 | CHAPTER VI. Dukesborough tales |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
After the close of the last performance, Mr. Meadows seemed to need
another resting spell. This lasted five minutes. He always liked to
be as fresh as possible for the next scene. The most interesting, the
most exciting, and in some respects the most delightful exercise was
yet to follow. This was the punishment of Brinkly Glisson. It was
curious to see how he did enjoy it. He was never so agreeable at play-time
or in the afternoon as when he had beaten Brinkly in the morning.
If he recited well, and there was no pretext for beating him, Mr.
Meadows was sadder and gloomier than usual for the remainder of the
day, and looked as if he felt that he had been wronged with impunity.
Now, Brinkly was one of the best boys in the world. He was the
only son of a poor widow, who, at much sacrifice, had sent him to
the house, and she had procured the promise of a neighbor to help her
in gathering it when ripe. Brinkly was the apple of her eye, the idol
of her heart. He was to her as we always think of him of whom it
was said, `He was the only son of his mother, and she was a widow.'
And Brinkly had rewarded her love and care with all the feelings of
his honest and affectionate heart. He was more anxious to learn for
her sake than his own. He soon came to read tolerably well, and was
advanced to geography. How proud was the widow when she bought
the new geography and atlas with the proceeds of four pairs of socks
which (sweet labor of love!) she had knit with her own hands. What
a world of knowledge she thought there must be in a book with five
times as many pages as a spelling-book, and in those great red, blue,
and pink pictures, covering a whole page a foot square, and all this
knowledge to become the property of Brinkly! But Brinkly soon found
that geography was above his present capacity, and so told Mr. Meadows.
That gentleman received the communication with displeasure; said that
what was the matter with him was laziness, and that laziness, of all the
qualities which a boy had, was the one which he knew best what to do
with. He then took to beating him. Brinkly, after the first beating,
which was a light one, went home and told his mother of it, and intimated
his intention not to take another. The widow was sorely distressed,
and knew not what to do. On the one hand was her grief to
know her son was unjustly beaten, and his spirit cowed; for she knew
that he studied all the time he had, and though uneducated herself, she
was not like many other parents of her day who thought that the best
means to develop the mind was to beat the body. But on the other
hand would be the disappointment of his getting an education if he
should leave the school, there being then no other in the neighborhood.
This, thought the poor woman, was the worse horn of the
dilemma; and so she wept, and begged him, as he loved her, to submit
to Mr. Meadows. He should have the more time for study; she
would chop the wood and feed the stock; he should have all the time
at home to himself; he could get it, she knew he could; it would
come to him after a while.
Brinkly yielded; but how many a hard struggle he made to continue
that submission, no one knew but he, — not even his mother, for he
concealed from her as much as he could the treatment which he had
received and the suffering which he had endured. Mr. Meadows could
him. He saw it in his eye every time he beat him, and it was this which
afforded him such a satisfaction to beat him. He wished to subdue
him, and he had not succeeded. Brinkly would never beg nor weep.
Mr. Meadows often thought he was on the point of resisting him; but
he knew the reason why he did not, and while he hated him for it, he
trusted that it would last. Yet he often doubted whether it would or
not; and thus the matter became so intensely exciting that he continually
sought for opportunities of bringing it up. He loved to tempt
him. He had no doubt but that he could easily manage him in an
even combat; but he did not wish it to come to that. He only gloried
in goading him almost to resistance, and then seeing him yield.
Have we not all seen how the showman adapts himself to the different
animals of the menagerie? How quickly and sharply he speaks to the
lesser animals who jump over his hand and back, and over and back
again, and then crouch in submission as he passes by! But when he
goes to the lion, you can scarcely hear his low tones as he commands
him to use and perform his part, and is not certain whether the king of
the beasts will do as he is bidden or not. Doubts like these were in
the mind of Mr. Meadows when he was about to set upon Brinkly
Glisson; but the greater these doubts, the more he enjoyed the trial.
After a short rest from the fatigues of the last exercise, during which
he curiously and seriously eyed the lad, he rose from his seat, paced
slowly across the room once or twice, and taking a hickory switch, the
longest of all he had, he stopped in the middle of the floor, and in a
low, quiet tone, said:
“Brinkly Glisson, come.”
Allen had been eyeing Brinkly all the time since the close of the
circus. He saw the conflict which was going on in his soul, and when
Mr. Meadows had burst into the paroxysm of laughter at the untoward
ending of the `horsin',' he thought he saw that the conflict was ended.
Slowly and calmly Brinkly rose from his seat, and walked up and
stood before Mr. Meadows.
“Why, hi!” thought Allen.
