 | CHAPTER X. Locke Amsden, The schoolmaster |  |
10. CHAPTER X.
Let us wake the spiteful jest
And malignant sneer: how clever
'T is to mar another's rest!
But this with rage I've often noted
When they let our shafts alone,
Back they bound all double-bolted,
And, except ourselves, hurt none.”
Malice and Envy, Poetic Dialogue. —Perrin.
The author's task now draws to its conclusion; and, from
what we fear will have been deemed by many as but the dry
and unromantic scenes of a schoolmaster's usually monotonous
life, we will turn to others, of a somewhat varied and more
exciting character, at once preluding the little denouement
of our story, and leading to an unexpected change in the apparent
destiny of its hero, which called him from his present
limited field of laudable exertion, to one where the same
noble objects could be pursued with more extended usefulness.
One evening, while the situation of affairs remained as we
last described them, Amsden walked out, after supper, for the
purpose of visiting a sick pupil, the daughter of very poor
but worthy parents, living in a wretched abode, near the out-skirts
of the village. On entering the house, he was no less
gratified than surprised to find his fair favorite, Mary Maverick,
standing by the pillow of the invalid, soothingly ministering
to her necessities and comforts. A slight tinge of
color overspread her sweetly eloquent countenance, as, inviting
at seeing him so mindful of the situation of their
suffering friend. We said a slight tinge of color — it was
so; but not the blush of shame at being found in a hovel, to
which, unknown to the proud and fashionable family of which
she was a member, she had come to bring some little delicacies
of her own preparing for the sick girl. On rising to
depart, she proffered still further assistance to the girl's
mother, and requested to be sent for when she should be
needed as a watcher or otherwise. After witnessing the
broken but heartfelt outpourings of gratitude of the poor
woman to her kind benefactress, Locke offered to attend the
latter to her home; and, the offer being accepted, the couple
left the humble abode, and were soon at the door of the
princely mansion of the Carters. When Mary left home,
Mrs. Carter and her two eldest daughters had gone out with
the expectation of spending of spending the evening; and for that reason,
probably, she urged her attendant to go in, in a manner
which, contrary to his previous determination, he was unable
to resist; and he was accordingly ushered into the usual
sitting room of the family, where, to the surprise of Miss
Maverick, they not only found the supposed absentees, but
their self-styled professor, who had found the latter abroad,
and, as usual, gallanted them home. Although Mary felt
painfully conscious that the circumstances were inauspicious
for her friend's introduction to the family, she yet had the
firmness to perform her part in the ceremony with composure
and dignity. The professor, with a sneering air of mock
politeness, bowed very low to our hero, on the announcement
of his name. Mrs. Carter returned his salute with a freezing
nod; and her daughters just moved their lips, exchanging
with each other significant glances, as they were severally
introduced. Perceiving at once the character of his reception,
Amsden felt at a loss to decide for himself whether
demanded of him; but, in his hesitation, he adopted the
former, and sat, as did the rest of the company, some moments,
without uttering a word. At this embarrassing juncture,
however, Miss Maverick fearlessly came to the rescue,
and, with the tact and well-timed effort which a just and discerning
woman will alone use on such an occasion, and a
generous and discerning man alone appreciate, delicately
opened the way for a conversation where all could join, and
none offend, unless wilfully. But there was one present,
conscious perhaps that he had others about him to support
him in the course, who was not disposed to act the part which
even ordinary good breeding would have then dictated.
From the first, the professor had conceived the deepest aversion
to Amsden. He had been secretly nettled that Miss
Maverick, whose good-will, but for his interest to pay his
court in other quarters, he would have gladly obtained, — that
Miss Maverick should leave his school for another which he
had so affected to despise. And his animosities, as is often
the case with base and contemptible minds, settled on the
person who had won, and, in spite of all the pains he
had taken to frustrate it, continued to retain his pupil. In
addition to this source of dislike, the growing estimation in
which his rival's school was held had lately begun to alarm
him for the safety of his hitherto undisputed dominion over
the wealthy and fashionable part of the village. And he
had therefore determined to lose no opportunity to disparage
the man who was now before him.
“Well, Miss Maverick, what studies are you pursuing this
winter?” asked Tilden, thinking thus to pave the way for
his meditated attack on his hated rival.
“My spelling-book, grammar, and arithmetic, sir,” replied
Mary, playfully, yet with sufficient significance to apprise the
the question.
