University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

On repairing to his school-house, the next morning, for the
purpose of commencing his winter's task, Amsden unexpectedly
found, among the pupils there assembled, and awaiting
his coming, one whose appearance instantly attracted his attention,
and awakened in his bosom a lively and peculiar
interest. This was no other than Mary Maverick, the dependent
orphan, who, on Dr. Lincoln's warrant of having a
qualified teacher, had nobly braved the ridicule of her fashionable
cousins, and the sneers of their arrogant professor,
and come here to pursue those studies and receive that
instruction which her own excellent judgment told her would
most truly accomplish her, not only for the duties, but for
the elegancies of life. Often did the former, during the
forenoon, while engaged in ascertaining the intended studies
of the different portions of his school, and arranging his
classes, detect his attracted vision stealing in half-involuntary
glances to the face of his fair pupil. He felt a vague
though deepening impression that he had seen that remarkable
countenance before; but it was rather a sensation of the
heart than a recollection of the mind; for where or when
he could have seen her, his taxed memory refused to inform
him. And every effort he made to form a conclusion on the
subject but added to his perplexity. Nor did the object of
his mental inquiry herself seem wholly at ease in her position.

There was a sort of tell-tale consciousness about her
looks that bespoke either an actual recognition, or a dilemma
no less pleasant than his own. Could it be that this was the
sprightly little daughter of the interesting stranger, whose
call at his father's, in former years, had left such an impression
on his mind, and given such a turn to his destinies? He
thought it not probable; for between that fairy little being,
whose image, as she then in her child-like simplicity appeared,
had ever been brightly pictured on his mind — and the
sweetly dignified young lady before him, his thoughts could
find no resemblance which would warrant him in determining
on their identity. And yet, though his mind dared not entertain
the pleasing thought, his heart continued to whisper, that,
however great the transformation, they were one and the
same. In this state of delicate embarrassment, he suffered
himself to remain through the day. He might, as he well
knew, have easily resolved his doubts, by conversing with
her, and making some allusions to former circumstances.
But, absurd as it may appear, the very solicitude he felt on
the subject prevented him from doing this, or even going so
far, in this respect, as his duties as her teacher perhaps required.
And when he dismissed his school at night, he was
not only ignorant of what he was most anxious to know respecting
his interesting pupil, but he had not even ascertained
her name.

After taking supper at his boarding-house, at which he had
now taken up his quarters, our hero took occasion, with what
secret motives we will not pretend to decide, to call at the
house of Dr. Lincoln.

“Ah, ha! my friend,” exclaimed the doctor, gaily, as the
other entered; “I am glad to see you; for I wish to ask you
what you think of the condition of your numerous family.”

“Rather low, as you intimated yesterday, but by no means
hopeless, I trust, doctor,” replied Amsden, in the same strain.

“Well, I am gratified to hear you say even so much.
But did my phœnix make her appearance there to-day?”

“Who, sir?”

“O, the young lady at Carter's — his niece, whom you
heard me mention last night as likely to attend.”

“There was a young lady at school to-day, who I thought
might be the one to whom you alluded; but I did not learn
her name.”

“Not learn her name!”

“No; you did not mention it, and a teacher cannot often
ascertain all the names of his pupils in one day. But who
is she?”

“It is rather curious that a young gentleman should let a
whole day pass, under such circumstances, without ascertaining
who such a girl as Mary Maverick is,” replied the doctor
with a surprised and somewhat incredulous look; “but I
will tell you. She is the only child of Col. Maverick, the
gentleman who, as I was naming to you yesterday, married
the present Mr. Carter's only sister, lost his wife, failed, and
finally went to South America by my advice, to repair his
shattered health and fortunes — particularly the former; as
I thought I detected, in his ill-health, indications of an approaching
consumption, which another winter's residence in
our climate, I was fearful, would develope. It was ascertained
that he left the port at which he arrived, for the interior
of Brazil, since which he has never been heard from. He
doubtless there fell a prey to disease, or perished in the civil
wars by which that country was then distracted.”

