and precision to that
part of Master Boatright's little body which, in his present attitude,
was most exposed. Every application of this kind caused that young
gentleman to scream to the utmost of the strength of his voice, and
even to make spasmodic efforts to kick, which Master Pate, being for
the occasion a horse, was to understand as an expression on the part
of his rider that he should get on faster, and so Master Pate must
frisk and prance and otherwise imitate a horse as well as possible in
the circumstances. Now, the circumstances being that as soon as
Master Boatright should have ridden long enough to become incapacitated
from riding a real horse with comfort, they were to reverse positions,
Master Boatright becoming horse and himself rider, they were
hardly sufficient to make him entirely forget his identity in the personation
of that quadruped. He did his best, though, in the circumstances,
such as they were, and not only frisked and pranced but actually
neighed several times. When Asa was placed in the condition hinted
at above, he was allowed to dismount. Sam having mounted on his
back, it was truly stirring to the feelings to see the latter kick and the
former prance. This was always the best part of the show. A rule of
this exercise was that, when the rider should dismount and become
horse, he was to act well his part or be made to resume the part of
rider,—a prospect not at all agreeable, each one decidedly preferring to
be horse. Sam was about three years older and fifteen pounds heavier
than Asa. Now, while Asa had every motive which as sensible a
horse as he was could have to do his best, yet he was so sore, and Sam,
with the early prospect of butting his brains out, was so heavy, that he
had great difficulties. He exhibited the most laudable desire and
feet. Finding that he could do no great things at prancing, he endeavored
to make up by neighing. When Sam would cry out and kick,
Asa would neigh. He would occasionally run against the wall and
neigh as if he was perfectly delighted. He would lift up one foot and
neigh. He would put it down, lift up the other and neigh. Then when
he would attempt to lift up both feet at once, he would fall down and
neigh. But he would neigh even in the act of rising, apparently resolved
to convince the world that, notwithstanding appearances to the
contrary, he was as real and as plucky a little horse as had ever trotted.
Never before had Asa acted his part so well in the Horsin' at the
Goosepond. Never had horse, with such odds on his back, neighed
so lustily. Sam screamed and kicked. Asa pranced and neighed,
until at last, as he stumbled violently against the bench, Sam let go his
hold upon Asa's neck, in order to avoid breaking his own, and fell
sprawling on his belly under a desk. This sudden removal of the
burden from Asa's back made his efforts to recover from his false step
successful beyond all calculation, and he fell backward, headforemost,
upon the floor. Mr. Meadows, contrary to his wont, roared with laughter.
His soul was satisfied; he dropped his switch, and ordered them to
their seats. They obeyed, and sat down with that graduated declension
of body in which experience had taught them to be prudent.
6. CHAPTER VI.
After the close of the last performance, Mr. Meadows seemed to need
another resting spell. This lasted five minutes. He always liked to
be as fresh as possible for the next scene. The most interesting, the
most exciting, and in some respects the most delightful exercise was
yet to follow. This was the punishment of Brinkly Glisson. It was
curious to see how he did enjoy it. He was never so agreeable at play-time
or in the afternoon as when he had beaten Brinkly in the morning.
If he recited well, and there was no pretext for beating him, Mr.
Meadows was sadder and gloomier than usual for the remainder of the
day, and looked as if he felt that he had been wronged with impunity.
Now, Brinkly was one of the best boys in the world. He was the
only son of a poor widow, who, at much sacrifice, had sent him to
the house, and she had procured the promise of a neighbor to help her
in gathering it when ripe. Brinkly was the apple of her eye, the idol
of her heart. He was to her as we always think of him of whom it
was said, `He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.'
And Brinkly had rewarded her love and care with all the feelings of
his honest and affectionate heart. He was more anxious to learn for
her sake than his own. He soon came to read tolerably well, and was
advanced to geography. How proud was the widow when she bought
the new geography and atlas with the proceeds of four pairs of socks
which (sweet labor of love!) she had knit with her own hands. What
a world of knowledge she thought there must be in a book with five
times as many pages as a spelling-book, and in those great red, blue,
and pink pictures, covering a whole page a foot square, and all this
knowledge to become the property of Brinkly! But Brinkly soon found
that geography was above his present capacity, and so told Mr. Meadows.