“Ay!” said the professor, “well, you seem to have been
advancing backward quite rapidly, since you left us; you
were upon rhetoric and select geometry, I believe.”
“True, sir,” rejoined the other; “but when I found myself
unable to answer questions, not only in some of the first
principles of arithmetic, but even in those of orthography
and pronunciation, I thought it might perhaps not be amiss
for me to advance backwards a little, as you term it.”
“O, it is all correct, doubtless,” sneeringly remarked the
professor. “Your instructor, I presume, sees the propriety
of taking a young lady from the elegant and refining studies
of rhetoric and geometry, and placing her back upon the
school-boy drudgery of the spelling-book and common arithmetic.”
“The propriety of this,” replied Amsden, thus insolently
challenged to defend his course, “is sufficiently obvious from
Miss Maverick's own acknowledgment, that she did not fully
understand some of the first principles on which the sciences
she had attempted are based. I cannot see how rhetoric,
which teaches the art of using language correctly and effectively,
can be studied understandingly till the construction of
the language itself is first understood. And it is so with geometry
and its correlative and basing study, common arithmetic,
which must be first mastered. When pupils have done this,
they may, with some hope of profit, enter upon geometry, in
which they need not then be limited to a few pretty problems
of this interesting branch of science; or they may enter
upon rhetoric without being confined for illustrations to the
stage-readings of Shakspeare, or the Melodies of Thomas
Moore.”
The professor, whose superficial teachings and manner of
illustrating were known to Amsden, was touched by this reply
though evidently disconcerted, he contrived to conceal his
feelings, under an affected disdain to offer at this time any
rejoinder — leaving his fair worshippers now to take up the
discourse.
“I wonder,” said Miss Ann Lucretia, “what pleasure one
can take in common arithmetic: for my part, I always hated
it. And as for the spelling-book — why, I learned all there
is in that before I was seven years old.”
“Well, I am willing all should follow their taste,” observed
the next sister; “but as for myself, I have no notion of giving
up the elegant pursuits of our select academy; at least,
not for a common school, I am sure.”
“Nor I,” said Miss Matilda Mandeville, as usual bringing
up the rear of this refined and accomplished sisterhood.
“O! it would be so excessively vulgaire! Now, do n't you
think so, Professor Tilden?”
“Why, I have only to say on the occasion, ladies,” replied
the professor, who by this time had prepared himself for
what he supposed would be an annihilating discharge of his
spleen, “I have only to say that there are those in the world
whom you would labor in vain in trying to impress with any
sense of the beauties of elegant literature.”
“And there are again those, you might justly add, sir,”
promptly rejoined Locke, “whom you can never impress
with any sense of the beauties of the sound sciences, for the
reason that they do not understand them.”
Upon this, the professor chose to consider himself insulted,
and so much disgusted withal, that he could no longer endure
the presence of Amsden. And, hastily gathering up his hat,
gloves, &c., from the table by which his rival had been sitting,
he moved towards the door with the show of departing, when
the three sisters with one accord rushed after him, and
begged of him, for their sakes, to remain. Mrs. Carter, also,
folks could not understand their true position in society, earnestly
joined in the request of her daughters. The soothed
professor, being thus over-persuaded, returned to his seat.
And Amsden, to relieve the company from his presence, rose
to depart. Miss Maverick, whose pride and high sense of
honor and justice had alike been deeply offended by this wanton
attack on her friend, waited on him to the door with the
most marked respect; and then, returning into the room with
a face flushed with indignation, replaced the light she had taken,
and instantly left the apartment without uttering a word.
Previous to the entrance of Amsden and Mary, the professor
had been showing the ladies a guinea, upon the centre
of which had been stamped, by some mechanic through
whose hands it had passed, probably, some enigmatical letters
and other signs. And this coin, when the former came in,
had been left on the table at which the professor and his fair
friends had been sitting, and by the side of which, when the
position of the company became thus changed, Locke happened
to be placed.
“What are you looking for, Professor Tilden?” blandly
asked Mrs. Carter, as she observed the former turning over
the books and other articles on the table, as if in search of
something missing.
“O, merely the little coin we were amusing ourselves with,
when our refined visiter, who has just left, entered the room;
but it is no matter; it is somewheres about here, I presume,”
said the professor carelessly.
This announcement brought all the ladies round the table.
A thorough search was made; but the coin was not to be
found.
“Let me see,” said the professor, musingly, pretending not
to remember the fact; “who sat down by the table when we
rose, on the entrance of this visiter?”