“How many years ago was this?” asked the other, with
assumed indifference.

“Six years, the coming May, I believe — yes, it was in
May that he left here. He had been the superintendent of
a factory, in a village about an hundred miles to the south of
this, where the year previous he had resided, having taken

his daughter with him to attend a school in the place. He
returned with her early in the spring, and, leaving her in the
care of her uncle, departed, never to return.”

“Where she has ever since remained, I suppose?” said
Locke, who, though now satisfied of the identity he had been
secretly trying to establish, was yet reluctant to let the subject
drop.

“Yes, to be sure,” replied Lincoln, throwing an inquiring
look at the other; “yes, she has remained in that family, it
is true; but she has not been spoiled for all that, — if such
is an answer to what I take to be the drift of your question.
No, the father was a man of high qualities, both of head and
heart; and the daughter — but I shall leave you to find that
out, Amsden, as you soon will — unless,” he banteringly
added, “unless the progress you have made in her acquaintance
to-day is to be taken as a fair sample of the future.”

Amsden now was quite willing to let the subject rest; and,
after some further conversation on indifferent topics, he bade
the other good night, and departed.

On entering his school-room the next morning, a little before
the usual time of opening his school, Amsden was
agreeably surprised to find the fair object of his yesterday's
solicitude already there, engaged upon her studies. Feeling
himself now, by the discoveries he had made last evening,
measurably relieved from the embarrassment which had kept
him aloof the day before, he no longer hesitated to approach
her, pay his respects, and make inquiries respecting the
studies she proposed to pursue. His advances being here
met with unaffected kindness and respectful courtesy, he soon
ventured to allude to the circumstance of their former meeting,
at his father's; and he felt not a little gratified and flattered
to find that all the little incidents connected with that
brief visit were fresh in her recollection. She had even
learned his subsequent history, almost to the present time,

from a mutual acquaintance of both, who had formerly attended
Seaver's academy. An understanding being thus
effected between them, not only as regarded the relations of
teacher and pupil, but in the more delicate ties of a friendship
based on reciprocal respect, and the kindly remembrances
and prepossessions of the past, it were, perhaps,
almost needless to say how happy our hero became in his
situation. His duties, as arduous as they were, seemed light
and pleasant in the bright presence in which they were continually
performed. And if her presence alone could thus
sweeten his labors with others, how delightful the task of
imparting instruction to her, — to her whose mind, as he soon
found, was fully capable of appreciating his own, and whose
proficiency in the sciences awakened his admiration! And
with what pleasure did he, each day, look forward to the
peaceful, intellectual hour, which, after the dismissal of the
main part of his scholars, he usually devoted to her, and a
few others, whom her noble example soon brought into school!
To him this duty became a privilege, and a privilege which
afforded him all the happiness his heart desired.

With regard to the general character and condition of the
school of which he had taken charge, Amsden found matters
much as his employer had represented. In the government
of his school — so far, at least, as respected a disposition to
acknowledge and obey his authority generally — he experienced,
it is true, no difficulty with his pupils. For it having
not been any part of their ambition to bully their masters,
and having been accustomed to the discipline of those whose
chief object seemed to have been to govern rather than to
instruct, they appeared to expect, with all their trifling and
restlessness, that order would be enforced, and they must
yield to its requisitions. But with this negative virtue ended
all that was promising or commendable in the appearance of
the school. The scholars, though they had been kept at

school, perhaps two thirds of the time, for years, were yet
extremely deficient — in any correct knowledge, at least —
of the most common rudiments of learning. They had,
many of them, gone over much ground, indeed; but they had
acquired but little correctly, and less understandingly. And
it was still with the utmost difficulty that they were restrained
from running over whole pages for a lesson, when perhaps
as many sentences would be more than they would have
thoroughly mastered. Besides this, the common vice of our
schools, especially village schools, the scholars seemed to
have little or no relish for their studies, and as little ambition
to excel in them.