That gentleman received the communication with displeasure; said that
what was the matter with him was laziness, and that laziness, of all the
qualities which a boy had, was the one which he knew best what to do
with. He then took to beating him. Brinkly, after the first beating,
which was a light one, went home and told his mother of it, and intimated
his intention not to take another. The widow was sorely distressed,
and knew not what to do. On the one hand was her grief to
know her son was unjustly beaten, and his spirit cowed; for she knew
that he studied all the time he had, and though uneducated herself, she
was not like many other parents of her day who thought that the best
means to develop the mind was to beat the body. But on the other
hand would be the disappointment of his getting an education if he
should leave the school, there being then no other in the neighborhood.
This, thought the poor woman, was the worse horn of the
dilemma; and so she wept, and begged him, as he loved her, to submit
to Mr. Meadows. He should have the more time for study; she
would chop the wood and feed the stock; he should have all the time
at home to himself; he could get it, she knew he could; it would
come to him after a while.
Brinkly yielded; but how many a hard struggle he made to continue
that submission, no one knew but he, — not even his mother, for he
concealed from her as much as he could the treatment which he had
received and the suffering which he had endured. Mr. Meadows could
him. He saw it in his eye every time he beat him, and it was this which
afforded him such a satisfaction to beat him. He wished to subdue
him, and he had not succeeded. Brinkly would never beg nor weep.
Mr. Meadows often thought he was on the point of resisting him; but
he knew the reason why he did not, and while he hated him for it, he
trusted that it would last. Yet he often doubted whether it would or
not; and thus the matter became so intensely exciting that he continually
sought for opportunities of bringing it up. He loved to tempt
him. He had no doubt but that he could easily manage him in an
even combat; but he did not wish it to come to that. He only gloried
in goading him almost to resistance, and then seeing him yield.
Have we not all seen how the showman adapts himself to the different
animals of the menagerie? How quickly and sharply he speaks to the
lesser animals who jump over his hand and back, and over and back
again, and then crouch in submission as he passes by! But when he
goes to the lion, you can scarcely hear his low tones as he commands
him to use and perform his part, and is not certain whether the king of
the beasts will do as he is bidden or not. Doubts like these were in
the mind of Mr. Meadows when he was about to set upon Brinkly
Glisson; but the greater these doubts, the more he enjoyed the trial.
After a short rest from the fatigues of the last exercise, during which
he curiously and seriously eyed the lad, he rose from his seat, paced
slowly across the room once or twice, and taking a hickory switch, the
longest of all he had, he stopped in the middle of the floor, and in a
low, quiet tone, said:
“Brinkly Glisson, come.”
Allen had been eyeing Brinkly all the time since the close of the
circus. He saw the conflict which was going on in his soul, and when
Mr. Meadows had burst into the paroxysm of laughter at the untoward
ending of the `horsin',' he thought he saw that the conflict was ended.
Slowly and calmly Brinkly rose from his seat, and walked up and
stood before Mr. Meadows.
“Why, hi!” thought Allen.
“Off with your coat, sir,” — low and gentle, and with a countenance
almost smiling. Brinkly stood motionless. But he had done so once
or twice before, in similar circumstances, and at length yielded. “Off
with it, sir,” — louder and not so gentle. No motion on Brinkly's part,
not even in his eyes, which looked steadily into the master's, with a
meaning which he nearly, but not quite understood.
“Aint you going to pull off that coat, sir?”
“What for?” asked Brinkly.
“What for, sir?”
“Yes, sir; what for?”
“Because I am going to give you this hickory, you impudent scoundrel;
and if you don't pull it off this minute, I'll give you sich a beatin'
as'll make you feel like you never was whipped before since you was
born. Aint you going to pull it off, sir?”
“Not now, sir.”
Allen wriggled on his seat, and his face shone as the full moon. Mr.
Meadows retreated a step, and holding his switch two feet from the
larger end, he raised that end to strike.
“Stop one minute, if you please.”
Mr. Meadows lowered his arm, and his face smiled a triumph. This
was the first time Brinkly had ever begged. He chuckled. Allen
looked disappointed.
“Stop, eh? I yi! This end looks heavy, does it? Well, I wouldn't
be surprised if it warn't sorter heavy. Will you pull off your coat now,
sir?”
