University of Virginia Library

The Pedagogue.

He was one of the farmer princes of Hoosierdom,
a man of more than average education, a
fluent talker and ready with a story. Knowing
that I was looking up reminiscences of
Hoosier life and specimens of Hoosier character,
he volunteered one evening to give me the
following, vouching for the truth of it. Here
it is, as I “short-handed” it from his own lips.
I omit quotation marks.

The study of one's past life is not unlike the
study of geology. If the presence of the remains
of extinct species of animals and vegetables
in the ancient rocks calls up in one's
mind a host of speculative thoughts touching
the progress of creation, so, as we cut with
the pick of retrospection through the strata
of bygone days, do the remains of departed
things, constantly turning up, put one into his
studying cap to puzzle over specimens fully as
curious and interesting in their way as the
cephalaspis.

The first stratum of my intellectual formation
contains most conspicuously the remains
of dog-eared spelling books, a score or more of
them by different names, among which the
Elementary of Webster is the best preserved
and most clearly defined. It was finding an
old, yellow, badly thumbed and dirt soiled
copy of Webster's spelling book in the bottom
of an old chest of odds and ends, on the fly-leaf
of which book was written “T. Blodgett,”
that lately brightened my memory of the things
I am about to tell you.

The old time pedagogue is a thing of the
past—pars temporis acti is the Latin of it, may
be, but I'm not sure—I'm rusty in the Latin
now. When I quit school I could read it a
good deal. But of the pedagogue. The twenty
years since he ceased to flourish seem, on reflection,
like an age—an œon, as the Greeks
would say. I never did know much Greek. I
got most of my education from pedagogues of
the old sort. They kept pouring it on to me
till it soaked in. That's the way I got it. I
have had corns and bunions on my back for
not being sufficiently porous to absorb the
multiplication table rapidly enough to suit the
whim of one of those learned tyrants. But the
pedagogue became extinct and passed into the

fossil state some twenty years ago, when free
schools took good hold. He scampered away
when he heard the whistle of the steam engine
along iron highways and the cry of small boys
on the streets of the towns hawking the daily
papers. He could live nowhere within the pale
of innovation. He was born an exemplar of
rigidity. The very name of reform was hateful
to him. We older fellows remember him
well, but to the younger fry he is not even a
fossil, he is a myth. Of course pedagogues
differed slightly in the matter of particular
disposition and real character, but in a general
way they had a close family resemblance.

I purpose to write of one Blodgett—T. Blodgett,
as it was written in the fly-leaf of Webster's
Elementary—and he was an extraordinary
specimen of the genus pedagogue. But
before I introduce him, let me, by way of preface
and prelude, give you a view of the
salients of the history of the days when pole-ribbed
school houses—log cabin school houses
—flourished, with each a pedagogue for supreme,
“unquestioned and unquestionable”
despot.

In those fine days boys from five to fifteen
years of age wore tow linen pants held up by
suspenders (often made of tow strings), and

having at each side pockets that reached down
to about the wearer's knees. These pockets
held as much as a moderate sized bushel
basket will now. The girls, big and little,
wore mere tow linen slips, that hung loose
from the shoulders. Democracy, pure and undefiled,
flourished like a green buckeye tree.
Society was in about the same condition as a
boy is when his voice is changing. You know
when a boy's voice is changing if you hear
him in another room getting his lesson by saying
it over aloud, you think there's about fourteen
girls, two old men, and a dog barking in
the room. Society was much the same. The
elements of everything were in it, but not developed
and separated yet. Women rode behind
their husbands on the same horse, occasionally
reaching round in the man's lap to
feel if the baby was properly fixed. Sometimes
the girls rode to singing school behind
their sweethearts. At such times the horses
always kicked up, and, of course, the girls had
to hold on. The boys liked the holding on
part. Young men went courting always on
Saturday night. The girls wouldn't suffer any
hugging before eleven o'clock—unless the old
folk were remarkably early to bed. Candles
were scarce in those days, so that billing and
cooing was done by very dim fire-light. O, le
bon temps! I've forgot whether that's Latin
or French.