Although this unpromising condition of the school was, as
before intimated, directly attributable to the mismanagement
of unqualified or unfaithful teachers, there was yet another
circumstance, which had not only, in a great measure, probably,
remotely caused the whole evil, by leading to the employing
of such teachers in the first place, but which continued
to operate with the most unfavorable effect on the
advancement of the pupils. This was the total neglect with
which the whole subject was treated by the inhabitants of
the district, who, as is too often the case, rarely troubled
their heads even to inquire about the school, much less to
visit it.

With all these obstacles before him, it was some time before
Amsden, with all his tact and perseverance, could succeed
in confining his pupils to methods of study which promised
any real improvement. And if he succeeded in doing that,
he found it no less difficult to excite in them an interest in
their studies sufficient to insure an application productive of
any important results.

At length, however, by extraordinary exertions, he so far
overcame the difficulties with which he had to contend, as
to command the attention of his pupils, and to raise, in

most of them, some little ambition to press forward in the
path of improvement. But, aware that much remained to
be done, and being sensible at the same time that but few
scholars will long persevere in attempts which the exertions
of a teacher, only, have induced them to make, unless they
expect their labors will be rewarded by the encouragement
and approbation of those to whom they are in the habit of
looking for every thing else in life, his next step was to enlist
the interest of the parents in his school, and thus secure
their cooperation in bringing about the desired object. With
this end in view, he at first made an effort to induce the
parents and guardians of the district to make individual visits
to his school. But, meeting with no other success in this
attempt than what consisted of promises, reluctantly given
and invariably broken, he next determined to appoint a particular
day for the reception of visiters, and to prepare his
scholars for going through such interesting exercises on the
occasion, as should furnish an additional inducement for the
invited, at least, to attend. In pursuance of this plan, he
fixed on a future day for what he concluded to call a public
examination of his school. And, having caused information
of the appointment to be spread through the neighborhood,
he began to make arrangements for the purpose among his
pupils, and to exhort them to the use of such diligence in
their studies as should enable them to acquit themselves
creditably before the expected assemblage. Incited afresh
by the thought of displaying their acquisitions before their
parents and others, or fearful of exposing their deficiences,
the scholars, with almost one accord, betook themselves
eagerly to their respective studies. And, in the two weeks
that intervened before the day of the proposed examination,
they had made such progress that their teacher began really
to feel very proud of his school.

As the appointed day drew near, Amsden, to make doubly

sure of a general attendance, was at the pains of calling on
most of the parents and guardians of his pupils, to remind
them of the time when the contemplated performances were
to take place, and to urge them to be present. And so well
did he prosper in obtaining individual promises of attendance,
that he supposed there could be, this time, scarcely a possibility
of a failure. His scholars, in the mean time, were full
of ambition. He seemed to have succeeded, at last, in
infusing into them a portion of his own spirit and enthusiasm
for learning. Every thing went swimmingly on; and he
felt himself justified in looking forward with certainty to the
brightest results from the operation of his plan. But, alas!
alas for the blindness and guilty neglect of the public, on a
point so important to interests which we should hold, above
all things, dear! We will not, however, anticipate.

The eventful day at length arrived; and our hero, having
risen and breakfasted, left his lodgings for the scene of his
daily labors, that morning, in high spirits. Every thing, thus
far, seemed auspicious to his undertaking. On his way to
his school-house, however, his attention was attracted by
numerous hand-bills, posted on the doors, corners, and all
other conspicuous places in the streets, announcing in staring
capitals, for that evening, the wonderful exhibitions of the
far-famed Potter, a professed juggler of those times, who
proposed, in the present instance, as usual, to display the astonishing
feats of swallowing swords and jack-knives, hatching
chickens, frying eggs in his hat, together with an endless
variety of other feats never before exhibited, but all equally
miraculous. Performances to commence, in order to do full
justice to the public, at the early hour of three o'clock, P. M.