“Off with your coat, sir,” — low and gentle, and with a countenance
almost smiling. Brinkly stood motionless. But he had done so once
or twice before, in similar circumstances, and at length yielded. “Off
with it, sir,” — louder and not so gentle. No motion on Brinkly's part,
not even in his eyes, which looked steadily into the master's, with a
meaning which he nearly, but not quite understood.
“Aint you going to pull off that coat, sir?”
“What for?” asked Brinkly.
“What for, sir?”
“Yes, sir; what for?”
“Because I am going to give you this hickory, you impudent scoundrel;
and if you don't pull it off this minute, I'll give you sich a beatin'
as'll make you feel like you never was whipped before since you was
born. Aint you going to pull it off, sir?”
“Not now, sir.”
Allen wriggled on his seat, and his face shone as the full moon. Mr.
Meadows retreated a step, and holding his switch two feet from the
larger end, he raised that end to strike.
“Stop one minute, if you please.”
Mr. Meadows lowered his arm, and his face smiled a triumph. This
was the first time Brinkly had ever begged. He chuckled. Allen
looked disappointed.
“Stop, eh? I yi! This end looks heavy, does it? Well, I wouldn't
be surprised if it warn't sorter heavy. Will you pull off your coat now,
sir?”
“Mr. Meadows, I asked you to stop because I wanted to say a few
words to you. You have beat me and beat me, worse than you ought
to beat a dog,” (Allen's face getting right again); “and God in heaven
knows that, in the time that I have come to school to you, I have tried
as hard as a boy ever did to please you and get my lessons. I can't
understand that geography, and I aint been reading long enough to
understand it. I have asked you to let me quit. Mother has asked
you. You wouldn't do it; but beat me, and beat me, and beat me,”
(there is no telling whether Allen wants to laugh or to cry), “and now,
the more I study it, the more I don't understand it. I would have quit
school long ago, but mother was so anxious for me to learn, and made
me come. And now I have took off my coat to you the last time.”
(Ah! now there is a great tear in Allen's eye.) “Listen to me,” (as
the teacher's hand makes a slight motion); “don't strike me. I know
I'm not learning anything, and your beating aint going to make me
learn any faster. If you are determined to keep me in this geography,
and to beat me, just say so, and I'll take my hat and books and go
home. I'd like to not come to-day, but I thought I knew my lesson.
Now, I say again, don't, for God's sake, don't strike me.” And he
raised up both his hands, pale and trembling.
It would be impossible to describe the surprise and rage expressed
on the face of Mr. Meadows during the delivery and at the close of
this little harangue. He looked at the boy a moment. His countenance
expressed the deepest sadness; but there was nothing in it like
defiance or threatening. It was simply sad and beseeching. The
master hesitated, and looked around upon his school. It would not
do to retreat now, he thought. With an imprecation, he raised his
switch and struck with all his might.
“My God!” cried the boy; but in an instant sadness and beseeching
passed from his face. The long pent-up resentment of his soul gushed
forth, and the fury of a demon glared from his eyes. He was preparing
to spring upon Mr. Meadows, when the latter, by a sudden rush,
caught him and thrust him backward over the front bench. They both
tumbled on the floor, between the rows of desks, Mr. Meadows uppermost.
“It's come,” said Allen, quietly, as he rose and looked down upon
the combatants.
Mr. Meadows attempted to disengage himself and rise; but Brinkly
would rise with him. After several attempts at this, Brinkly managed
to get upon one knee, and by a violent jerk to bring Mr. Meadows
down upon the floor, where they were, in the phraseology of the wrestling
ring, cross and pile. Mr. Meadows shouted to two or three of the
boys to hold Brinkly until he could rise. They rose to obey, but Allen,
without saying a word, put out his hand before them, and motioning
them to their seats, they resumed them. And now the contest set in
for good, Mr. Meadows struggling to recover his advantage, and
Brinkly to improve what he had gained. The former's right arm was
thrown across the latter's neck, his right hand wound in and pulling
violently his hair, while his left hand pressed against his breast.
Brinkly's left leg was across Mr. Meadows' middle, and with his right
against a stationary desk, his right arm bent and lying under him like
a lizard's, and his left in Mr. Meadows' shirt-collar, he struggled to
get uppermost; but whenever he attempted to raise his head, that
hand wound in his hair would instantly bring it back to the floor.
When Mr. Meadows would attempt to disengage himself from underneath
Brinkly's leg, that member, assisted by its brother from the
desk, against which it was pressed, held it like the boa holds the
bullock. Oh, Mr. Meadows, Mr. Meadows! you don't know the
boy that grapples with you. You have never known anything at all
blows not half so hard. Remember, you walk a mile to and from
the school, and Brinkly seven, often running the first half. Besides,
there is something in Brinkly's soul which will not let him tire. The
remembrance of long continued wrongs, which cannot longer be borne;
the long subdued but now inextinguishable desire of revenge; every
hostile feeling but fear — all these are now dominant in that simple
heart, and they have made of him a man, and if you hope to conquer
you must fight as you never have fought before, and never may have to
fight again.