The pedagogue was the intellectual and
moral centre of the neighborhood. He was of
higher authority, even in the law, than the
Justice of the Peace. He was consulted on
all subjects, and, as a rule, his decisions were
final, and went upon the people's record as
law. His jurisdiction was unlimited, as to subject
matter or amount, and, as to the person,
was unquestioned. Of course his territory
was bounded by the circumstances of each
particular case.

I just now recollect quite a number of pedagogues
who in turn ruled me in my youthful
days. Of one of them I never think without
feeling a strange sadness steal over me. He
was a young fellow whom to know was to love;
pale, delicate, tender-hearted. He taught us
two terms and we all thought him the best
teacher in the world. He was so kind to us,
so gentle and mild-voiced, so prone to pat us
on our heads and encourage us. Some of the
old people found fault with him because, as
they alleged, he did not whip us enough, but
we saw no force in the objection. Well, he
took a cough and began to fail. He dismissed

us one fine May evening and we saw him no
more alive. We all followed him, in a solemn
line, to his grave, and for a long time thereafter
we never spoke of him except in a low,
sad whisper. As for me, till long afterwards,
the hushed wonder of his white face haunted
my dreams. I have now in my possession a
little bead money-purse he gave me.

Blodgett came next, and here my story
properly begins. Blodgett — who, having once
seen him, could ever forget Blodgett? Not I.
He was too marked a man to ever wholly fade
from memory. He was, as I have said, a perfect
type of his kind, and his kind was such as
should not be sneered at. He was one of the
humble pioneers of American letters. He was
a character of which our national history must
take account. He was one of the vital forces
of our earlier national growth. He was in
love with learning. He considered the matter
of imparting knowledge a mere question of
effort, in which the physical element preponderated.
If he couldn't talk or read it into
one he took a stick and mauled it into him.
This mauling method, though somewhat distasteful
to the subject, always had a charming
result—red eyes, a few blubbers and a good
lesson. The technical name of this method

was “Warming the Jacket.” It always seemed
to me that the peewee birds sang very dolefully
after I had had my jacket warmed. I recollect
my floggings at school with so much
aversion that I do think, if a teacher should
whale one of my little ruddy-faced boys, I'd
spread his (the teacher's) nose over his face
as thin as a rabbit skin! I'd run both his
eyes into one and chew his ears off close to his
head, sir! Forgive my earnestness, but I
can't stand flogging in schools. It's brutal.

From the first day that Blodgett came circulating
his school “articles” among us, we
took to him by common consent as a wonderfully
learned man. I think his strong, wise
looking face, and reserved, pompous manners,
had much to do with making this impression.
We believed in him fully, and for a long time
gave him unfaltering loyalty. As for me, I
never have wholly withdrawn my allegiance.
I look back, even now, and admire him. I
sigh, thinking of the merry days when he
flourished. I solemnly avow my faith in progress.
I know the world advances every day,
still I doubt if men and women are more worthy
now than they were in the time of the pedagogues.
I don't know but what, after all, I
am somewhat of a fogy. Any how, I will not,

for the sake of pleasing your literary swallows
—your eclectics of to-day—turn in and berate
my dear old Blodgett. In his day men could
not and did not skim the surface of things like
swallows on a mill pond. They dived, and got
what they did get from the bottom, and by
honest labor. Whenever one of your silk-winged
swallows skims past me and whispers
progress, I cannot help thinking of Heyne,
Jean Paul and—Blodgett. Somehow genius
and poverty are great cronies. It used to be
more so than it is now. Blodgett was a
genius, and, consequently, poor. He was virtuous,
and, of course, happy. He was a Democrat
and a Hard Shell Baptist, and he might
never have swerved from the path of rectitude,
even to the extent of a hair's breadth, if it had
not been for the coming of a not over scrupulous
rival into the neighboring village. But I
must not hasten. A little more and I would
have blurted out the whole nub of my story.
Bear with me. I have nothing of the “lightning
calculator” in me. I must take my time.

It has been agreed that biography must
include somewhat of physical portraiture.
“What sort of looking man was Blodgett?”
I will tell you as nearly as I can, but bear in
mind it is a long time since I saw him, and, in

the meanwhile, the world has been so washed,
and combed, and trimmed, and pearl powdered,
that one can scarcely be sure he recollects
things rightly. The seedy dandy who
teaches the free schools of to-day, is, no doubt,
all right as things go; but then the way they
go—that's it! As for finding some one of
these dapper, umbrella-lugging, green-spectacled,
cadaverous teachers to compare with
our burly Blodgett, the thing is preposterous.

