 | THE
VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. Sketches of American character |  |
THE
VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS.
Derives its value from its use alone;
Nor for itself, but for a nobler end
The Eternal gave it—and that end is virtue.
S. Johnson.
The peculiar characteristics of females, being
less distinctly marked, are much more difficult
to be delineated than those of the other
sex. There are various pursuits by which
men may hope to obtain happiness and distinction—for
women there is but one path—
her success in life depends entirely on her domestic
establishment. Let the education of
women differ ever so much in detail, its end
is the same, to qualify them to become wives
and mothers; and in every station the object
of female ambition is to marry well. This
similarity of purpose produces a similarity
of thought, feeling, action, and consequently
character, which no uniformity of training
could otherwise bestow. And then, the business
of married women, though varying in
ceremonials, according to the circumstances or
rank of the respective husbands, is essentially
alike.
And good works in her husband to promote;'
are, in our country, the employments for life
of each individual. (I have not taken into this
amount those modish ladies who appear to
think themselves born only to be amused, because
such a class is scarcely recognised in
our republican land—here happily, in public
estimation, the useful yet takes precedence of
the fashionable.) While such only are the offices
and duties which women are expected to
perform, it would be absurd to think they
would exhibit that variety of talent, or those
prominent and peculiar qualities of mind, that
distinguish men of different professions and
dissimilar occupations. What a contrast, in
the principles and pursuits of men, since the
time that Peter the Hermit first raised the
standard of the cross, and saw nations enrol
themselves beneath the sacred symbol, and this
age of free inquiry, of rational improvement,
of useful invention! What sympathy would
there be between the opinions and feelings of
a crusader of the reign of Cœur de Lion, and
an enlightened philosopher of our own nation?
—the one, in his mailed armour traversing the
burning plains of Syria, considering the rescue
of Jerusalem from the grasp of the infidels, as
the greatest and most meritorious action mortal
man could perform; the other, contemplating,
with a calm delight that scenes of carnage
never afforded, the proposed route of a
rail road or canal, which, completed, would
cities on the site of the wilderness?
Yet woman is still the same—still seeking
her earthly happiness only by subduing the
heart of lordly man—still endeavouring to
heighten and set off her personal attractions
by dress and accomplishments, that she may
thus secure the constant devotion of some gallant
knight.
This distinction in the pursuits of the two
sexes could never have been so firmly established,
and so long and uniformly upheld, in
every country and among every people, by
mere human authority and custom. In designating
woman as `a helpmate' for man, the
Creator marked her destiny: and to fit her for
the task, mercifully infused into her soul deep
attachment for home, enduring tenderness for
her offspring, and to the `one she loves,' that
constancy in affection, which rarely decays
till her heart is cold in death. She cannot
break these bonds if she would. It is idle to
talk of the `Rights of Woman,' if they are
made to consist but in placing her in a station
manifestly contrary to the intentions of Providence.
It is worse than weak, it is wicked to
say she is degraded by fulfilling those duties
nature assigned her; because the mind is not
circumscribed by time, or confined to earth;
and in the promises of eternal glory, woman
participates equally with her `lord.' Indeed
were not all boasting excluded she might
claim the advantage—the Saviour of the world
was peculiarly her seed, and the honor of having
to our fallen race named of her, establishes at
once her claim to a full participation of mind,
of soul, of that portion of our being which is
destined for immortality. It is then absurd
for woman to complain that her sphere on
earth is less honorable than that of man, because
it is different; or imagine that the privilege
of commanding armies or convincing
senates would add to her importance, usefulness
and happiness—because it must be evident
to all who consider the subject, that such
was not the part assigned her by Him who directeth
all things in wisdom. The great effort
therefore of female education, should be
to qualify woman to discharge her duties, not
to exalt her till she despises them; to make it
her ambition to merit and display the character
of the most amiable and intelligent of her
sex, rather than aspire to emulate the capacity
and conduct of men. In our country, where,
under the mild light of Christianity, free institutions
guarantee freedom of thought, of expression,
of action, the full and free developement
of mind may rationally be expected; and
here, if in any country on earth, women may
hope to take their true, their most dignified
station, as the helpers, the companions, of educated
and independent men. And while our
citizens are endeavouring so to improve their
inestimable privileges, that the men of future
ages may be better and happier for their labors,
have women no share in the important
task? Their influence on the manners is
might not their influence on the mind be made
quite as irresistible, and far more beneficial,
and that, too, without violating in the least,
the propriety, which, to make their examples
valuable, should ever mark their conduct?