As Amsden's examination was to begin only an hour before
the time fixed on for opening these shows, and be resumed in
the evening, for which the most interesting exercises, such as
the reading of original compositions, declamations, and the

speaking of a few select dialogues, were reserved, — it barely
occurred to him that the coincidence might possibly be
perhaps a little unlucky, as a very few unthinking persons,
who otherwise might come to swell his audience, would, likely
enough, be led away to witness the trumpery tricks of the
juggler. But, supposing that no people of sense and character
would do this, and especially that no parents would
think of putting such pitiful shows in competition with the
praiseworthy performances of their own children, when connected
with a subject of such vital interest to them, he felt
no uneasiness from the circumstance. And, very philosophically
consoling himself with the thought that the presence
of the few who would thus desert him would be no object,
and that, after all, the poor mountebank, who would doubtless
be the greatest loser in the rivalry for spectators, would
have the most reason to complain, he dismissed the subject
from his mind, and passed on unconcernedly to his school-house.
But, on opening his school, some doubts of a different
character soon began to rise in his mind. Though
he had no fears that the attendance of his audience would
be materially endangered by the presence of these shows,
yet he knew not but the excitement they would occasion
among the boys of the village might distract the minds of
his pupils, and cause them to acquit themselves less honorably
than they would otherwise. For he was not long in
discovering in them an unusual lack of interest respecting
the performances in which they were in the afternoon to engage.
A portion of them appeared too much excited to confine
their minds to their tasks; others appeared absent, and
yet others seemed wholly indifferent about preparing themselves
for their allotted parts. Some other object of interest,
in short, was obviously getting uppermost in their minds.
And so great, indeed, was their listlessness, that their instructor
at length began to entertain serious apprehensions that
many of them, even those who had all along given the most
evidence of improvement, would appear to great disadvantage
in the approaching exercises. Nor did these unfavorable
appearances at all improve as the morning wore away.
At the recess of the boys, parts of exclamatory sentences,
such as “real live chickens!” — “great sharp swords, handle
and all!” frequently reached Amsden's ear from excited
groups that were eagerly discussing the subject near the
door; and on passing round among the seats just vacated, he
saw the word Potter written on this slate, Potter on that copy-book,
and Potter, with his hat full of chickens, pictured out
on the wall.

On returning to his school, after the usual intermission at
noon, he found matters even worse than he had left them.
The first boy he called up to read, after being shown his
place, which he had forgotten, commenced, “B-a — yes, a —
k-e-r,” and stopped short.

“And what does that spell?” said his master, giving him
an impatient jog, to recall his wandering ideas to the subject,
“what does that spell, sir?”

“Potter!”

“What?”

“Potter — baker, I mean, but I was thinking” —

And so it was with most of them: their eyes might be
upon their books, but their heads were full of Potter and his
kickshaws.

All this looked rather ominous, to be sure; and Locke
began to tremble for the credit of his pupils: but, believing
they would be brought to their senses by the presence of the
company, now shortly to assemble, he restrained his anxieties,
and awaited, as patiently as he could, the hour set for
commencing the exercises, and the arrival of the spectators.

Two o'clock at length came, but with it no company. At
half-past two it was still the same; and the anxious teacher,

now becoming really alarmed on a point on which before he
had not suffered himself to entertain a single doubt, began
to glance uneasily through the windows, and keep an eager
ear listening for the approach of footsteps at the door. But
he looked and listened in vain. Another hour came and
passed, and yet not a single individual of all the expected
audience made his appearance!

By this time, most of the scholars began to be restless,
and show sundry other symptoms of impatience. The hour
for opening the shows had come and gone. They were evidently
thinking of this, and as evidently longing to be gone
themselves. Locke, at the time previously set for the purpose,
had commenced his examination, and thus far continued
on with it, in the most unimportant parts of the exercises;
but the business dragged every moment more and more
heavily, and it now became obvious that the school could
not much longer be kept together. First, one would ask to
be dismissed; then, another; then, a third and fourth. And
if refused, or put off, they would not sit five minutes without
repeating their request; alleging, in many instances, that they
had leave of their parents for so doing. Finding he might as
well argue to the winds, as to a school in such a state — seeing,
indeed, that it was wholly useless to attempt to proceed
with the exercises, and having now no hope of any company,
if he should, he reluctantly concluded to yield to the necessity
of the case; and, calling up his scholars, he dismissed them
till the next morning, without saying a word in comment.
And no sooner was the welcome word pronounced, than the
whole tribe, bursting out into an exulting whorah! hastily
seized their caps, hats, &c., and rushed into the street, on
their way for Potter's, where their more childish parents had
gone before them — leaving their unregarded teacher to return
home, more vexed, more chagrined, and more truly discouraged,
than he had ever felt in the whole course of his life.