Our pedagogue, when he first came among
us, was, as nearly as I can judge, about forty,
and a bachelor, tall, raw-boned, lean-faced,
and muscular—a man of many words, and big
ones, but not over prone to seek audience of
the world. To me, a boy of twelve, he appeared
somewhat awful, especially when plying
the beech rod for the benefit of a future
man, and I do still think that something
harder than mere sternness slept or woke in
and around the lines of his strong, flat jaws—
that something sharper than acid shrewdness
lurked in his light gray eyes, and that surely
a more powerful expression than ordinary
brute obstinacy lingered about his firm mouth
and smoothly shaven chin.

Blodgett had a mighty body and a mighty
will, joined with a self-appreciation only bounded

by his power to generate it. This, added
to the deep deference with which he was approached
by everybody, made him not a little
arrogant and despotic—though, doubtless, he
was less so than most men, under like circumstances,
would have been. His years sat
lightly on him. His step was youthful though
slouching, his raven hair was bright and wavy,
his skin had the tinge of vigorous health, and
in truth he was not far from handsome. His
voice was nasal, but pleasantly so.

I cannot hope to give you more than a faint
idea of the absolute power vested in Blodgett
by the men, women and children of the school
vicinage; suffice it to say that his view was a
sine qua non to every neighborhood opinion,
his words the basis of neighborhood action in
all matters of public interest. If he pronounced
the parson's last sermon a failure, at once the
entire church agreed in condemning it, not
only as a failure but a consummate blunder.
If he hinted that a certain new comer impressed
him unfavorably, the nincompoop was
summarily kicked out of society. In fact, in
the pithy phrascology of these latter days,
“it was dangerous to be safe” about where he
lived.

Thus, for a long time, Blodgett ruled with

an iron hand his little world, with no one to
dream of disputing his right or of doubting his
capacity, till at length fate let fall a bit of
romance into the strong but placid stream of
his life, and tinged it all with rose color. He
wrote some poetry, but it is obsolete—that is,
it is not now in existence. While this streak
of romance lasted he looked, for all the world,
like a gilt-edged mathematical problem drawn
on rawhide.

It was a great event in our neighborhood
when Miss Grace Holland, a yellow-haired,
blue-eyed, very handsome and well educated
young lady from Louisville, Kentucky, came
to spend the summer with Parson Holland, our
preacher, and the young woman's uncle. Kentucky
girls are all sweet. My wife was a Kentucky
girl. All the young men fell in love
with Miss Holland right away, but it was of
no use to them. Blodgett, in the language of
your fast youngsters, “shied his castor into
the ring,” and what was there left for the
others but to stand by and see the glory of
the pedagogue during the season of his wooing?
It would have done your eyes good to
see the pedagogue “slick himself up” each
Saturday evening preparatory to visiting the
parson's. He went into the details of the

toilette with an enthusiasm worthy a better
result. Ordinarily he was ostentatiously pious
and grave, but now his nature began to slip
its bark and disclose an inner rind of real
mirthfulness, which made him quite pleasant
company for Miss Holland, who, though a
mere girl, was sensible and old enough to enjoy
the many marked peculiarities of the pedagogue.

On Blodgett's side it was love—just the
blindest, craziest kind of love, at first sight.
As to Miss Holland, I cannot say. One never
can precisely say as to a woman; guessing at
a woman's feelings, in matters of love, is a
little like wondering which makes the music, a
boy's mouth or the jewsharp—a doubtful affair.

Great events never come singly. When it
rains it pours. If you have seen a bear, every
stump is a bear. A few days after the advent
of Miss Holland came a pop-eyed, nervous,
witty little fellow with a hand press, and started
a weekly paper in our village. A newspaper
in town! It was startling.

Blodgett from the first seemed not to relish
the innovation, but public sentiment had set
in too strongly in its favor for him to jeopardize
his reputation by any serious denunciations.
A real live paper in our midst was no small

matter. Everybody subscribed, and so did
Blodgett.