“Mr. Meadows, I asked you to stop because I wanted to say a few
words to you. You have beat me and beat me, worse than you ought
to beat a dog,” (Allen's face getting right again); “and God in heaven
knows that, in the time that I have come to school to you, I have tried
as hard as a boy ever did to please you and get my lessons. I can't
understand that geography, and I aint been reading long enough to
understand it. I have asked you to let me quit. Mother has asked
you. You wouldn't do it; but beat me, and beat me, and beat me,”
(there is no telling whether Allen wants to laugh or to cry), “and now,
the more I study it, the more I don't understand it. I would have quit
school long ago, but mother was so anxious for me to learn, and made
me come. And now I have took off my coat to you the last time.”
(Ah! now there is a great tear in Allen's eye.) “Listen to me,” (as
the teacher's hand makes a slight motion); “don't strike me. I know
I'm not learning anything, and your beating aint going to make me
learn any faster. If you are determined to keep me in this geography,
and to beat me, just say so, and I'll take my hat and books and go
home. I'd like to not come to-day, but I thought I knew my lesson.
Now, I say again, don't, for God's sake, don't strike me.” And he
raised up both his hands, pale and trembling.
It would be impossible to describe the surprise and rage expressed
on the face of Mr. Meadows during the delivery and at the close of
this little harangue. He looked at the boy a moment. His countenance
expressed the deepest sadness; but there was nothing in it like
defiance or threatening. It was simply sad and beseeching. The
master hesitated, and looked around upon his school. It would not
do to retreat now, he thought. With an imprecation, he raised his
switch and struck with all his might.
“My God!” cried the boy; but in an instant sadness and beseeching
passed from his face. The long pent-up resentment of his soul gushed
forth, and the fury of a demon glared from his eyes. He was preparing
to spring upon Mr. Meadows, when the latter, by a sudden rush,
caught him and thrust him backward over the front bench. They both
tumbled on the floor, between the rows of desks, Mr. Meadows uppermost.
“It's come,” said Allen, quietly, as he rose and looked down upon
the combatants.
Mr. Meadows attempted to disengage himself and rise; but Brinkly
would rise with him. After several attempts at this, Brinkly managed
to get upon one knee, and by a violent jerk to bring Mr. Meadows
down upon the floor, where they were, in the phraseology of the wrestling
ring, cross and pile. Mr. Meadows shouted to two or three of the
boys to hold Brinkly until he could rise. They rose to obey, but Allen,
without saying a word, put out his hand before them, and motioning
them to their seats, they resumed them. And now the contest set in
for good, Mr. Meadows struggling to recover his advantage, and
Brinkly to improve what he had gained. The former's right arm was
thrown across the latter's neck, his right hand wound in and pulling
violently his hair, while his left hand pressed against his breast.
Brinkly's left leg was across Mr. Meadows' middle, and with his right
against a stationary desk, his right arm bent and lying under him like
a lizard's, and his left in Mr. Meadows' shirt-collar, he struggled to
get uppermost; but whenever he attempted to raise his head, that
hand wound in his hair would instantly bring it back to the floor.
When Mr. Meadows would attempt to disengage himself from underneath
Brinkly's leg, that member, assisted by its brother from the
desk, against which it was pressed, held it like the boa holds the
bullock. Oh, Mr. Meadows, Mr. Meadows! you don't know the
boy that grapples with you. You have never known anything at all
blows not half so hard. Remember, you walk a mile to and from
the school, and Brinkly seven, often running the first half. Besides,
there is something in Brinkly's soul which will not let him tire. The
remembrance of long continued wrongs, which cannot longer be borne;
the long subdued but now inextinguishable desire of revenge; every
hostile feeling but fear — all these are now dominant in that simple
heart, and they have made of him a man, and if you hope to conquer
you must fight as you never have fought before, and never may have to
fight again.
Your right hand pulls less vigorously at the hair of Brinkly's ascending
head. Look there! Brinkly's leg has moved an inch further across
you! Wring and twist, Mr. Meadows, for right under that leg, if anywhere
for you, is now the post of honor. Can't you draw out your left
leg, and plant it against the desk behind you, as Brinkly does with his
right. Alas! no. Brinkly has now made a hook of his left, and his
heel is pressing close into the cavity behind your knee. Ah! that was
an unlucky move for you then, Mr. Meadows, when you let Brinkly's
hair go, and thrust both of your hands at his eyes. You must have
done that in a passion. But you are raking him some now, that is
certain. But see there, now! he has released his grasp at your shirt-collar,
and thrown his left arm over you. Good morning to you now,
Mr. Meadows!
