University of Virginia Library

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

Lilly's Euphues.

Among the worthies of the village that enjoy
the peculiar confidence of Master Simon, is one
who has struck my fancy so much, that I have
thought him worthy of a separate notice. It is
Slingsby, the schoolmaster; a thin elderly man,
rather threadbare and slovenly; somewhat indolent
in manner, and with an easy good humoured
look, not often met with in his craft. I have
been interested in his favour by a few anecdotes
which I have picked up concerning him.

He is a native of the village, and was a contemporary

and playmate of Ready Money Jack's,
in the days of their boyhood. Indeed, they carried
on a kind of league of mutual good offices.
Slingsby was rather puny, and withall somewhat
of a coward; but very apt at his learning: Jack,
on the contrary, was a bullyboy out of doors,
but a sad laggard at his books. Slingsby helped
Jack therefore to all his lessons, and Jack fought
all Slingsby's battles, and they were inseparable
friends. This mutual kindness continued even
after they left the school, notwithstanding the
dissimilarity of their characters. Jack took to
ploughing and reaping, and prepared himself to
till his paternal acres; while the other loitered
negligently on in the path of learning, until he
penetrated even into the confines of Latin and
mathemathics. In an unlucky hour, however,
he took to reading voyages and travels, and was
smitten with a desire to see the world. This
desire increased upon him as he grew up. So,
early one bright sunny morning, he put all his
effects in a knapsack, slung it on his back, took
staff in hand, and called in his way to take leave
of his early schoolmate. Jack was just going
out with the plough; the friends shook hands
over the farm house gate; Jack drove his team
a-field, and Slingsby whistled “over the hills
and far away,” and sallied forth gayly to “seek
his fortune.”

Years and years passed by, and young Tom
Slingsby was forgotten; when, one mellow Sunday
afternoon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat
advanced in life, with a coat out at elbows,
a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a few things
tied in a handkerchief and slung on the end of
a stick, was seen loitering through the village.
He appeared to regard several houses attentively,
to peer into the windows that were open,
to eye the villagers wistfully as they returned
from church, and then to pass some time in the
church-yard reading the tomb-stones.

At length he found his way to the farm house
of Ready Money Jack, but paused ere he attempted
the wicket; contemplating the picture
of substantial independence before him. In
the porch of the house sat Ready Money Jack,

in his Sunday dress; with his hat upon his head,
his pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before
him, the “monarch of all he surveyed.” Beside
him lay his fat house dog. The varied sounds
of poultry were heard from the well stocked
farm yard, the bees hummed from their hives in
the garden, the cattle lowed in the rich meadow;
while the crammed barns and ample stacks bore
proof of an abundant harvest.

The stranger opened the gate and advanced
dubiously toward the house. The mastiff growled
at the sight of him, but was immediately
silenced by his master; who, taking his pipe
from his mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect
the address of this equivocal personage. The
stranger eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly
in his dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous
apparel; then cast a glance upon his own threadbare
and starveling condition and the scanty
bundle which he held in his hand; then giving
his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make it meet
his receding waistband, and casting another
look, half sad, half humorous, at the sturdy

yeoman.—“I suppose,” said he, “Mr. Tibbets,
you have forgot old times and old playmates.”

The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing
look, but acknowledged that he had no recollection
of him.

“Like enough, like enough,” said the
stranger, “every body seems to have forgotten
poor Slingsby.”

“Why no, sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby!”

“Yes, but it is, though,” replied the other,
shaking his head.

Ready Money Jack was on his feet in a
twinkling; thrust out his hand; gave his ancient
crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the
other hand on a bench, “sit down there,” cried
he, “Tom Slingsby!”

A long conversation ensued about old times,
while Slingsby was regaled with the best cheer
that the farm house afforded; for he was hungry
as well as wayworn, and had the keen appetite
of a poor pedestrian. The early playmates
then talked over their lives and adventures.
Jack had but little to relate, and was never good

at a long story. A prosperous life, passed at
home, has little incident for narration; it is only
poor devils that are tossed about the world that
are the true heroes of story. Jack had stuck by
the paternal farm; followed the same plough that
his forefathers had driven, and had waxed richer
and richer as he grew older. As to Tom Slingsby,
he was an exemplification of the old proverb,
“a rolling stone gathers no moss.” He had
sought his fortune about the world without ever
finding it; being a thing oftener found at home
than abroad. He had been in all kinds of situations;
had learnt a dozen different modes of making
a living; but had found his way back to
his native village rather poorer than when he
left it; his knapsack having dwindled down into
a scanty bundle.

As luck would have it, the Squire was passing
by the farm house that very evening, and
called there as is often his custom. He found
the two schoolmates still gossiping in the porch,
and, according to the good old Scottish song,
“taking a cup of kindness yet for auld lang

syne.” The Squire was struck by the contrast
in appearance and fortunes of these early
playmates. Ready Money Jack, seated in lordly
state, surrounded by the good things of this
life, with golden guineas hanging to his very
watch chain, and the poor pilgrim, Slingsby,
thin as a weazel, with all his worldly effects—
his bundle, hat, and walking staff, lying on the
ground beside him.

The good Squire's heart warmed towards the
cosmopolite; for he is a little prone to like such
half vagrant kind of characters. He cast about
in his mind how he should contrive once more to
anchor Slingsby in his native village. Honest
Jack had already offered him a present shelter
under his roof, in spite of the hints, and winks,
and half remonstrances of the shrewd Dame Tibbets;
but how to provide for his permanent
maintenance, was the question. Luckily the
Squire bethought himself that the village school
was without a teacher. A little farther conversation
convinced him that Slingsby was
as fit for that as for any thing else; and

in a day or two he was seen swaying the rod of
empire in the very school-house where he had
often been horsed in the days of his boyhood.

Here he has remained for several years, and
being honoured by the countenance of the Squire,
and the fast friendship of Mr. Tibbets, he has
grown into much importance and consideration
in the village. I am told, however, that he still
shows, now and then, a degree of restlessness,
and a disposition to rove abroad again and see a
little more of the world ; an inclination which
seems particularly to haunt him about spring
time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer
as the vagrant humour, when once it has been
fully indulged.

Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor
Slingsby, I have more than once mused upon
the picture presented by him and his schoolmate,
Ready Money Jack, on their coming together
again after so long a separation. It is difficult
to determine between lots in life, where each is
attended with its peculiar discontents. He who
never leaves his home repines at his monotonous

existence, and envies the traveller whose life is a
constant tissue of wonder and adventure; while
he who is tossed about the world looks back with
many a sigh on the safe and quiet shore which
he has abandoned. I cannot help thinking,
however, that the man that stays at home and
cultivates the comforts and pleasures daily springing
up around him, stands the best chance for
happiness. There is nothing so fascinating to a
young mind as the idea of travelling, and there
is very witchcraft in the old phrase found in
every nursery tale, of “going to seek one's fortune.”
A continual change of place and change
of object promises a continual succession of adventure
and gratification of curiosity. But there
is a limit to all our enjoyments, and every desire
bears its death in its very gratification. Curiosity
languishes under repeated stimulants;
novelties cease to excite surprise, until at length
we cannot wonder even at a miracle. He who
has sallied forth into the world like poor Slingsby,
full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon
how different the distant scene becomes when
visited. The smooth place roughens as he approaches;
the wild place becomes tame and barren;
the fairy tints that beguiled him on, still fly
to the distant hill, or gather upon the land he
has left behind, and every part of the landscape is
greener than the spot he stands on.