The business of instruction is one of vast interest,
because fraught with such important consequences
to Americans. It is necessary that
all our people should be instructed, as universal
education is the main pillar that must
eventually support the temple of our liberty.
It is therefore a duty sacredly binding on our
legislators to provide for the instruction, during
childhood and youth, of every member of
our republic. But while there are so many
pursuits, more lucrative and agreeable to active
and ambitious young men, there will be a
lack of good instructers—of those who are willing
to make it their business. Let, then, the
employment of school-keeping be principally
appropriated to females. They are both by
temper and habit, admirably qualified for the
task—they have patience, fondness for children,
and are accustomed to seclusion and inured
to self-government. Is it objected that
they do not possess sufficient soundness of
learning—that their acquirements are superficial,
showy, frivolous? The fault is in their
education, not in the female mind. Only afford
them opportunities of improvement and
motives for exertion; let them be assured, that
To dress, and troll the tongue, and roll the eye,'
agreeable or likely to be sought by the gentlemen—that
they may converse sensibly without
the charge of pedantry, and be intelligent
without the appellation of a blue; in short, that
they are expected to be rational, and required
to be useful, and they will not disappoint public
expectation.
But I may not dwell on the subject; my preface
is already too long. Readers soon tire of
prefaces, and skip them, and so the labor of
writing them is lost. Writers should never
flatter themselves everything from their pens
will be seized with avidity. Yet still it is, perhaps,
best they should not know how slightly
many passages, they imagine most excellent,
are passed over; how carelessly opinions and
sentiments, they consider of vital importance
to the interests and improvement of society, are
read. They would not persevere could the
mortifying truth be fully unfolded, namely,
that the chief importance of an author is in
his own estimation. Yet my preface will have
all the importance I wish, if it has any tendency
to awaken the attention of parents, and those
who have the superintendence of female education,
to examine whether there be not some
end and aim besides a mere drawing-room display,
to which the exertion of female talent
may, with propriety, be directed. Yet to make
such a plan effectual, it must be made fashionable—the
business of instruction must be divested
of its associations of pretension and
pedantry, and dulness and drilling. It must
feminine gracefulness and delicacy as well as
dignity; and moreover, it must be sufficiently
lucrative to insure an honorable independence.
Whenever such a `consummation,' which I, for
one, most `devoutly wish,' shall occur, the character
of the schoolmistress will become interesting
and important; the office of instructress
will not be sought merely as the resource of
necessity and misfortune; but ladies will engage
in it, more sedulous to display their acquirements
and graces by the progress of their
pupils, than an exhibition of themselves. And
then the story of Elizabeth Brooks will be
read with interest, and her example considered
worthy of imitation. Elizabeth Brooks was a
native of Walpole, N. H. Writers of fiction
usually introduce the epithets `retired' or `romantic'
before the name of the place where
they locate the residence of their heroine.
Such of my readers as have had the opportunity
of visiting Walpole and its environs—who
have gazed on the `Falls,' while standing beneath
the overhanging mountain, till fancy almost
saw the mighty mass trembling as if about
to precipitate itself into the gulf beneath; while
the agitation and whirl of the waters, as they
rush, and boil, and foam, among the broken
rocks, may, by no great effort of the imagination,
be ascribed to their fear of the impending
crush, and their hurry to escape from the
threatened ruin—and then glanced on the opposite
shore, where, amidst plenty and beauty,
rural content seems to have fixed her seat,
are romantic. `Retired' is a more relative
term—to an inhabitant of Boston, the place
would be retired. When Elizabeth was born,
her father was an affluent merchant in the city
of Hartford—when she was seventeen, he kept
a small boarding house in Walpole, lord of nothing
on earth, save the affection of his wife and
child. Sickness, as well as misfortune, had
assailed him; he was dying of consumption,
and before she was eighteen, she was fatherless.