“Why, it was Mr. Amsden himself,” replied Mrs. Carter.
“So it was — to be sure it was — it certainly was; and
the gold piece was lying on the table after he came in and
took that seat,” severally responded the sisters, exchanging
surprised and significant glances among themselves and with
their mother.
“I perceive what you think, ladies,” said the professor,
after permitting them to look at each other long enough to
reach the conclusion to which he had artfully led them; “I
perceive what you think; but I beg of you,” he continued,
with an air of generous forbearance, “I beg of you not to
mention the circumstance. The little coin is really of no
sort of consequence to me.”
“Why should we keep it secret? I think the fellow should
be exposed,” said Mrs. Carter, indignantly.
“I highly appreciate your indignation, madam,” replied
the professor, loftily; “I wonder not that you should feel
such a bold insult on your house and family, to say nothing
of the requirements of justice. But what proof could we
make? Nothing that would answer the law. I must therefore
insist that no public charge of the kind be made.”
“It is just what I should expect of a vulgar pedagogue,”
exclaimed Miss Matilda Mandeville.
“And to think that Mary should have suffered him to
come here!” said another sister.
“Yes, and the girl is still attending the fellow's school! —
but that must be stopped,” added the mother.
“Perhaps that were unwise,” said the professor, here interposing.
“By taking this step, you must give her the reason;
and I really ask it as a great favor that not a syllable of the
unfortunate affair be named to her, as it would be so very
mortifying to her feelings. Whatever opinion you may consider
it your duty to give your confidential friends respecting
the man's true character, nothing must be named to her.
be kept a secret from all; for I really cannot but pity the
fellow.”
The professor, having thus arranged the affair to his liking
with his willingly duped worshippers, departed; secretly exulting
in the thought that he had now struck a blow which
must result in removing from his path the man whom he no
less feared than hated. And, for a while, every thing seemed
to promise fair to operate as he had designed it should.
The story was studiously kept from Mary, and, in the shape
of dark hints at least, confidentially whispered to others,
who, in their turn, imparted it to a second round of friends,
till it thus passed, in constantly widening circles, to the
public.
Meanwhile the intended victim of this suddenly-devised
and detestable plot to destroy his fair fame, continued diligently
to discharge the daily duties of his fast improving
school, having not the least suspicion of the withering whispers
of detraction that were in progress around him. He
was not permitted, however, to remain long without perceiving
indications that something intimately affecting his interests
was secretly operating to his disadvantage; but what
that something could be, he was wholly unable to conjecture.
He at first noticed a certain air of coldness and distrust
towards himself among many of his village acquaintance, by
whom he had been before met with respectful cordiality.
His feelings were next tried by a withdrawal by their parents,
on different pretexts, of some of the best pupils of his school.
And, among the rest, his lovely friend, Mary Maverick, was
unconsciously made to add poignancy to his regrets, and increase
his growing uneasiness at the inauspicious appearances
that seemed to be gathering over his path. She had been
requested by her aunt to leave her school to assist in some
business in the household line, which, as it was pretended,
immediately be executed. And, feeling herself under obligations
to comply, she had left the school, without giving her
instructer, or deeming it necessary to give him, any definite
reasons for so doing, since she then had as little suspicion of
the true motives of the hypocritical request that had induced
her to forego the pleasures of her pursuits at school, as she
had of the existence of the contemptible plan laid for undermining
the influence and character of her respected
instructer.
But, although Amsden was made, for a while, to suffer, in
the minds of many, by this pitiful conspiracy, intended to
put the finishing touch to the other means which had been
used to disparage and destroy him, he was yet destined soon
to be exonerated from every injurious impression, in a manmer,
which, had revenge been any part of his nature, would
have afforded him all the triumph he could have desired over
his despicable foe.
One evening, as Dr. Lincoln sat in his study, a boy entered,
and, handing him a closely-sealed billet, disappeared. On
opening it, he was surprised to find it a confidential note
from Mary Maverick. He had before heard several vague
hints relating to Amsden, which, owing to his unlimited confidence
in the man, he had not understood. Some of the
multiform aspersions, indeed, which had grown out of the
professor's notable scheme of ruin, had lately reached his
ears; but he had considered them so little worthy of notice,
that they had passed from his mind. The note before him,
however, brought the subject again to his thoughts, and he
paused in its perusal to try to recall what he had heard.