In the instant that Mr. Meadows had released his hold upon his
hair, Brinkly, though he was being gouged terribly, released his hold
upon his collar, threw his arm over his neck, and pushing with all his
might with his right leg against the desk, and making a corresponding
pull with his left, he succeeded in getting fully upon him; then, springing
up quick as lightning, as Mr. Meadows, panting, his eyes gleaming
with the fury of an enraged tigress, was attempting to rise, he dealt
him a blow in the face with his fist which sent him back bleeding like
a butchered beast. Once more the master attempted to rise, and those
who saw it will never forget that piteous spectacle of rage, and shame,
and pain, and fear. Once more Brinkly struck him back. How that
brave boy's face shone out with those gaudia certaminis which the brave
always feel when in the midst of an inevitable and righteous combat!
Springing upon his adversary again, and seizing his arms and pinioning
them under his knees, he wound his hands in his shaggy hair, and
raising his head, thrust it down several times with all his might against
the floor.
“Spare me! for God's sake, spare me!” cried Mr. Meadows, in
tones never before heard from him in that house.
Brinkly stopped. “Spare you!” he said, now panting himself. “Yes!
you who never spared anything that you could hurt! Poor cruel
coward! You loved to beat other people, and gloried in seeing them
suffering, and when they begged you to spare them, you laughed —
you did. Oh, how I have heard you laugh, when they asked you to
spare them! And now you are beat yourself and whipped, you beg
like a dog. Yes, and I will spare you,” he continued, rising from him.
“It would be a pity to beat any such a poor cowardly human any
longer. Now go! and make them poor things there go to horsin'
again, and cut 'em in two again; and then get in the circus ring, and
make them others, girls and all — yes, girls and all — hold up their
clothes and trot around you, and when they cry like you, and beg you
to spare 'em, do you laugh again!”
He rose and turned away from him. Gathering up his books, he
went to the peg whereon his hat was hanging, and was in the act of
taking it down, when a sudden revulsion of feeling came over him,
and he sat down and wept.
Oh, the feelings in that poor boy's breast! The recollection of
the cruel wrongs which he had suffered; of the motives, so full of
pious duty, which had made him endure them; the thought of how
mistaken had been the wish of his mother that he should endure them;
and then of how terribly they had been avenged. These all meeting
at once in his gentle but untaught spirit, overcame it, and broke it into
weeping.
Meanwhile, other things were going on. Mr. Meadows, haggard,
bruised, bleeding, covered with dirt, slunk off towards the fireplace, sat
down in his chair, and buried his face in his hands. The pupils had
been in the highest states of alternate alarm and astonishment. They
were now all standing about their seats, looking alternately at Brinkly
and Mr. Meadows, but at the latter mostly. Their countenances plainly
indicated that this was a sight which, in their minds, had never before
been vouchsafed to mortal vision. A schoolmaster whipped! beat!
choked! his head bumped! and that by one of his pupils! And that
schoolmaster, Mr. Meadows! — Mr. Meadows, who, ten minutes before,
had been in the exercise of sovereign and despotic authority. And
then to hear him beg! A schoolmaster! — Mr. Meadows! — to hear
him actually beg Brinkly to spare him! These poor children actually
They were terrified, and to some extent miserable at the sight of so
much power, so much authority, so much royalty dishonored and laid
low. Brinkly seemed to them to have been transformed. He was a
murderer! a REGICIDE!! Talk of the divine right of kings! There
was never more reverence felt for it than the children in country schools
felt for the kingly dignity of the schoolmaster of fifty years agone.
7. CHAPTER VII.
Allen Thigpen was the only one of the pupils who did not entirely
lose his wits while the events of the last few minutes were taking place.
While the contest was even between the combatants, he stood gazing
down upon them with the most intense interest. His body was bent
down slightly, and his arms were extended in a semicircle, as if to
exclude the rest of the world from a scene which he considered all his
own. When Mr. Meadows called for quarter, Allen folded his arms
across his breast, and to a tune which was meant for `Auld Lang Syne,'
and which sounded indeed more like that than any other, he sang as
he turned off,
“Jerusalem, my happy home.”
or two as if hesitating what to do. He then walked slowly to him and
delivered the following oration:
“It's come to it at last, jest as I said. I seen it from the fust; you
ought to a seen it yourself, but you wouldn't, ur you couldn't, and I don't
know which, and it makes no odds which you didn't. I did, and now
it's come, and sich a beatin', Jerusalem! But don't you be too much
took aback by it. You warn't goin' to keep school here no longern to-day,
nohow. Now, I had laid off in my mind to have gin you a duckin'
this very day; and I'll tell you for why. Not as I've got anything particklar
agin you, myself; you have not said one word out of the way to
me this whole term. But, in the fust place, it's not my opinion, nor
haint been for some time, that you are fitten to be a schoolmaster.