In youth we seldom yield to despondency. Life
has then so many bright visions, some must
gild the path appointed us. It is not strange
such fancies should soothe Elizabeth, for the
star of love brightened her horizon. She was
very young, only fifteen, when her acquaintance
with William Forbes commenced. He
was then preparing for college, and sought her
society because she, more than any one, seemed
to appreciate his studies. Yet it was more
the complacency of her disposition, than liking
for his person, that first induced Elizabeth to
admit his visits. He was a scholar rather than
a lover, and she had much oftener to listen to
scraps of Latin and Greek quotations, than
compliments or soft words. But then he furnished
her with books, of which she was immoderately
fond, and he discussed with her the
merits of her favorite heroes, and the beauties
of her favorite poets; and translated learned
mottoes, and explained obscure allusions, till
finally, from finding his presence necessary,
she began to regret his absence; his idea was
him, and loved to think of him—was she not
then in love? Hers was not certainly romantic
love—such as is enkindled by a bright eye,
graceful form, fascinating manners, &c. It
was the calm, confiding esteem and affection,
that will last unimpaired through all the changes
of human life. Wedded love must be thus
rational, thus founded on esteem, or it will
never endure. The raptures of fancy will decay,
if not with the first moon, with the first
year.
It is usually thought those who are beloved,
must be lovely—but the comeliness of Elizabeth
was almost entirely owing to a fair complexion,
and a kind, benignant expression of
countenance, that assured the beholder of the
gentleness of her heart. She was one of those
girls whom the aged always praise—a sure
sign of excellence—and if some of the young
ladies thought her rather too fortunate in attaching
a scholar and a rich man's son, yet no
envy or illnature towards her was openly expressed.
She was twenty-two, when William,
after receiving his diploma, departed for the
State of New-York, where he intended to study
law, select a place of residence, and then return
and claim his bride. The time of separation
appeared long to them both. William
openly murmured, and tears told all that Elizabeth
could not speak.
`Let me find you unchanged at my return,'
said William, pressing her hand.
`Time changes us all,' replied Elizabeth.
`But your heart, my love, let that still be
mine, and I care not for other alterations.'
He was then probably sincere.
`Do you think the report of your nephew's
intended marriage with a lady in New-York as
really true?' said Miss Ashton to the Rev. J.
Bonnett, the uncle of William Forbes. `Has
he entirely forsaken Elizabeth?'
`I fear so, indeed,' replied the worthy
clergyman, with a shake of the head, and a
deep, long breath, between a sigh and groan.
`Elizabeth is one of the best girls in the world,
but their courtship has been too long. I dislike
such long courtships—I seldom knew one
end happily. There is usually jealousy and
quarrelling—and if they do finally marry, it
often appears on the part of the man, more a
sense of honor than affection, which leads him
to fulfil his engagement.'
`Would there not be equal danger of repentance
and repining, were the nuptial knot actually
tied?' inquired Miss Ashton.
`No, there would not—or certainly not with
persons of sense and reflection. They would
then feel their interests the same, and they
would feel that confidence in each other, which
love only never imparted. Even the changes
that time works on the fairest countenance, are
scarcely perceptible to the husband who daily
sees his wife exerting herself to make him and
his children happy. But the lover, after an absence
of several years, beholds the alterations
in his intended with deep regret, if not with
mortification. And the more ardent and devoted
change. His imagination has been investing
his beloved with an increase of charms, while
time has been stealing `a tooth, or auburn lock,'
perhaps, and the bridegroom feels as if defrauded
of the loveliness for which he had bartered
his heart.'