The writer commenced by mentioning the various attempts
of the professor to asperse Mr. Amsden, related briefly what
took place at Carter's while she was present, described the
coin which she herself had noticed lying on the table, and
overheard in the family — the whole circumstance attending
the pretended loss of the piece, which she so much feared
was being made use of to injure one whom she believed
innocent, that she would not rest till she had taken the present
step, though by the act she run the risk, she said, if her
name should be brought in question, of making still more
unpleasant her present not over-happy position in the family.
“Well, well, my dove among jackdaws, you shan't be hurt
for the noble act you have here performed,” said Lincoln
to himself. “But that insufferable puppy — ay, villain, as
he has now proved himself! Why, there's not a doubt
that he slyly caught up this guinea with his gloves, and
pocketed it himself, as she evidently suspects. Well, he will
be a lucky fellow if he do n't eventually find himself in the
pit he has been digging for another. If I could get hold of
that same coin! — stay, what is the reason I have not seen
one with similar marks on it lately, somewhere? — yes,
somewhere — let me think. Ah! I have it — and if I am
right, no time should be lost,” he added, springing from his
chair, seizing his hat and cane, and hastily leaving his office
for the destination to which his conclusions had directed him.
Prompted by his hatred, rendered more inveterate by the
conscious defeat he had received in his insolent attack on
Amsden at Carter's, the professor had taken a bold step, and
one which, to be successful, required, on his part, no little
management and caution. But, having seen the story, or
rather the odium of the charge put afloat in the shape he
had contrived to make it, intangible to his opponent, and
having already exultingly witnessed many flattering results
from his scheme, he soon became unmindful of one point
which he should have particularly guarded. With the infatuated
blindness with which Providence seems often to
visit the secret perpetrators of crime, to make them become
had recently put away the coin, and thus thrown within the
reach of his intended victim a weapon which the latter
could not only wield triumphantly in his own defence, but
hurl back upon the head of the aggressor with fatal effect.
The professor had put off the coin in question at the shop
of a jeweller in the village, where he often made purchases
in the line of trinkets. And it was to this shop that the
aroused and indignant Lincoln was now directing his steps;
having, the day previous, accidentally had a glimpse of the
important piece, as he was receiving change for a bank-note
offered in payment for some surgical instrument. The doctor
was completely successful in his object. He not only obtained
the desired coin, in exchange for an equal amount of
his own money, but ascertained that it came from Tilden's
hand but two days before. And having effected this, without
making known to the jeweller his purpose in so doing, he immediately
returned, with the prize in his pocket, to his office,
compared it with the description in Mary's note, and found
it must be the identical piece that Amsden had indirectly
been charged with purloining. Amsden was instantly sent
for, and in a few minutes made his appearance.
“My temper has been sadly ruffled, Mr. Amsden,” said the
doctor, pointing the other to a chair beside him.
“Indeed, sir?” inquiringly replied the former, in surprise;
for he knew not for what purpose he had been summoned.
“Ay; but here, read this note from that paragon of a girl,
Mary Maverick, and heed her request about bringing her
name in question. The necessity of the case must be my
excuse for showing it, even to you.”
Locke read the billet, part of it, at least, with the utmost
astonishment.
“And what do you think now, sir?” asked Lincoln, as the
other finished the perusal of the paper.
“As I judge she does. I was aware of Tilden's disposition
to injure me; and I have been conscious, for a week or
two past, that some secret influence was operating against me
and my school, in which I suspected the fellow was exercising
an active part. But I little dreamed that he would resort
to a measure so base and reckless. Why, sir, what would
you make of a man who could do this?”
“An arrogant, but mean and revengeful puppy. He has
not wit enough even to dignify him with the name of villain.
Look here! did you ever see that coin before?” said the
speaker, taking out the piece he had just obtained from the
jeweller, and handing it to Amsden.
“I have,” replied the latter, as he inspected the piece with
a look of joyful surprise. “I saw it lying on the table at
Carter's, on the evening in question, and noticed these marks
on the face of it. It is the same, and lucky the chance that
has brought it to the hands of a friend. I should not fear
this story with those who know me; but with others, this
would furnish the only testimony that would save me from
disgrace. Where did you get hold of it?”
The doctor then related the circumstances we have already
mentioned, and concluded by saying, —
“Well, Mr. Amsden, what do you propose to do about this
despicable business?”
“I shall not suffer it to rest here, sir,” replied the other,
decidedly.
“Nor I; but what course are you thinking to pursue?”
asked the former.
