University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

—Shakspeare.

The school which Henry Fowler attended
was the best public school in Boston, but unfortunately
the teacher was a man, who, infected
with the aristocratic notions, which
too many of his class entertain, was unable
to see, in the coarsely-clad orphan, aught of
the talent so plainly discernible in the pupils
whose parents possessed that grand desideratum—wealth.

Consequently Henry, though
applying himself closely to study, progressed
but slowly in the ranks of his school. It
was not supposed possible by the whitegloved
preceptor, that a lad with such a jacket
could by any means excel in learning.
And poor Henry, instead of being aided and
advanced in his laudable desire for improvement,
was discouraged and impeded by the
pride of one who should have been first to
perceive and reward his real merit. When he
had been a year or two at school an observer
might have seen that something preyed upon
his spirit. He had striven honorably and
well for that place in the teacher's favor,
which he saw open to his companions of less
merit; and he met, for his endeavors, with
but the sneer of scorn, or the mocking tones
of distrust and pity. This had changed his
character, totally and sadly changed it.
When he entered the school, it was with
buoyant hopes, and a resolve to be, what he
fondly believed he could be, a faithful and
successful scholar; and he was, as far as he
could himself achieve it. But he had his
fond trust nipped in the opening. When
he hoped and expected approval, he met only
neglect; where he sought to advance, he
was repelled, and the heart that glowed with
all the generous ardor of a young and trustful
disposition, had been, in the space of two
short years, changed by the mistaken views
of one man, to a suspicious, distrustful, and
unhappy one. This may not appear, but is,
nevertheless, true, and the instances, even
now, are by no means rare, when such are
the effects of the ill-directed partiality of
teachers in public schools.

But if Henry Fowler possessed no friend
in the master, he had gained many among
his fellow-pupils, who, measuring him by
his mind instead of his coat, soon learned to
love and respect him. Among these was
one named William Abbot, a frank, noble
boy, blunt and quick in anger, but firm in his
friendship. He was a lad who always called
things by their right names, and judged of
them not by their outward appearance, but
intrinsic value. He was older than Henry,
and, in a manner, took him under his protection;
joined in his sports, and won his
heart by those thousand friendly acts, which
he mind of childhood understands and ap
preciates. He was the son of a Kilby Street
merchant, and of course was a favorite of the
schoolmaster, a circumstance which, perhaps,
made Henry less objectionable in the eyes of
that dignitary.

“William, why do you associate with that
fellow?” asked a lad of about fourteen, clad
in a bright-buttoned coat of green, his hair
nicely parted, and his ruffle-collar falling
gracefully over his neck, all betokening him
one of the teacher's geniuses. “I should
really think you would have more respect
for yourself, than to be seen with such a
dunce.”

“A dunce, Frank Haywood?—you know
better; who helped you in your lesson yesterday?”

“Poh,” said the young gentleman, blushing
up to his frilled collar, “he only showed
me what I knew before. And he is a dunce,
for the master says so, and he knows.”

“Frank Haywood, you envy him, and
that's all—and I should rather go with Harry
Fowler any time, than be seen with a
fellow who lies about him,” and William
Abbot turned away.

Haywood's blood mounted to his eyes, but
he was afraid of William, and he bit his lips
in silence. As William turned his back,
however, so contemptuously upon him, he
could bear no longer, and springing forward
he struck him in the back, and at the same
time, putting his foot in front, William fell
upon the ground.

But he had better provoked a lion—William
was up in an instant, and pursuing the
treacherous Haywood, overtook, and gave
him a most righteous whipping, so that the
discomfitted young aristocrat returned home
with his ruffle wofully torn, his face ornamented
with sundry scratches, and a most
chopfallen expression of countenance.

Such an occurrence could not be passed
over unnoticed. The father of Frank Haywood
was a retired merchant, very wealthy,
and moreover, a selectman. And it was
not to be expected that such an assault on
his son would be passed unheeded by. Accordingly,
the next day, during school hours,
a thundering knock was heard at the door.
The master opened it, and there, to his dismay,
stood the wrathful Mr. Haywood, holding
by the hand his dear boy, upon whose

face sundry pieces of court-plaster, admirably
disposed for effect, gave expression to
otherwise rather blank features.

The body of the pedagogue described the
segment of a circle as he invited the great
man in.