`But you forget, sir,' said Miss Ashton,
eagerly, `that the gentlemen now allow us
some merit on the score of mind, and Miss
Brooks'—
`Is wonderfully improved, I grant ye,' interrupted
Mr. Bennett—`and she is far more
deserving than when William first engaged her
hand; because she has evinced the goodness
of her heart and temper by good works, by usefulness—that
sure, and indeed to us, only test
of superior virtue, and the best criterion of superior
abilities. But yet, Miss Ashton, we must
not expect, though the opinions of men and the
condition of women have wonderfully, and happily
changed, during the last half century, yet
we must not expect that the fancy for female
beauty, which is fostered, if not in a great measure
inspired, by our literature, (recollect every
heroine, from Helen downwards, is painted
beautiful,) can be sufficiently etherealized, as
my Sophia would say, to prefer, without at least
an effort of reasoning, the graces of mind to the
graces of person. I know from my own feelings,
as well as from observation, that men are
extremely apt to pay homage to beauty. It is
true, young men of sense and education soon
grow weary of a fool, though ever so pretty,
too late. Such will probably be the fate of
William Forbes—but his folly and injustice deserve
punishment.'
`And so Miss Brooks must all her life be
confined to the drudgery of school keeping,'—
said Miss Ashton, compassionately. `I do
think keeping school must be the dullest thing
on earth To be mewed up, day after day,
conning A. B. C.—O, how I should detest
it! But it may be congenial employment to
the mind of an old maid.'
`I am intending my daughter Sophia to
commence the business soon,' observed Mr.
Bennett.
`What, that joyous girl, who is all song,
smiles and sportiveness? Why, to confine
her buoyant spirit in the prison of a school
room, would be as incongruous as for nature
to place nightingales in Lapland, or call forth
butterflies in January. She never will endure
it.'
`She is eager to attempt it,' replied Mr.
Bennett,—`and anticipates much pleasure in
the employment of school keeping.'
`Pleasure in school keeping!'—reiterated
the laughing Miss Ashton. `Whoever thought
of associating pleasure with school keeping!—
I know indeed ladies sometimes engage in it,
but I always supposed it was from necessity,
for the pecuniary compensation merely,—but
that cannot be your daughter's motive.'
`Neither is it now the motive of Elizabeth
Brooks. When she commenced instructing,
exertion. But Mrs. Brooks is no more. Elizabeth
has rich relations in Connecticut, who
would gladly support her, and indeed, who
urge her to reside with them. She does not
instruct from necessity.'
`It is very strange she should instruct from
choice,' observed the young lady.
`And why so strange?' returned Mr. Bennett.
`Do you, my dear Miss Ashton, never
connect pleasure with usefulness? I should
have said duty, but the word has been so often
and so foolishly, if not irreverently misapplied
I seldom use it. In my estimation, and I have
drawn my deductions, not from studies in the
closet, but observations in the world, usefulness
and pleasure are much oftener allied than
idleness and pleasure. By idleness I do not
mean doing nothing,—but being engaged in
frivolous pursuits only. There is a complacency
of mind that makes the heart glad and
the spirit buoyant—a feeling of gratification
which is happy without effort, and gay even
in solitude, that people who seek only their
own amusement never enjoy.'
`I am not sufficiently acquainted with Miss
Brooks to allow me to judge of her feelings,'
returned the lively Miss Ashton—`but the
loss of a lover is usually esteemed quite a serious
thing with us ladies. If she sustain her
disappointment with fortitude, I shall think
school keeping of some importance, and advise
every young lady to acquaint herself with the
business, so that an affair of the heart may not
your charming Sophia has nothing to fear
from fickle lovers.'
`She should fear then for herself,' returned
Mr. Bennett, seriously. `She should fear to
indulge that supineness which is passive vice,
if I may be allowed the term—because to be
actively useful, as far as our ability permits,
is the law of our being, the debt we owe for
the enjoyment of life, and whoever neglects to
fulfil the one and pay the other is guilty. The
world may say such people live very fashionably,
and very innocently—but they do not
enjoy the approbation of conscience, and they
cannot expect from Him whose favor is felicity,
the commendation `well done good and
faithful servant!' Yet I beg you will not think
I have compelled my daughter to engage as
an instructress. I have long since adopted
the opinion that to have good works meritorious,
they must be performed by a free agent.