“To arrest the mischief at the fountain-head,” answered
Amsden, with increasing energy. “I had heard of the
course of this pitiful traducer towards myself, previous to
encountering him at Carter's; but I was not much troubled
by it. And even when I there met him, and received from
him what I felt was most ungentlemanly treatment, it did not
occurred since my residence among you. But this subsequent
attempt is of a different character. And in justice to
my school, and to you, sir, my employer, as well as to myself,
I shall take prompt means to clear myself from the aspersion.
He shall bring me before some legal tribunal, or, if
possible, I will bring him.”
“Well, said Lincoln, musingly, walking the room with his
hands in his pockets; “well, I do n't see why you have not
now the staff in your own hands. But have you thought of
all the results that may flow from the measures you propose?
If I predict right, your course will end in driving him from
the town. Where then,” continued the speaker, assuming a
look and tone of sarcastic irony, “where then will be our
Select Academy of Elegant Literature, `so very distingué'?
where then will be obtained the accomplishments it affords,
`so very recherché'? Think, sir, of the luckless situation in
which the fashionable society of Cartersville would then be
left — think of the half-drawn landscapes which must be
thrown aside — the unstrung harps and pianos that will have
been purchased at such cost but to be abandoned — think of
the public calamity that must ensue from compelling the sons
and daughters of the wealthy and genteel to depend only for
their accomplishments on those old, worn-out, unfashionable,
and vulgar studies which you still persist in teaching — and,
above all, think of the deplorable condition of our young
ladies, if they were thus driven from their French, and could
only converse in nothing but common English.”
“Ay, ay,” said Locke, laughing; “but we will leave it to
the professor to chant the elegy, if such sad consequences are
to follow from his own acts. In the mean time, let me ask
you to furnish me with pen, ink, and paper.”
“What! are you going to send a note to the professor, to
set before him the alternative you mentioned — that of prosecuting
required materials.
“I am, sir,” replied Amsden, beginning to write.
“Do so,” rejoined Lincoln, approvingly. And I am glad
to see you act with so much spirit and promptitude on the
occasion. You shall not want for one friend to stand by you.
But perhaps you had not better let him know that we have
got possession of the guinea. And, further, I think I would
give him some little time — say a fortnight, to undo all the
mischief he has done; that is, to retract, confess, and follow
his slanders through every channel where he has sent them,
and honestly refute them, if he prefers that course: if not,
then let him take one of the alternatives you have just
named.”
“I will follow your suggestions,” answered Amsden. “The
first may be a wise one; the last is certainly merciful, and if
he will profit by it, I shall have no disposition further to
molest him.”
The note was completed, and immediately sent off to its
destination by one of the servants of the house; when Locke
and his friend separated, to await with patience, and silently,
the result of their movement.
We will now turn to the soi-disant professor, with whom
we shall have but little more to do; for his career, in this
place, as Dr. Lincoln had shrewdly predicted, was now a
brief one. He was alone in his room when the doctor's servant
entered and delivered Amsden's letter, which, as he
knew the servant, he received with rather a doubtful and
uneasy expression. And no sooner was the messenger's
back turned, than he tore open the note, and eagerly ran
over its contents, at which his usual air of swaggering assurance
instantly forsook him. Crumpling up the paper, and
thrusting it into his pocket, he rose, and for some moments
paced the floor in visible agitation.
“Perhaps it is not too late to defeat him now,” he at length
began to think aloud. “But that guinea must be secured,
and the man must be bribed to hold his tongue. I wonder I
was so thoughtless; but these shopmen are so clamorous for
their debts. Yes, I must have that before I sleep, and luckily
I now have what will bring it.”
So saying, he threw his gaily-tasselled cloak over his
shoulders, and took his way to the shop of the jeweller,
whom he found preparing to retire for the night.
“You recollect that curiously stamped gold piece I paid
you the other day?” said the professor to the man.
“Yes.”
“Well, it being a present from a friend in town, whom I
would not for the world have know that I had parted with it,
I have brought the amount in other money to get it back
again.”
“Why, sir, I'm sorry, but you are a little too late.”
“How so?”
“I parted with it this very evening.”
“To whom, pray?”
“To Dr. Lincoln.”
The professor actually turned pale at the announcement;
but he made shift to stammer out, with an effort at indifference,
“O, well, it's no sort of consequence, sir,” and abruptly
departed.