The next morning, on his way to his school, Locke encountered
his friend and employer, Dr. Lincoln, and related to
him the mortifying occurrences of the day previous.

“Your story, Mr. Amsden,” said the doctor, “involves a
satire upon us, which should well make us blush. Sensible
of the importance of your most praiseworthy attempt, I was
not only inteding to go myself, but rally others; and an unexpected
summons to a distant patient only prevented me from
so doing. But, as provoking and truly discouraging as this
affair must have been to you, do not allow yourself to despair.”

“I shall not, of bettering my school in some measure; but
what hope can I have of making it what it should be, while
parents so plainly tell their children that they hold their improvement
in science of less importance than the tricks of a
juggler? Did they not so tell them yesterday? For, as
somebody most truly says,

“True, true to the letter; and the sarcasm is richly deserved,
though those to whom it applies are less conscious of
their fault, I presume, than you imagine. Are you not expecting
too much from poor human nature, especially here,
where so many circumstances have long combined to blind
people to the importance of popular education, and the best
methods of promoting it? Men are generally more inclined
to go where Folly leads than where Wisdom points. And
here they have so long trod in the path of the former, that
their blindness, on the point in question, has become chronic,
and cannot be cured in a day. Your exertions will not have
been lost on your school. Something has been gained in acquirement,
something towards fixing good habits of study —
all help. You must still persevere; and though it may not
be expedient to renew your yesterday's attempt at present,
you yet shall have my aid in trying to get parents and pupils

mutually interested, as well by my occasional visits, as by my
influence to procure the visits and enlist the interest of others.
Yes, persevere; and, while you do so, remember that
our village is not the only one guilty of the same faults.
Our country schools are before those of our villages, in regard
to the interest taken in them by both parents and children.
In our country schools, a good degree of interest in
learning is felt, and the pupils do learn; though, through the
incompetency of their teachers, they too often learn error.
But our village pupils do not even learn that. How important,
then, that our schools, both in town and country, be, for
different reasons, wholly revolutionized? And you, sir, are
the man to begin the revolution.”

“But what can I do towards such a work, supported as I
am, and shall be, by the public, in the undertaking?”

“A good deal. While your persevering labors will eventually
reform one school, you will be setting an example that
will be surely, if slowly, operating upon others. And while
doing this, you may enjoy the proud consciousness that you
are doing more to perpetuate the liberties of your country,
than the arrogating congress-man, who is spouting wind to
the tune of eight dollars per day.”

The judicious and spirited remarks of Lincoln were not
without their effect on the kindred mind of young Amsden.
He had long entertained similar views himself, and had laid
out his course with reference to them. But he was by no
means prepared for the obstacles and discouragements by
which he found his path beset; and he was beginning to look
on the prospect before him with a cold and doubtful eye.
The wise and timely counsels of his employer, however, encouraged
and reässured him, and he again returned with
patient determination to his task. He now found, indeed,
that patience and determination were alike needed by him,
while trying to revive, in his pupils, the interest and ambition