I endeavour to point out to my children the
path of usefulness—I advise them to pursue
it; but I allow them to decide for themselves.
Sophia, however, for her decision of character
and activity of mind, is far more indebted to
the counsels and example of Miss Brooks than
to me. And I am proud and glad to acknowledge
this, because it is paying a deserved tribute
to merit, and moreover assists to establish
my favorite theory—namely, that the elevation
of female character must be achieved by
female talent and influence. We men may
frame systems of improvement, but it is the
mind to receive them.'
Here they were interrupted by the entrance
of Sophia Bennett, who came tripping in to tell
her father she had received the promised communication
from Miss Brooks. `And I was
never more delighted in my life,' continued the
laughing girl. `Do, my dear father, read it—
I am sure there is amusement in the description
of school keeping, however, dull the business
may be in actual performance.'
`Miss Brooks was requested by my daughter
to draw up some rules for her direction during
her first essay as an instructress,' said Mr.
Bennett, turning to Miss Ashton. `Miss Brooks
answered that she would willingly oblige her,
but that precise rules, applicable to the exigencies
of different schools, would be beyond her
ability—but that she would copy some notes,
taken during her first six months' experience in
teaching, which might give my daughter some
little idea of what would be expected from her
in her new vocation.'
`O, do pray allow me to hear the notes,' said
Miss Ashton.
`With pleasure,' returned Mr. Bennett.
`Here Sophia, you must read, I will explain,
and Miss Ashton may criticise; so there will
be business for us all.'
`I would ask to be excused from my task,'
said Miss Ashton, `only as I find you place so
high an estimate on industry, you will I suppose
easier pardon severity of remark than idleness.'
`But you must recollect the writer is a female,'
replied the good man—`and from the lips of her
own sex, should receive courtesy if not indulgence.
There is one consequence which I
sometimes fear may follow the cultivation of
literature, especially of authorship among women,
which would tend greatly to injure their
usefulness and happiness. It would be very
unfortunate, should those whose thoughts and
words ought to be kind, conciliating and
charitable, be, by their attainments incited to
a spirit of jealousy, envy and rivalry towards
each other. Indeed that lady of intelligence
who does not encourage female talent, must be
blind to her own interest. It is not in possessing
a genius superior to her sex, that makes the
true, the best glory of a woman, it is in using
her influence to elevate the female character.
We men do not want paragons or prodigies for
wives—but rational, refined, intelligent partners—the
former may engage our wonder, the
latter only will attract our love. And now, my
daughter, as I have prosed to the extent good
breeding will allow, although I have not half
exhausted the subject, we will listen to the letter
of Miss Brooks.'
Sophia's smile thanked her kind parent for
the interest he took in her plans and pleasures,
and she began.
`On examining my notes, my dear Miss Bennett,
I found they would be unintelligible to
you without some explanations; so by their aid
I have taxed my memory to give you a regular
history of my feelings, and the progress of my
I ever passed. I may well call them so, as
their effect has ever since operated on my
character and happiness; and probably will,
during life. It was on the first Monday in May,
18-, that I commenced my school, in a small
district in the town of—. I engaged in
it from necessity, and reluctantly enough to
make me quite nervous. I used to be nervous
in those days, or at least indulge my sensibility,
(the refined title for selfishness,) till it
made me very unreasonable, and very wretched;
for I had been indulged till the gratification
of my own wishes and whims, appeared to me
the most important thing on earth. But wealth
had fled, my dear father was no more, my mother
was unable to provide for her own wants,
and thus I was thrown upon my own resources.