He was now in a dilemma, from which he could see no
way to escape without disgrace to his character, or ruin to
his prospects. Turn which way he would, the difficulties
seemed equally insurmountable. Whether he prosecuted or
was prosecuted himself, an investigation must ensue, which
he well knew would place him in a light alike fatal to his
pretensions and prospects. Should he take the other alternative,
confess, and try to recall his slanders, he must not
only virtually proclaim himself a liar and a contemptible
expense of his own degradation. In short, he plainly foresaw
that the days of his glory in Cartersville were numbered.
And he soon concluded to shape his course accordingly.
It was among the very last of the unimproved days of
grace that had been allowed the professor, when one morning,
as the Carter family assembled for breakfast, Miss Ann
Lucretia, the eldest daughter, failed to make her appearance.
A search was made through the house; but she was still
among the missing. All was now confusion and alarm.
Messengers were despatched to all those places about the
village, to which it was thought possible she might have
gone out before the family had risen. No tidings, however,
of the object of the search could be obtained; and one of
the messengers, on his return, further reported that Professor
Tilden was also missing. A painful suspicion crossed the
minds of the weak and blinded parents. They now recollected
that their daughter, for the past week, had been much
of the time alone with her instructor; and that she had also,
during the time, found some excuse for sleeping in a room
by herself, from which an easy access could be had to the
outer door. And they ran instantly to the apartment she
had occupied. Her bed had not been used the past night,
and all her best apparel had disappeared. The whole truth
was now disclosed. She had eloped with the professor.
Mrs. Carter was deeply chagrined, though she said little,
except to express her surprise. But Mr. Carter, who now
saw his folly in leaving every thing relating to his daughters to
his wife, was loud in his denunciations of the conduct of both
of the absconding couple, and at first declared his intention
to pursue them. But, reflecting that before this time they
were probably married, and thirty miles distant, on their way
to one of the cities, he soon gave up the thought. There
were others, however, in the village — in which the occurrence
made preparations for pursuit. These were the merchants,
tailors, shoemakers, &c., who had been favored by the liberal
patronage of the professor, during his year's residence in town.
But they, too, soon discovered, on recurring to their claims,
that their man had prudently placed himself out of their
reach for the present. It appeared that, during the past
fortnight, he had not only obtained all that was due him from
his patrons, but had taken the precaution to settle with all
his creditors, paying off some of the least, and giving his
notes to the rest, payable in one or two months. And, it
being thus found that pursuit would be alike useless to all
parties concerned, the measure was at length abandoned, and
the distinguished pair left to pursue their journey unmolested.
During the forenoon, the following note, which had been
overlooked in the first search, addressed to the oldest remaining
sister, was found in the room last occupied by the fair
fugitive: —
“Before you receive this, I shall be Mrs. Manlius C..W
Tilden. We have engaged a fleet pair of horses and a rapid
driver to take us to —, where a magistrate will be in
waiting to tie the knot, and where, having been joined by a
friend of Mr. T. as bridesman and compagnon du voyage, we
shall take the stage at four o'clock, A.M., for New York —
Mr. T.'s former residence, you know. He has been for some
time getting disgusted with the petty annoyances of a country
village, which, besides, he says, is no field for his talents.
But he could not bear to leave me. He offered his hand;
and, fearing papa would object, especially to so sudden a
match as he was resolved to make, or none — he proposed
the present romantic manner of making our adieus to Cartersville
— it is so like him! Well, Angeline, what would
I know what you would have done. And then think of the
enviable station I shall fill among the very élite of city
society, surrounded by all the elegancies and refinements of
city life! All this he feels free to promise me; and I do
suppose he is soon to come in possession of a splendid fortune,
though he is so modest about it that I only obtained the secret
from him by some inadvertent hints he has dropped. I
anticipate how surprised you will all be, and I hardly expect
papa will fully approve my course at first — perhaps mamma
will not; but I know you will appreciate me, and so will Matilda
Mandevelle. I will write you again when we reach the
city, till which,
“I remain affectionately, your
The name and character of the friend and compagnon du
voyage, mentioned in the foregoing epistle, was more fully
disclosed the next day, by the following editorial notice in
The Blazing Star, which came into town, all damp from the
press of Mill-Town Emporium: —
“BASENESS EXPOSED!