“I am come,” said Mr. Haywood, raising
his voice, in order that the school might hear
how a selectman could speak—“I am come
to know why—yes, sir—why—my boy—my
son—yes, sir—has been shamefully maltreated
and vilely abused—yes, sir—by one of
your scholars, yes, sir!”

Here the selectman stopped to breathe.

“He shall be made an example of, sir,”
said the schoolmaster. “But may I ask who
was the delinquent?”

“Ask my son, sir—yes, sir,” said the selectman.

“It was Bill Abbot,” roared the interesting
son.

The face of the schoolmaster grew pale.
“But, Francis, my dear, how did this happen,—eh,
my boy?”

“Why, I called Harry Fowler a dunce,
and William—”

“Ah, I see it—I see it all; Mr. Haywood,
that boy, Fowler, has been more
trouble to me—Yes, I see it. Fowler, come
here, sir!”

Henry rose from his seat, and walked
towards the master's desk, wondering what
new piece of injustice was to be performed.

“Come here, sir; ask that gentleman's
pardon, sir!”

“For what,” asked Henry.

“Ask his pardon!”

“I won't!” said Henry, doggedly.

“You shall,” said the pedagogue; “Abbot,
step here,” and William came to the
desk, “Fowler was the cause of your quarrel
with Francis, yesterday, was he not, eh?”

“Frank Haywood called him a dunce,
and—”

“There, Fowler, you hear that—now, sir,
ask Mr. Haywood's pardon for causing this
quarrel.”

Henry hesitated; he knew that the master
was not his friend, and he knew if he refused
it would be considered rebellion. At
his moment William Abbot whispered,

“Don't do it, Harry, you're not to blame.”

The schoolmaster bit his lip. “Will you
obey me, sir?”

“I will not ask his pardon!”

“Then, sir, you are no longer a member
of my school. Your refusal to obey me has
destroyed all my confidence in you. I have
long feared it would come to this. Take
your books, sir—here, give me your copy
book,” and the despotic teacher wrote, on a
page of it—“expelled.”

“Here is my writing book; you're a tyrant,
and I'll tell my father to remove me
from school!” cried the fearless William
Abbot.

The countenance of the master fell.

“Mr. Haywood,” said he, apart to that
official, “this boy, here, Abbot, is the son of
S. Abbot, firm of Abbot & Co., Kilby Street
—you are aware, sir—his influence—eh, sir?”

“Ah!” said the retired merchant, “Abbot
& Co.—yes, sir—S. Abbot. Sir, it is my
opinion, the quarrels of boys are best settled
among themselves—yes, sir. Good day, sir.
I hope that my son does not associate with
boys of this Fowler's class?”

“No, my dear sir; he is a boy of much
taste and discretion—hereditary, I think,
sir.”

“Ah!—I hope nothing unpleasant will
occur again—yes, sir. Good day, sir,” and
the gratified ex-merchant walked away, leading
his hopeful son by the hand.

“Fowler,” said the schoolmaster to Henry,
who was placing his books in order, “Come
here, sir.”

Harry advanced a few steps towards the
master's desk, then turned, and proceeded to
pack his books.

“Fowler, do you hear!” exclaimed the
pedagogue.

“I don't belong to this school, now, I believe,”
said Harry, whose spirit was roused
by the injustice he had experienced.

The master saw his error; and he saw,
too, that already the boys suspected the affair,
and enjoyed his situation. He therefore left
his desk, and walking to that of Henry, took
up the copy-book, and drew his pen across
the sentence of expulsion; then returning,
he called again,

“Fowler!”

And this time Henry came.

“Abbot,” said the teacher to William,
who had all the time been standing beside
the desk, inwardly exulting in Henry's spirit,
“You see, I was mistaken in supposing

Fowler to blame in this affair; you know
I wish you both well, and I hope that you
will preserve your temper, William, for it is
very disgraceful to fight.”

“He struck me in the back, like a coward,”
said William.

“I am very sorry it has happened,” said
the repentant schoolmaster, “and I hope
you will endeavor to agree better in future.
And Fowler,” continued he, “you must not
be too familiar with Haywood; you know,”
said he, in a sneering tone, “familiarity breeds
contempt.”

William Abbot could have knocked the
master down, but he said nothing; he merely
looked at Henry, as if to tell him not to
mind him. But Henry was too proud to
care.

“Now, boys, take your seats,” said the
pedagogue, in an elevated tone. “First
class, prepare to recite.”