Thar's them sums in intrust — intrust is the very thing and the onliest
thing I wanted to learn — I say, thar's them sums in intrust, which I
though I've been cypherin' in it now two months. And thar's Mely
Jones, that's in the same, and she haint learn 'em neither, and dinged
if I believe all the fault's in me and her, and in course it can't be in
the book. But that aint the main thing; its your imposin' disposition.
If this here schoolhouse,” he continued, looking around, “if this here
schoolhouse haint seen more unmerciful beatin' than any other school-house
in this country, then I say it's a pity that thar's any sich a thing
as education. And if the way things has been car'd on in this here
schoolhouse sense you've been in it is the onliest way of getting of a
education, then I say again it's a pity thar's sich a thing. It haint worth
while for me to name over all the ways you've had of tormentin' o' these
children. You know 'em; I know 'em; everybody about this here
schoolhouse knows 'em. Now, as I said before, I had laid off to a gin
you a duckin' this very day, and this morning I was going to let Brinkly
into it, tell I found that the time I seen was a comin' in him was done
come; and I knowed he wouldn't jine in duckin' you on account of his
mother. Now I've been thinking o' this for more'n two weeks, bekase —
now listen to me; didn't you say you was from South Calliner?”
Pausing for, but not receiving an answer, he continued:
“Yes, that's what you said. Well now, I've heern a man — a travellin'
man — who staid all night at our house on his way to Fluriday, say
he knowed you. You aint from South Calliner; I wish you was, but
you aint; you're from Georgy, and I'm ashamed to say it. He ast me,
seein' me a studyin', who I went to school to, and when I told him,”
(Mr. Meadows appearing to be listening) `Meadows,' says he, `what
Meadows?' `Iserl,' says I. `Iserl Meadows a schoolmaster?' says he,
and he laughed, he did; he laughed fit to kill hisself. Well, he told
me whar you was raised, and who you was. But you needn't be too
bad skeered. I aint told it to the fust human, and I aint going to, tell
you leave. Now, I had laid off, as I told you, to gin you a duckin',
but I hadn't the heart to do it, and you in the fix you are now at the
present. Nuff sed, as I seed in a bar-room in Augusty on a piece of
pasteboard, under the words `No credit,' when I was thar. Wonder if
thar's going to be much more schoolin' here?”
Saying which, Allen puckered up his mouth as if for a whistle, and
stalked back to his seat.
Mr. Meadows, during the last few sentences of this harangue, had
exhibited evidences of a new emotion. When Allen told him what the
on Allen assuring him that he had not mentioned it, he had again
buried his face in his hands. When Allen went back to his seat, he
rose, and beckoning to him imploringly, they went out of the house
together a few steps and stopped.
“I never done you any harm,” said Mr. Meadows.
“You never did, certin, shore,” answered Allen, “nor no particklar
good. But that's neither here nor thar; what do you want?”
“Don't tell what you heard tell I git away.”
“Didn't I say I wouldn't? But you must leave toler'ble soon. I
can't keep it long. I fairly eech to tell it now.”
The schoolmaster stood a moment, turning his hat in his hands, as
if hesitating what sort of leave to take. He timidly offered Allen his
hand.
“I'd ruther not,” said Allen, and for the first time seemed a little embarrassed.
Suddenly the man hauled his hat on his head, and walked
away. He had just entered the path in the thicket, and turning unobserved,
he paused, and looked back at the schoolhouse. And oh, the
anger, the impotent rage, the chagrin and shame which were depicted
on his bloodshot face! No exiled monarch ever felt more grief and
misery than he felt at that moment. He paused but for a moment;
then raising both his hands, and shaking them towards the house,
without saying a word, he turned again and almost ran along the path.
After he had gone, and not until he had gotten out of sight, Allen,
to whom all eyes were turned (except Brinkly's, who yet sat with his
head hidden in his hands on the bench), took Mr. Meadows' chair, and
crossing his legs, said:
“Well, boys and gals, the Goosepond, it seem, are a broke-up school.