I had never been acquainted with myself,
and notwithstanding I had a proud idea of my
own learning and accomplishments, yet no
sooner did I undertake to exercise, specifically,
my talents, than I shrunk from the task, and felt
dismay and discouragement. Those who have
been taught to estimate their acquirements
chiefly by the credit they acquire on days of
examination at school, and afternoons of display
before partial friends at home, have little
idea of any practically useful purpose to which
those accomplishments may be applied. But
for me, there was no discharge. I must either
use exertion, or live in dependence on my
mother's relatives. I was influenced in my
choice by reasons that doubtless to a philosopher,
if not excessively silly; yet they decided my
destiny. I will tell you the whole frankly, nor
do I now, in my days of reflection, and comparative
wisdom, feel disposed to tax myself
with egregious folly, because that in youth I
was guided by the impulses of my heart. The
passions, when virtuous in their objects of pursuit,
are as sure a guide to excellence and
happiness, as cool reason—indeed surer, and
far more efficient; because of the enthusiasm
they kindle, and the generosity they inspire.
It is a mistake to think that passion, or feeling,
is of itself censurable. When the soul is
most innocent, that is in youth, the passions
are most ardent. Why then, you will probably
inquire, is the suppression of passion always
so earnestly urged on the young? I
think, my dear Sophia, there is a mistake in
the terms used by those writers who most earnestly
inculcate the necessity of self control.
It is not the suppression of our feelings, but
their right direction that is needed to make us
perfect. The great Moralist, who `spake as
never man spake,' did not censure passion, or
its expression—he only sought to direct it to
worthy objects, and incite it to great sacrifices.
He purified and exalted but he encouraged—
love. We are not only to love our neighbour
as ourselves, but we must love our enemies—a
refinement, and generosity, and warmth of sentiment
which can only be compatible with a
pure mind and ardent heart. These remarks
are not intended to palliate any weakness of
I then cherished for W., was a weakness. Yet
what was, at that time, the innocency of
passion, would, if now indulged, be weak
or criminal. But my reasons—well—New
Hampshire was the residence of the friends of
William—I should there, oftener than in Connecticut,
hear of him and from him; and then
William had once said he thought the office of
instructress, an excellent one for young ladies;
it imparted a knowledge of the human
heart, he observed, which, in no other way
could they so well or so safely gain; and it
also gave dignity to the manners, and a decision
to the mind that were calculated to make
a woman more respected and more useful.
Another, and perhaps the most efficient reason
was this—I had a cousin where I was invited
to reside who had expressed more partiality
for me than his relationship would seem to dictate—I
feared a residence in his father's family
would give uneasiness to William Forbes.
I might, I see, have spared this detail of circumstances,
and said at once, that partiality
for the man I then expected to marry, was the
true reason which induced me to make those
exertions which have been crowned with success,
and I hope not deficient in that usefulness
which merits success. I have not mentioned
my mother, because she would, with
apparent cheerfulness, have yielded to the
solicitations of her friends and lived in dependence
on them; yet I know she was afterwards
far happier, in reflecting she owed her
industry.
My schoolhouse had been recently built,
and was scarcely finished, and moreover was
situated in a place which any young lady, romantic
or rational, might be pardoned for calling
horrid. In selecting this site, taste, if
such a principle was cultivated among the villagers,
had never been consulted. The only
requisite was, to fix precisely on the centre of
the district; and after measuring in every direction,
the centre had been discovered exactly
in the centre of a frog-pond. As near that
pond as safety would permit, stood the schoolhouse,
encircled with dwarf pines and spruce
bushes; and the prospect on every side, bounded
by woods or mountains, or ledges of rock.
Not a human habitation was in sight, and yet,
when I entered the school room, I found nearly
fifty children collected. Where the little
urchins could possibly live, or how they all
found their way to that wild looking place, was
then to me matter of astonishment. I have
since learned, how highly the privileges of a
free school are prized; and what exertions are
made by parents, to insure their little ones the
advantages of education. The first thing, of
course, was, to be introduced to my pupils, or
in other words, to learn their names. And
here commenced a ludicrous difficulty. The
names of these little rustics were so high
sounding and romantic, and generally so inappropriate
to the appearance of the children,
and their repetition awakened such associations,
in my own mind, that it was several days before
I could hear, or speak them without
laughing. I had all the presidents and great
men of America, to say nothing of foreign
heroes, before me, represented, in name
at least, by sunburnt, barefooted, curly-pated
boys; and all the heroines of romance and
song, in chubby cheeked, freckled, romping
girls—and a happy circumstance did I esteem
it, if only one four-syllable name was attached
to one individual. Ever since that time, I
have been an admirer of short, and as they
are usually called, simple, oldfashioned names.