“Our flourishing village was thrown into confusion this
morning, by the discovery that our village schoolmaster,
Blake by name, — if that be his true name, — had decamped,
having artfully obtained the wages for the full term of his
engagement, but a little more than half of which he had
fulfilled. Some fears are also entertained respecting the
value of a pretended jewelled watch which he lately sold to
one of our citizens for fifty dollars; but enough has been
said to caution the public, which, as faithful journalists, was
our duty to do. There can be but little doubt that the fellow
to learn, that his politics, though he at first professed
to hold to our true doctrines, turned out to be in unison with
those of that party from whom such things are to be expected.
— Ed. Blazing Star.”
It was now evident that the dashing professor, and his less
accomplished, though scarcely less superficial friend, Blake,
who, as the reader will remember, was Amsden's successful
rival in the competition for the Mill-Town school, were confederate
impostors. But what had been the nature of their
previous connection, or whether their career had been marked
by outright villanies, or merely by petty impositions on
the public, was not known for nearly a fortnight; when a
young merchant from New York, arriving on a visit to his
relatives in the village, reported that he had encountered,
soon after leaving the city, the bride, her husband, and his
friend; and soon recognized the two last-named worthies as a
couple of fourth-rate actors, or some other unimportant adjuncts
of one of the city theatres, from which they had both
been driven in disgrace about two years before; after which
they had occasionally been heard from, perambulating the
country in the same direction; one — that is, Tilden — pretending
to lecture on elocution, the art of reading, &c., and
the other obtaining unauthorized subscriptions for periodicals.
And these important and honest employments, it was thus
made probable, they had pursued, till the former found an
inviting opening for his versatile talents in a new character
among the would-be fashionables of Cartersville, and afterwards
another, for his congenial friend, in Mill-Town Emporium.
This was indeed a mortifying development for the proud
Carters; and the females especially, who had never dreamed
of any of their number marrying any thing short of counts,
hardly hold up their heads, under the keen sense of the disgrace
which they conceived had been brought on their family.
Mr. Carter, however, who cared little for any other family
distinction than what property, or at least the certainty of a
good living, would confer — still had some hopes that his
daughter, rash as she had been, might after all have married
a man of enterprise, integrity, and capacity sufficient to
maintain her respectably from his own resources. But the
solace of even these faint hopes was soon taken from him.
In a few days more, he himself received a letter from his
deluded child, the main points of which were evidently dictated
by her husband.
After excusing herself for the step she had taken in the
best way she could, and speaking of her prospects in a much
more moderate tone than that which pervaded her letter to
her sister on her departure, she told her father that she felt
very sure, whatever might happen, that he would never let her
want money to support her in the style in which he had brought
her up; and then she added, that Tilden — it was now plain
Tilden — had met with a chance to invest her portion to
very great advantage, and was very anxious, for her sake, to
have it sent on, in drafts on some bank or commercial house
in the city. The amount, she said, could not be less than
twenty thousand dollars; but she would be content, at present,
with ten thousand. This she begged of her father not to
neglect sending in a few days, as it would make her husband
so much happier. And in a postscript she repeated, “Do
not fail to send on the drafts.”
This was too much for the old gentleman, who, being by
no means wanting in sagacity, now at once read the true
character of Tilden, and the base motives which had governed
him in drawing the weak and unsuspecting girl into
this clandestine marriage.
“Ten thousand!” he exclaimed to himself, as, hurling the
letter into the fire, he hastily strode round his counting-room
in a paroxysm of exasperated feeling — “ten thousand!
Quite modest, truly! O! the worthless, fortune-hunting
scoundrel! Ten thousand! He will be apt to get it, I
think. But what will become of the poor, deceived, ruined
girl?” he continued, his indignation softening into pity. “If
she ever gets rid of the villain, I hope there may be that
sum left for her. But the rig these women have run! And
I, like a fool, have yielded to it! I fear — I fear, that this
disaster to my family will prove but the forerunner of worse
ones. Heaven help me!”
The words of the distressed and foreboding father were
but too prophetic; for this was the first of a series of misfortunes
which were destined to fall, in rapid succession,
upon this house of folly, and level its vain-glorious pretensions
with the dust. But, as this will appear by pursuing
the main thread of our narrative, we will now return to our
hero.