The schoolmaster have, so to speak, absquatulated. Thar's to be no
more horsin' here, and the circus are clean shot up. And the only
thing I hates about it is, that it's Brinkly that's done it and not me.
But he wouldn't give me a chance. No,” he continued, sorrowfully and
as if speaking to himself, “he wouldn't give me a chance. Nary single
word could I ever git him to say to me out of the way. I have misted
lessons; 'deed I never said none. I never kept nary single rule in his
school, and he wouldn't say nothin' to me.”
Then rising and going to Brinkly, he put his hand upon his shoulder.
“No, its jest as it ought to a bin; you was the one to do it; and in
the name of all that's jest, Brinkly Glisson, what is you been cryin'
done what you've done than to a bin the man that fooled the tory in
the Revolutionary War, and stoled his horse in the Life of Marion.
Come along and wash that face and hands.”
And he almost dragged Brinkly to the pail, and poured water while
he washed.
The children, recovering from the consternation into which they
had been thrown by the combat and its result, now began to walk about
the house, picking up their books and laying them down again. They
would go to the door and look out towards Mr. Meadows' path, as if
expecting, and, indeed, half-way hoping, half-way fearing that he would
return; and then they would stand around Allen and Brinkly, as the
latter was washing and drying himself. But they spoke not a word.
Suddenly, Allen, mimicking the tone of Mr. Meadows, cried out:
“Asa Boatright and Sam Pate, go to horsin'!”
In a moment they all burst into shouts of laughter. Asa mounted
upon Sam's back, and Sam pranced about and neighed, oh, so gaily.
Allen got a switch and made as if he would strike Asa, and that young
gentleman, for the first time in the performance of this interesting exercise,
screamed with delight instead of pain.
“Let Asa be the schoolmaster,” shouted Allen. “Good morning,
Mr. Boatright,” said he with mock humility. “Mr. Boatright, may I
go out?” asked timidly, half a dozen boys.
Asa dismounted, and seizing a hickory, he stood up in the middle of
the floor, and the others formed the circus around him. Here they
came and went, jumping over his switch, and crying out and stooping
to rub their legs, and begging him to stop, “for God's sake, Mr. Boatright,
stop.”
Suddenly an idea struck Mr. Boatright. Disbanding the circus, he
cried out:
“You, Is'rl Meadows, come up here, sir. Been a fighten, have you,
sir? come up, sir. Oh, here you are.”
Mr. Boatright fell upon the teacher's chair, and of all the floggings
which a harmless piece of furniture ever did receive, that unlucky chair
did then and there receive the worst. Mr. Boatright called it names;
he dragged it over the floor; he threatened to burn it up; he shook it
violently; he knocked it against the wall; one of its rounds falling out,
he beat it most unmercifully with that; and at last, exhausted by the
exercise and satisfied with his revenge, he indignantly kicked it out of
doors, amid the screams and shouts of his schoolfellows.
8. CHAPTER VIII.
“Far you well!” said Allen, solemnly, to the fallen chair.
They had all gathered up their books and slates, and hats and
bonnets, and started off for their several homes. Those who went the
same way with Brinkly, listened with the most respectful attention as
he talked with Allen on the way, and showed how bitterly he had
suffered from the cruelty of Mr. Meadows. They had already lost
their resentment at the dishonor of that monarch's royalty, and were
evidently regarding Brinkly with the devotion with which mankind
always regard rebels who are successful. Each one strove to get the
nearest him as he walked. One little fellow, after trying several times
to slip in by his side, got ahead, and walked backwards as he looked
at Brinkly and listened. He was so far gone under the old régime
that he felt no relief from what had happened. He had evidently not
understood anything at all about it. He seemed to be trying to do so,
and to make out for certain whether that was Brinkly or not. The
voice of those young republicans, had Brinkly been ambitious, would
have made him dictator of the Goosepond. Even Allen felt a consideration
for Brinkly which was altogether new. He had always expected
that Brinkly would at some day resist the master, but he did
not dream of the chivalrous spirit of the lad, nor that the resistance
when it should come would be so terrible and disastrous. He had
always regarded Brinkly as his inferior; he was now quite satisfied to
consider him as no more than his equal. How we all, brave men and
cowards, do honor the brave! And Brinkly had just given, in the
opinion of his schoolfellows, the most brilliant illustration of courage
which the world had ever seen.