But I was, on the whole, pleased with my
school. There was something very gratifying
in the sincere and affectionate homage these
happy and innocent little creatures rendered
to me. They had been taught to respect their
teacher, and think learning one of the finest
things they could possess; and I found them
tractable, and ambitious to excel. But the
unrestrained freedom of play when out of
school, and the variety and cheerfulness of
nature abroad, make confinement to the school
room, especially in the country, a far more
irksome restraint during summer, than any
other season of the year. I studied so to engross
and interest their minds, that they might
have no leisure for repining at the restrictions
I was compelled to impose, and I introduced
in consequence, some new arrangements; but
I found these innovations where watched with
a jealous eye by the parents. Yet no murmurs
two families—one sent no scholar, and the
other none excepting an idiot. I have usually
found those who have least interest in a school
the least likely to be satisfied with its management.
I boarded round, as they termed it, that
is, I boarded with every family in proportion to
the number of scholars they sent—and it was
amusing to see the pride of the parents and the
manner in which they managed to elicit from
me praises of their children. I believe I satisfied
them, certainly I was myself satisfied; for
nothing they could do to make me comfortable
and happy, was omitted. The best room, the
best bed, the best place at table, the best fare
the house afforded were considered the right
of the instructress of their children—and the
gratitude this treatment excited in my heart,
poor and dependent as I felt myself, raised in
me an ambition to deserve it, that doubtless
contributed much to make me industrious, and
to give me those habits of faithfulness in my
employment, which have been rewarded by success
and happiness. Yes, happiness, my dear
Sophia;—never allow your mind to cherish
that idea that happiness is necessarily dependent
on a particular event, or confined to any
particular station. It is true I did not then
expect, and probably should have been very
wretched to have expected, school keeping
would be my future business. I was young,
I had a lover—I read romances—could I be
otherwise than a little romantic? I was very
much so, and I confess, there where hours,
employment and situation. I looked on the
woods and rocks, and above all on the frog-pond
with disgust; and anticipated the time
when I should be at liberty to be happy. It
seemed so unsentimental for me to be wasting
my spirits and wearying myself to death, just
to please a set of people whom, but for a pecuniary
reward, I should never have known
had existed. But these feelings seldom lasted
long. My own heart told me I was acting
rightly. The still small voice, whose whisper
of approbation brings more `true joy' to the
bosom than the greetings of the million, confirmed
me, encouraged me to persevere. And
I was rewarded by the confidence and affection
of both parents and children. What a
pleasure is derived from knowing one's self
beloved! When I saw those little girls and
boys regarding me as their oracle, almost their
tutelary angel, you can scarcely imagine how
they interested me. Their chubby, sunburnt,
freckled faces, looked positively beautiful; and
I dearly loved the roguish, romping, but good
natured and happy creatures. I enjoyed exquisite
gratification in communicating knowledge
to their artless minds, and watching their
progress. The process greatly improved my
own understanding. While repeating and explaining
to them, I learned myself to reflect
and reason; and while advising and urging on
them the necessity of improvement, I became
more susceptible of the value of time, and
more anxious to improve. We parted with
lot has ever since been to dwell in pleasanter
places, and among more polished people, yet
I never think of those children, I never meet
them without gladness, they never see me
without testifying joy. Would these mutual
feelings always arise had we not enjoyed happiness,
such as the consciousness of acting
rightly and deserving it only imparts, while
together?'
`What do you think of the life of a schoolmistress?'
said Mr. Bennett.
`I am anxious to commence it,' said Sophia.
`I think it exquisite in description,' said Miss
Ashton, `especially for those ladies who have
talents that they wish to employ and improve.