Your right hand pulls less vigorously at the hair of Brinkly's ascending
head. Look there! Brinkly's leg has moved an inch further across
you! Wring and twist, Mr. Meadows, for right under that leg, if anywhere
for you, is now the post of honor. Can't you draw out your left
leg, and plant it against the desk behind you, as Brinkly does with his
right. Alas! no. Brinkly has now made a hook of his left, and his
heel is pressing close into the cavity behind your knee. Ah! that was
an unlucky move for you then, Mr. Meadows, when you let Brinkly's
hair go, and thrust both of your hands at his eyes. You must have
done that in a passion. But you are raking him some now, that is
certain. But see there, now! he has released his grasp at your shirt-collar,
and thrown his left arm over you. Good morning to you now,
Mr. Meadows!
In the instant that Mr. Meadows had released his hold upon his
hair, Brinkly, though he was being gouged terribly, released his hold
upon his collar, threw his arm over his neck, and pushing with all his
might with his right leg against the desk, and making a corresponding
pull with his left, he succeeded in getting fully upon him; then, springing
up quick as lightning, as Mr. Meadows, panting, his eyes gleaming
with the fury of an enraged tigress, was attempting to rise, he dealt
him a blow in the face with his fist which sent him back bleeding like
a butchered beast. Once more the master attempted to rise, and those
who saw it will never forget that piteous spectacle of rage, and shame,
and pain, and fear. Once more Brinkly struck him back. How that
brave boy's face shone out with those gaudia certaminis which the brave
always feel when in the midst of an inevitable and righteous combat!
Springing upon his adversary again, and seizing his arms and pinioning
them under his knees, he wound his hands in his shaggy hair, and
raising his head, thrust it down several times with all his might against
the floor.
“Spare me! for God's sake, spare me!” cried Mr. Meadows, in
tones never before heard from him in that house.
Brinkly stopped. “Spare you!” he said, now panting himself. “Yes!
you who never spared anything that you could hurt! Poor cruel
coward! You loved to beat other people, and gloried in seeing them
suffering, and when they begged you to spare them, you laughed —
you did. Oh, how I have heard you laugh, when they asked you to
spare them! And now you are beat yourself and whipped, you beg
like a dog. Yes, and I will spare you,” he continued, rising from him.
“It would be a pity to beat any such a poor cowardly human any
longer. Now go! and make them poor things there go to horsin'
again, and cut 'em in two again; and then get in the circus ring, and
make them others, girls and all — yes, girls and all — hold up their
clothes and trot around you, and when they cry like you, and beg you
to spare 'em, do you laugh again!”
He rose and turned away from him. Gathering up his books, he
went to the peg whereon his hat was hanging, and was in the act of
taking it down, when a sudden revulsion of feeling came over him,
and he sat down and wept.
Oh, the feelings in that poor boy's breast! The recollection of
the cruel wrongs which he had suffered; of the motives, so full of
pious duty, which had made him endure them; the thought of how
mistaken had been the wish of his mother that he should endure them;
and then of how terribly they had been avenged. These all meeting
at once in his gentle but untaught spirit, overcame it, and broke it into
weeping.
Meanwhile, other things were going on. Mr. Meadows, haggard,
bruised, bleeding, covered with dirt, slunk off towards the fireplace, sat
down in his chair, and buried his face in his hands. The pupils had
been in the highest states of alternate alarm and astonishment. They
were now all standing about their seats, looking alternately at Brinkly
and Mr. Meadows, but at the latter mostly. Their countenances plainly
indicated that this was a sight which, in their minds, had never before
been vouchsafed to mortal vision. A schoolmaster whipped! beat!
choked! his head bumped! and that by one of his pupils! And that
schoolmaster, Mr. Meadows! — Mr. Meadows, who, ten minutes before,
had been in the exercise of sovereign and despotic authority. And
then to hear him beg! A schoolmaster! — Mr. Meadows! — to hear
him actually beg Brinkly to spare him! These poor children actually
They were terrified, and to some extent miserable at the sight of so
much power, so much authority, so much royalty dishonored and laid
low. Brinkly seemed to them to have been transformed. He was a
murderer! a REGICIDE!! Talk of the divine right of kings! There
was never more reverence felt for it than the children in country schools
felt for the kingly dignity of the schoolmaster of fifty years agone.
| CHAPTER VI. Dukesborough tales | |