It did, formerly, require a little brains to
run a newspaper, and in those days an editor
was looked upon as nearly or quite as learned
and intelligent as a pedagogue; but everybody,
however ignorant himself, could not fail to see
that one represented progress, the other conservatism,
and formerly most persons were
Ultra-Conservatives. This, of course, gave
the pedagogue a considerable advantage.

Of course Blodgett and the editor soon became
acquainted. The latter, a dapper Yankee,
full of “get-up-and-snap,” and alert to make
way for his paper, measured the pedagogue at
a glance, seeing at once that a big bulk of
strong sense and a will like iron were enwrapped
in the stalwart Hoosier's brain. One
of two things must be done. Blodgett must
be vanquished or his influence secured. He
must be prevailed on to endorse the Star (the
new paper), or the Star must attack and
destroy him at once.

Meantime the pedagogue grimly waited for
an opportunity to demolish the editor. The
big Hoosier had no thought of compromise or
currying favor. He would sacrifice the little
sleek, stuck-up, big-headed, pop-eyed, Romannosed

Yankee between his thumb nails as he
would a flea. Blodgett was a predestinarian
of the old school, and was firmly imbedded in
the belief that from all eternity it had been
fore-ordained that he was to attend to just
such fellows as the editor.

Still, the little lady from Louisville took up
so much of his time, and so distracted his
mind, that no well laid plan of attack could be
matured by the pedagogue. But when nations
wish to fight it is easy to find a pretext for
war. So with individuals. So with the editor
and Blodgett. They soon came to open
hostilities and raised the black flag. What an
uproar it did make in the county!

This war seemed to come about quite naturally.
It had its beginning in a debating
society, where Blodgett and the editor were
leading antagonists. The question debated
was, “Which has done more for the cause of
human liberty, Napoleon or Wellington?”

Two village men and two countrymen were
the jury to decide which side offered the best
argument. The jury was out all night and
finally returned a split verdict, two of them
standing for Blodgett and two for the editor.
Of course it was town against country—the
villagers for the editor, the country folk for
the pedagogue.

“Huzza for the little editor!” cried the
town people.

“'Rah for Blodgett!” bawled the lusty
country folk.

The matter quickly came to blows at certain
parts of the room. Jim Dowder caught Phil
Gates by the hair and snatched him over two
seats. Sarah Jane Beaver hit Martha Ann
Randall in the mouth with a reticule full of
hazel nuts. Farmer Heath choked store-keeper
Jones till his face was as blue as
moderate-like indigo. Old Mrs. Baber pulled
off Granny Logan's wig and threw it at 'Squire
Hank. But Pete Develin wound the thing up
with a most disgraceful feat. He seized a
bucket half full of water and deliberately
poured it right on top of the editor's head.

This was the beginning of trouble and fun.
Some lawsuits grew out of it and some hard
fisticuffs. All the country-folk sided with
Blodgett—the towns-folk with the editor.
The Star began to get dim, but the editor,
shrewd dog, when he saw how things were
turning, at once took up the question of Napoleon
vs. Wellington in his journal, kindly
and condescendingly offering his columns to
Blodgett for the discussion.

The pedagogue foolishly accepted the challenge,

and thus laid the stones upon which he
was to fall. So the antagonists sharpened
their goose quills and went at it. In sporting
circles the proverb runs: never bet on a man's
own trick. Blodgett ought to have known
better than to go to the editor's own ground
to fight.

I have always suspected that Miss Holland
did much to shear our Samson of his strength.
She certainly did, wittingly or unwittingly,
occupy too much of his time and thought.
Poor fellow! he would have given his life for
her. He often looked at her, with his head
turned a little one side, sadly, thoughtfully,
as I have seen a terrier look at a rat hole, as
though he half expected disappointment.

The battle in the Star began in very earnest.
It was a harvest for the shrewd journalist.
Everybody took the Star while the discussion
was going on. Everybody took sides, everybody
got mad, and almost everybody fought
more or less. Even Parson Holland and the
village preacher had high words and ceased
to recognize each other. As for the young
lady from Louisville, she had little to say
about the discussion, though Blodgett always
read to her each one of his articles first in MS.
and then in the Star after it was printed.

Well, finally, in the very height of the war
of words, the editor, in one of his articles, indulged
in Latin. As you are aware, when an
editor gets right down to pan-rock Latin, it's
a sure sign he's after somebody. This instance
was no exception to the general rule. He was
baiting for the pedagogue. The pedagogue
swallowed hook and all.