which he had succeeded in raising in them, previous to the
failure of the little plan we have described. For, although
the juggler and his shows, now they had seen them, had lost
their charms, yet the course taken by their parents seemed
to have removed all inducement to any future exertion. Instead
of the pride which they had been told by their instructor
those parents would feel, on seeing them acquit themselves
well — instead of the praises they would get, they had seen
their exertions pass unrewarded by either the praise or the
presence of a single individual. And they were not slow in
drawing the disheartening inference. For all this, the untiring
efforts of our schoolmaster, directly applied, and the many
pleasant little devices and amusing exercises that he contrived
to get up, illustrative of the different branches he was
teaching, and at the same time instructive in themselves, at
length began to produce their effects in awakening some degree
of the spirit desired. Dr. Lincoln and his lady several
times visited the school, and their example was soon followed
by some others, who seemed to think, that, under the sanction
of so respectable a precedent, it would now possibly do to be
seen in a common school. These visits much contributed
also to encourage the instructor, and give efficiency to his
exertions. And he finally had the happiness of seeing his
school, if not all that he could have wished it, at least in a
highly prosperous condition.

But although Amsden had at last found himself in a fair
way of surmounting the obstacles that had here impeded his
success as a teacher merely, yet there were, in the mean
time, other trials attending his situation, which he was left to
experience, and which he felt none the less keenly, for being
compelled to endure them in silence. If the neglect and
lack of interest which the inhabitants had exhibited towards
his school had caused him so much chargin and disappointment,
it is natural to suppose that a still greater neglect of

himself, in all those little courtesies and marks of respect
which are usually extended to all respectable members of
society, would not long escape his notice, or fail to make him
feel unpleasantly.

There had been in the village, during the winter, a continued
round of fashionable parties, some for the lively dance,
but most of them for social converse, the occasional song, and
such other light diversions as are usually introduced on these
occasions. To these parties, all, of any thing like fair standing,
had, in turn, been invited. Spruce mechanics and their
journeymen frequently received their invitations; the pert
merchant's clerk was sure to be remembered; even Locke's
older pupils were not neglected, and sometimes, indeed, they
were sought out and invited before his face. But nobody
remembered the poor schoolmaster. Nobody seemed to be
aware that he was born with social feelings, or that he had
any sort of claim to mingle in society, like other people; and,
throughout the whole, he was never complimented with a
single invitation.

At first he did not pay any attention to this circumstance;
or, if he did, he concluded it arose from some excusable inadvertence.
But, being generally apprised of these assemblages,
the next day after their occurrence, when he was
often asked why he had not attended, the constant repetition
of the neglect at length forced itself upon his observation,
and caused him more pain than he would have been willing
to confess. Let it not be supposed, however, that the unpleasant
feelings he thus experienced arose from the disappointment
of any particular wish he had to mingle in fashionable
society. For, believing with his favorite poet, that

he felt conscious that he should have little relish for its frivolities
and amusements. No, it was not this that disquieted
him; but it was the inference, the unavoidable inference,
which he drew from the circumstance, that caused the pang;
awakening reflections as wounding to his sensibilities, as they
were discouraging to his prospects, in the path of life he had
marked out for himself. And what was this inference?
Dit it grow out of the narrow jealousy that there was any
thing relating to his manners, his person, or his poverty, that
had shut him out of society? By no means; for his dress
was good, his person what few could boast of, and his manners
— he had no manners, he never tried to form any,
but was wisely content with the unsophisticated demeanor
of his childhood, which let his native benevolence, his kind
and cheerful disposition, his strong sense and ready perception,
shine out undisguised and clearly, and find their way,
as they did, to every heart not foolishly shut by the conventional
restrictions of modern society; while they imparted to
his appearance an ease and dignity that fitted him for every
company. No, it was nothing of that kind. It was the low
estimation in which, he could not but perceive, the occupation
of the common teacher was held by the public; an estimation,
which, besides depriving that teacher of half the very
influence he is expected to exercise over the minds of the
young, virtually ostracises him from society, and leads even
parents to place him whom they intrust to form the minds
and characters of their own children for life — to place him,
unconsciously, we hope — upon a level with the servants of
their kitchens and the grooms of their stables!

Such were the difficulties, such the trials, which our school-master
was doomed to experience. But is the example,
which his case exhibits, a solitary one? Let the public
answer; and, if in the negative, let them reflect on the consequences
of suffering this state of things to remain for ever.

How well and justly was all this appreciated by the good and
charming Cowper:—