But Brinkly was not ambitious nor vain; he felt no triumph in his
victory. On the contrary, he was sad; he wished it could have been
avoided. He said to Allen that he wished he could have stood it a
little longer.
“Name o' God, Brinkly Glisson, what for? It is the astonishenist
thing I ever heerd of, for you to be sorry for maulin' a rascal who beat
you like a dog, and that for nothin'. What for, I say again?”
“On mother's account.”
Allen stopped — they had gotten to the road that turned off to his
home.
“You tell your mother that when she knows as much about the
villian as I do, she will be proud of you for maulin' him. Look here,
Brinkly, I promised him I wouldn't tell on him tell he had collected
his schoolin' account and was off. But you tell your mother that if she
gets hurt with you for thrashin' him, she will get worse hurt with herself
when she knows what I do.”
Saying this, Allen shook hands with him and the others, and went
off, merrily singing `Jerusalem, my happy home.' Soon all the rest
had diverged by byroads to their own homes, and Brinkly pursued his
way alone.
It was about twelve o'clock when he reached home. The widow's
house was a single log-tenement, with a small shed-room behind. A
kitchen, a meat-house, a dairy, a crib with two stalls in the rear, one
for the horse the other for the cow, were the out-buildings. Homely
and poor as this little homestead was, it wore an air of much neatness
and comfort. The yard looked clean; the floors of both mansion and
kitchen were clean, and the little dairy looked as if it knew it was
clean, but that was nothing new or strange. Several large rose-bushes
stood on either side of the little gate, ranged along the yard-paling.
Two rows of pinks and narcissus hedged the walk from the gate to the
door, where, on blocks of oak, rested two boxes of the geranium.
The widow was in the act of sitting down to her dinner, when hearing
the gate open and shut, she advanced to the door to see who might
be there. Slowly and sadly Brinkly advanced to the door.
“Lord have mercy upon my soul and body, Brinkly, what is the
matter with you? and what have you been a doing, and what made you
come from the schoolhouse this time o' day?” was the greeting he
met.
“Don't be scared, mother; it isn't much that's the matter with me.
Let us sit down by the fire here, and I'll tell you all about it.”
They sat down, and the mother looked upon the son, and the son
upon the mother.
“I was afraid it would come to it, mother. God knows how I have
tried to keep from doing what I have had to do at last.”
“Brinkly, have you been and gone and fought with Mr. Meadows?”
“Yes, mother.”
“And so ruined yourself, and me, too.”
“I hope not, mother.”
“Yes, here have I worked and denied myself; day and night I have
it,” and she fell straight to crying.
“Mother, do listen to me before you cry and fret any more, and I
believe you will think I have not done wrong. Please, mother, listen
to me,” he entreated as she continued to weep, and rocked herself, in
order, as it seemed, to give encouragement and keep time to her weeping.
But she wept and rocked. Brinkly turned from her and seemed
doggedly hopeless.
“Say on what you're going to say — say on what you're going to say.
If you've got anything to say, say it.”
“I can't tell you anything while you keep crying so. Please don't
cry, mother; I don't believe you will blame me when I tell you what I
have been through.” His manner was so humble and beseeching that
his mother sat still, and in a less fretful tone, again bade him go on.
“Mother, as I said before, God knows that I've tried to keep from
it, and could not. You don't know, mother, how that man has treated
me.”
“How has he treated you?” she inquired, looking at her son for the
first time since she had been sitting.
“You were so anxious for me to learn, and I was so anxious myself
to learn, that I have never told you of hardly any of his treatment.
Oh, mother, he has beat me worse than anybody ought to beat the
meanest dog. He has called me and you poor, and made fun of us
because we were poor. He has called me a scoundrel, a beggar, a
fool. When I told him that you wanted me to quit geography, he said
you was a fool and had a fool for a son, and that he had no doubt that
my father was a fool before me.”
The widow dried her face with her handkerchief, settled herself in
her chair, and said:
“When he said them things he told a — what's not so; I'll say it if
he is schoolmaster.” And she looked as if she was aware that the
responsibility of that bold observation was large.
“He said,” continued Brinkly, “that I should study it, and if I didn't
git the lessons, he'd beat me as long as he could find a hickory to beat
me with. I stood it all because it was my only chance to git any
schoolin'. But I told him then — that is when he called you a fool,
and father one, too — that it wasn't so, and that he ought not to say
so. Well, yesterday, you know you sent me by Mr. Norris' to pay back
the meal we borrowed, and I didn't get to the schoolhouse quite in
when he saw me, he hurried just to keep me from being in time.