“Nil de mortuis nisi bonum,” said the editor,
“is my motto, which may be freely translated:
“If you can't say something good of the dead,
keep your tarnal mouth shut about them!”

Blodgett started as he read this, and for a
full minute thereafter gazed steadily and inquiringly
on vacancy. At length his great
bony right hand opened slowly, then quickly
shut like a vice.

“I have him! I have him!” he muttered in
a murderous tone, “I'll crush him to impalpable
dust!” He forthwith went for a small
Latin lexicon and began busily searching its
pages. It was Saturday evening, and so
busily did he labor at what was on his mind,
he came near forgetting his regular weekly
visit to Miss Holland.

He did not forget it, however. He went;
without pointing out to her the exact spot so
vulnerable to his logical arrows, he told her in

a confidential and confident way that his next
letter would certainly make an end of the
editor. He told her that, at last, he had the
shallow puppy where he could expose him
thoroughly. Of course Miss Holland was
curious to know more, but, with a grim smile,
Blodgett shook his head, saying that to insure
utter victory he must keep his own counsel.

The next day, though the Sabbath, was
spent by the pedagogue writing his crusher
for the Star. He wrote it and re-wrote it,
over and over again. He almost ruined a
Latin grammar and the afore-mentioned lexicon.
He worked till far in the night, revising
and elaborating. His gray eyes burned like
live coals—his jaws were set for victory.

That week was one of intense excitement
all over the county, for somehow it had come
generally to be understood that the pedagogue's
forthcoming essay was to completely
defeat and disgrace the editor. Work, for
the time, was mostly suspended. The school
children did about as they pleased, so that
they were careful not to break rudely in upon
Blodgett's meditations.

On the day of its issue the Star was in great
demand. For several hours the office was
crowded with eager subscribers, hungry for a

copy. The 'Squire and two constables had
some trouble to keep down a genuine riot.

The following is an exact copy of Blodgett's
great essay:

The country flared into flames of triumph.
Blodgett's friends stormed the village and
“bully-ragged” everybody who had stood out
for the editor. The little Yankee, however,
did not appear in the least disconcerted. His
clear, blue, pop-eyes really seemed twinkling
with half suppressed joy. Blodgett put a copy
of the Star into his pocket and stalked proudly,
victoriously, out of town.

After supper he dressed himself with scrupulous
care and went over to see Miss Holland.
Rumor said they were engaged to be married,
and I believe they were.

On this particular evening the young lady
was enchantingly pretty, dressed in white
muslin and blue ribbons, her bright yellow
hair flowing full and free down upon her

plump shoulders, her face radiant with health
and high spirits. She met the pedagogue at
the door with more than usual warmth of
welcome. He kissed her hand. All that he
said to her that evening will never be known.
It is recorded, however, that, when he had finished
reading his essay to her, she got up and
took from her travelling trunk a “Book of
Foreign Phrases,” and examined it attentively
for a time, after which she was somewhat uneasy
and reticent. Blodgett observed this,
but he was too dignified to ask an explanation.

The “last day” of Blodgett's school was at
hand. The “exhibition” came off on Saturday.
Everybody went early. The pedagogue
was in his glory. He did not know the end
was so near. A little occurrence, toward evening,
however, seemed to foreshadow it.

Blodgett called upon the stage a bright
eyed, ruddy faced lad, his favorite pupil, to
translate Latin phrases. The boy, in his Sunday
best, and sleekly combed, came forth and
bowed to the audience, his eyes luminous with
vivacity. The little fellow was evidently precocious—a
rapid if not a very accurate thinker
—one of those children who always have an
answer ready, right or wrong.

After several preliminary questions, very

promptly and satisfactorily disposed of, Blodgett
said:

“Now, sir, translate Monstrum horrendum
informe ingens.”

Quick as lightning the child replied:

“The horrid monster informed the Indians!”

Fury! The face of the pedagogue grew
livid. He stretched forth his hand and took
the boy by the back of the neck. The curtain
fell, but the audience could not help hearing
what a flogging the boy got. It was terrible.