As the reader may have perhaps already anticipated, the
disgraceful flight of Tilden, and the disclosures that followed,
respecting not only his character and false pretensions, but
the base slanders he had originated, operated as a proud
triumph to Amsden and his school. Many a man is indebted
for his character almost wholly to contrast. And if such be
the effect — as under favoring circumstances it often is — of
a contrast between the demerits of one, and the mere negative
qualities of another, in conferring character on the
latter, it would be strange, indeed, if the operation of this
principle, under circumstances so well calculated to call it
into action, did not greatly tend to bring one of Amsden's
high desert into notice, and place him on the elevation to
which his merits entitled him. It did so. The very measures
that Tilden had taken for the disparagement and ruin
the public to a comparison between the two, and of causing
thereby to be done to the latter that justice which he otherwise
might never have obtained. All the pupils that, on
different pretences, had been withdrawn from his school, were
at once permitted to return. The professor's Academy of
Elegant Literature became, by the association with its
doughty projector, a theme of ridicule; and the empty, and
worse than empty, accomplishments it afforded, soon began to
be accounted — as the miserable scientific tinselings imparted
by hundreds of other similar establishments in our land
under the name of accomplishments deserve to be accounted —
less a term of honor than reproach. Even those ultra genteel
families who had only patronized the select or private
school system, now sent in their children, and began to open
their eyes to the solid advantages to be obtained from common
schools, under well-qualified instructers. The remainder
of our hero's term of engagement, therefore, was marked
with a success that amply repaid him for all his previous
toils and vexations; and his labors now became as pleasant
for himself as they were profitable to his pupils.
It was now past the middle of April. The period for
which Amsden had concluded to continue his instructions
had at length drawn to a close; and the time had arrived
when he was called to that interesting yet mournful task for
a teacher — the parting with his pupils, on the last day and
hour of his school.
The tie that obtains between instructer and pupil, where
the right feelings have been cherished and reciprocated, is
one of peculiar interest. It consists, in the bosom of the
one, of that tender regard, that disinterested affection, which
is made up of several of the best and strongest propensities of
our nature — the compassionate and kindly inclination which
the conscious strong are prone to entertain towards the weak
those with whom habit has made us familiar, and the peculiar
favor with which we are wont to view our own creations, as
the minds, manners, and characters of those we have successfully
taught, may be considered; — in the bosom of one,
it consists of this. In that of the other, the tie is composed
of that reverential esteem which is founded in the blended
principles of gratitude for benefits received, and the inherent
respect which is ever felt for superior powers, all combining to
form the purest and the most exalted friendship that ennobles
the human heart. The connection, indeed, has about it a
beautiful patriarchal character, which renders it one of the
most interesting relations in the world. And few can look
back to the final parting with a respected and beloved instructer,
without the most grateful emotions.
The parting hour, as we have said, had come — too soon
come. The farewell address, fraught with many an allusion
to all that could be remembered for praise in the past, many
a kind word of advice for the future, and many an affectionate
wish for the individual prosperity and happiness of each
and all of the eloquently silent and often tearful little auditory,
was spoken, and the word of final dismissal reluctantly
pronounced. With a thoughtful and solemn quietness of
manner, little resembling the noisy glee of other occasions,
the books were gathered; and one by one the dispersing band
came up, took the proffered hand of their loved instructer,
uttered the subdued good-bye, and departed. But why was
that hand, as if too busy with other occupations, so long
withheld from one more tenderly regarded than all the rest?
And why did she, without concert or request, still linger, till
the last adieu had been spoken, and the last retreating form
disappeared from the room — still linger to receive it? And
why, in the hesitating, tremulous, and prolongued grasp that
then followed, was no farewell, no word, no syllable, or
science, literature, the sentiments, or other general topics,
ever seemed to flow together, like two uniting streams from
fountains of kindred purity and clearness, and whose tongues
ever before grew eloquent in the converse which was sure
to spring up between them, and which never wearied, — why
were two like these dumb now? There are states of feeling,
when the strong, deep-laid elements of the heart are stirred,
which seem wholly to reject the utterance of language, —
sometimes because words must fail of an adequate expression,
and sometimes because those feelings are so consciously
sacred, that they involuntarily shrink from the conceived
profanation of such a medium. Both of these cases might
have been combined at this parting between Locke Amsden
and Mary Maverick. Be that as it may, the quivering lip
and the agitated countenance of the one, and the quick-heaving
bosom and the gushing eye of the other, as, from the long
mute grasp they turned hurriedly away, constituted the only
language that told the sensations of their hearts. It had
never spoken before; but it had spoken distinctly now, revealing
to them, for the first time, their own and each other's
secret, and apprising them that the deep, unanalyzed, unacknowledged
feeling, that had been sleeping and gathering
strength in their attracted bosoms, had a name; and that
its name was only to be found in the magic word, Love.
| CHAPTER X. Locke Amsden, The schoolmaster | |