When I told him how you had sent me by Mr. Norris', he only laughed
and called me a liar, and then — look at my shoulder, mother.”
He took off his coat, unbuttoned his shirt, and exposed his shoulder
and back, blackened with hideous bruises.
“Oh, my son, my poor son,” was all that mother could say.
She had not, in fact, known a tenth of the cruelties and insults which
Brinkly had borne. He had frequently importuned her to let him quit
the school. But she supposed that it was because of the difficulties
of learning his lessons which got for him an occasional punishment,
and such as was incident to the life of every schoolboy, bad and good,
idle and industrious. These thoughts combining with her ardent desire
that he should have some learning, even at the risk of receiving some
harsh and even unjust punishment, made her persist in keeping him
there. Seeing her anxiety, and to avoid making her unhappy, Brinkly
had concealed from her the greater part of the wrongs which he had
suffered. But when she heard how he had been abused, and saw the
stripes and bruises upon his body, her mother's heart could not restrain
itself, and she wept sorely.
“Well, mother, I stood this too, but last night I couldn't sleep. I
thought about all he had said and all he had done to me, and I made
up my mind to quit him anyhow. But this morning, before day, I
thought for your sake I would try it once more. So I got up and
studied my lesson here and all the way to the schoolhouse; and I did
know it, mother, or I thought I did, for he wouldn't tell me how to pronounce
the words, but Allen Thigpen did, and I pronounced them just
like Allen told me. When I told him that, he called me a liar, and
afterwards I begged him not to strike me, but to let me go home. But
he would strike me, and I fought him.”
“And you done right. Oh, my son, my poor Brinkly! Yes, you are
poor, the poor son of a poor widow; but I am proud that you have got
the heart to fight when you are abused and insulted. If I'd known
half of what you have had to bear, you should have quit his school
long ago; you should, Brinkly, my darling, that you should. But how
could you expect to fight him and not be beat to death? Why didn't
you run away from him and come to me? He wouldn't have beat you
so where I was.” And she looked as if she felt herself to be quite
sufficient for the protection of her young.
“Mother, I didn't want to run; I couldn't run from such a man as he
is. Once I thought I would take my hat and books and come away;
but I could not do that without running, and I couldn't run; you wouldn't
want me to run, would you, mother?” The widow looked puzzled.
“No; but he is so much bigger than you, that it wouldn't a looked
exactly like you was a coward; and then he has hurt you so bad. My
poor Brinkly, you don't know how your face is scratched.”
“I hurt him worse than he hurt me, mother.”
“What?”
“I hurt him worse than he hurt me; I got the best of it.”
“Glory!” shouted Mrs. Glisson.
“In fact, I whipped him.”
“Glory! glory!”
“When I had him down —”
“Brinkly, did you have him down, my son?”
“Yes, and he begged me to spare him.”
“Glory be to — glory be to — but you did not do it, did you?”
“Yes, mother, as soon as he give up and begged me to stop, I let
him alone.”
“I wouldn't a done it, certain, shore!”
“Yes you would, mother; if you had seen how he was hurt, and how
bad he looked, you would a spared him, I know you would.”
“Well, maybe I might; I suppose it was right, as he was a man
grown, and schoolmaster to boot. Maybe it was best — maybe it was
best — maybe I might a done it too, but it aint quite certin.”
She had risen from the chair and was pacing the floor. This new
view of Brinkly's relation to his tyrant was one on which she required
time for reflection. She evidently felt, however, that as Brinkly had so
often been at the bottom in the combat, now when he had risen to the
top, there was no great harm in staying there a little longer. “But
maybe it was best; I reckon now he won't be quite so brash with his
other scholars.”
“He will never have another chance.”
“What?”
“Allen has found out all about him, and where he came from, and
says he's a man of bad character. He begged Allen not to say anything
about it until he got his money and could git away. So he is
quit, and the school is broke up.”
“Glory! glory! hallelujah!” shouted again and sung the mother.
Let her shout and sing. Sing away and shout, thou bereaved, at
this one little triumph of thine only beloved! Infinite Justice! pardon
her for singing and shouting now, when her only child, though poor
and an orphan, though bruised and torn, seems to her overflowing eyes
to be grand and beautiful, as if he were a royal hero's son, and the inheritor
of his crown.
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