Even while this was going on a rumor rippled
round the outskirts of the audience—for
you must know that the “exhibition” was held
under a bush arbor erected in front of the school
house door—a rumor, I say, rippled round
the outer fringe of the audience. Some one
had arrived from the village and copies of the
Star were being freely distributed. Looks of
blank amazement flashed into people's faces.
The name of the editor and that of Prof. W—,
of Wabash College, began to fly in sharp whispers
from mouth to mouth. The crowd reeled
and swayed. Men began to talk aloud. Finally
everybody got on his feet and confusion and
hubbub reigned supreme. The exhibition was
broken up. Blodgett came out of the school
house upon the stage when he heard the noise.

He gazed around. Some one thrust a copy of
the Star into his hand.

Poor Blodgett! We may all fall. The
crowd resolved itself into an indignation meeting
then and there, at which the following extract
from the Star was read, followed by resolutions
dismissing and disgracing Blodgett:

“The following letter is rich reading for
those who have so long sworn by T. Blodgett.
We offer no comment:

Blodgett walked away from the school house
into the dusky June woods. He knew that it
was useless to contend against the dictum of a
college professor. His friends knew so too, so
they turned to rend him. He was dethroned
and discrowned forever. He was boarding at

my father's then, and I can never forget the
haggard, wistful look his face wore when he
came in that evening. I have since learned
that he went straight from the scene of his
disgrace to Miss Holland, whom he found inclined
to laugh at him. The next week he collected
what was due him and left for parts unknown.

I was over at parson Holland's, playing with
his boys.

The game was mumble peg.

I had been rooting a peg out of the ground
and my face was very dirty. We were under
a cherry tree by a private hedge. Presently
Miss Holland came out and began, girl-like,
to pluck and eat the half ripe cherries. The
wind rustled her white dress and lifted the
gold floss of her wonderful hair. The birds
chattered and sang all round us; the white
clouds lingered overhead like puffs of steam
vanishing against the splendid blue of the sky.
The fragrance of leaf and fruit and bloom was
heavy on the air. The girl in white, the quiet
glory of the day, the murmur of the unsteady
wind stream flowing among the dark leaves of
the orchard and hedge, the charm of the temperature,
and over all, the delicious sound of
running water from the brook hard by, all

harmonized, and in a tender childish mood I
quit the game and lolled at full length on the
ground, watching the fascinating face of the
young lady as she drifted about the pleasant
places of the orchard. Suddenly I saw her fix
her eyes in a surprised way in a certain direction.
I looked to see what had startled her,
and there, half leaning over the hedge, stood
Blodgett.

His face was ghastly in its pallor, and deep
furrows ran down his jaws. His gray eyes
had in them a look of longing blended with
a sort of stern despair. It was only for a
moment that his powerful frame toppled
above the hedge, but he is indelibly pictured
in my memory just as he then appeared.

“Good-bye, Miss Holland, good-bye.”

How dismally hollow his voice sounded!
Ah! it was pitiful. I neither saw nor heard
of him after that. Years have passed since
then. Blodgett is, likely, in his grave, but I
never think of him without a sigh.

Yesterday I was in the old neighborhood, and,
to my surprise, learned that the old log school
house was still standing. So I set out alone
to visit it. I found it rotten and shaky, serving
as a sort of barn in which a farmer stows
his oats, straw and corn fodder. The genius

of learning has long since flown to finer quarters.
The great old chimney had been torn
down or had fallen, the broad boards of the
roof, held on by weight poles, were deeply covered
with moss and mould, and over the whole
edifice hung a gloom—a mist of decay.

I leaned upon a worm fence hard by and
gazed through the long vacant side window,
underneath which our writing shelf used to be,
sorrowfully dallying with memory; not altogether
sorrowfully either, for the glad faces of
children that used to romp with me on the old
play ground floated across my memory, clothed
in the charming haze of distance, and encircled
by the halo of tender affections. The wind
sang as of old, and the bird songs had not
changed a jot. Slowly my whole being crept
back to the past. The wonders of our progress
were all forgotten. And then from
within the old school room came a well remembered
voice, with a certain nasal twang,
repeating slowly and sternly the words:

“Arma virumque cano;” then there came a
chime of silver tones—“School is out!—School
is out!” And I started, to find that I was all
alone by the rotting but blessed old throne
and palace of the pedagogue.