But this you know sir, must not be expected
from every young lady. Some there are of
my acquaintance, who possess genius and imagination,
play and sing divinely, dance charmingly
and dress elegantly, but the reasoning of
Socrates would never convince them they could
live contentedly, indeed live at all, in the vicinity
of a frog-pond!'
`Ay, there's the rub,' said Mr. Bennett. `Accidental
circumstances connected with an employment,
give us an aversion to it, before we
have by experience ascertained how easy it is
to surmount such difficulties, and how trifling
they appear when once the mind is intent on
what it considers important. It is this which
makes it so necessary to obtain the sanction of
fashion for whatever we wish to make popular,
because then the attainment only is regarded—
Do you not think, Miss Ashton, those young
ladies you mention, while acquiring their
knowledge of music, submitted to restraints as
irksome as school keeping would impose?'
`Undoubtedly—but that was to acquire an
indispensable accomplishment.'
`Yes, according to the standard of fashion—
but I anticipate the time, when our ladies will
not be prized solely for possessing accomplishments,
but for improving them—when the
waste and wild places of our country, will all
be cultivated and beautified, by the industry
and taste of the men, and the minds of our people
refined, and intelligent, and liberal, by the
united exertions of the pure, and pious, and
enlightened of both sexes. In short, when it
will become fashionable for young ladies to be
usefully, rather than romantically active; and
then the sight of a frog-pond would no more
deter them from engaging in a school, than
would the joltings, privations, and fatigue they
must endure, prevent them now from taking a
trip to the White Hills, or a tour to Niagara.'
Ten years after Mr. Bennett had thus philosophized
to these gay girls, they again met at
his house. They were both happily married,
both had children; and Elizabeth Brooks, still
following the vocation she had chosen, was the
instructress they both preferred. She was almost
adored by her pupils, and respected and
beloved like a relative by their parents; and
the placidity of her countenance, and cheerfulness,
even vivacity of her manners, was a proof
as well as useful. She also was on a visit
to the clergyman.
`I have lately received a letter from my
nephew, William Forbes,' remarked Mr. Bennett.
`He is, I find, a widower.'
The married ladies glanced at Elizabeth,
but her countenance was unchanged.
`He says he shall be here in the course of a
few months, if he can learn whether a certain
lady who first engaged his affections is at liberty,
and would receive him favorably,' continued
the clergyman.
The married ladies both smiled, and a slight
color was perceptible on the mild, chastened
features of Elizabeth.
`He says,' continued the clergyman, `he
has fortune, fame, friends, all that is necessary
to make him happy, except the consciousness
of rectitude, which, since violating his engagement
with Elizabeth, he has never enjoyed,—
and a partner to share his confidence and prosperity.
He acknowledges his fault, but thinks
he has already been sufficiently punished.
The lady he married was beautiful, and he was
dazzled by her charms, till he forgot, or rather
relinquished his first love; but his wife never
made him happy. He does not accuse her of
imperfections, only remarks that they were unequally
matched; that there never was, that
there could not be, between them that communion
of mind, to which he had always been
accustomed in his intercourse with Miss
Brooks. He was not himself aware, how
till he had forfeited it. He entreats
me to intercede for him.'
`What answer did Elizabeth give?'
The subject was under discussion all the afternoon.
The married ladies advised her to
accept the offer of her penitent lover—they
probably expected an invitation to the wedding.
The good clergyman told her to consult her
own heart, and those excellent principles that
had so nobly and effectually supported her
under every vicissitude. But he hinted how
much pleasure it would give him to see her
married to a worthy man; indeed, he said he
should like to pronounce the nuptial benediction
himself.
`What answer did Elizabeth give?'
I intend, hereafter, to sketch the character
of William Forbes, and then the propriety of
the answer which Elizabeth did give, will be
apparent. Till then, every lady and gentleman,
who does me the honor to read these
`Sketches,' is at liberty to form and express
their own opinion on the subject.
| THE
VILLAGE SCHOOLMISTRESS. Sketches of American character | |