THE SCHOOLMASTER'S STORY.

I was in the shop of my friend on the day of the great snow-storm, when

the plan was proposed which he mentions in the beginning of his story,

called "Pink and Blue," printed in this magazine in the month of May,

1861. Fears were entertained that some of the women might object. And

they did. My sister Fanny, Mrs. Maylie, said it was like being set in a

frame. Farmer Hill's wife hoped we shouldn't tell _exactly_ how much we

used to think of them, for "praise to the face was open disgrace." But

my wife, Mrs. Browne, thought the stories should be made as good as

possible, for praise could not hurt them so long as they knew

themselves, just what they were. It was suggested by some one, that, if

the married men told how they won their wives, there were a couple of

old bachelors belonging to our set who ought to tell how they came to be

without, which seemed very fair.

When the lot fell upon me, my wife laughed, and declared that our

affairs ran so crooked, she didn't believe I could tell a straight

story. But Fanny said _that_ would make it seem more like a book; the

puzzle to her was what I should call myself, seeing that I was neither

one thing nor another. It was finally agreed, however, that, as I had

taught school one winter, and that an important one, I should call mine

"The Schoolmaster's Story." The truth is, my own calling would not look

well at the head of an article, for I am by profession a loafer. For

this vocation, which was my own deliberate choice, I was well prepared,

having graduated, with a moderate degree of honor, from Cambridge

College. I know of no profession requiring for its complete enjoyment a

more thorough and varied preparation.

My sister Fanny and I were two poor orphans, brought up, fed, clothed,

and loved by our Aunt Huldah. If it had not been for her, I don't know

what we should have done. Our Aunt Huldah was a widow and a _manager_.

Nearly every person has among his acquaintances one individual, usually

a female, who is called _a good manager_. She knows what is to be done,

and who should do it,--picks out wives for the young men, husbands for

the maidens, and attends herself to the matter of bringing them

together. Sometimes these individuals become tyrannical, standing with

vials of wrath all ready to be poured forth upon the heads of the

unsubmissive, and it must be owned that our aunt was in this not wholly

unlike the rest; but then she was so good-natured, so reasonable, that,

although the aforesaid vials were often known to be well filled, yet her

kindness and good sense always kept the corks in.

I think she took us partly from love, and partly to show how children

ought to be managed. We got on admirably together. I was by no means a

fiery youth. I was amiable, fond of books, had soft, light hair, fair

complexion, a quiet, persevering way, and never _ran_ after the girls.

Taking all these things into consideration, my aunt determined that I

should go to college, and become an honor to the family.

Fanny, though not a bit like me, got along equally as well with the

reigning power. She was a smart, black-eyed maiden, full of life, and

had herself some of the managing blood in her veins. In fact, so bright

and so sly was my dear little sister, that she often succeeded in

managing the Grand Panjandra herself. I speak thus particularly of

Fanny, because, if it had not been for her, I might now have no story to

tell. I never, from childhood to manhood, worked myself into any tight

place, that her little scheming brain did not invent some way of getting

me out.

When my collegiate labors were nearly finished, our aunt was taken

_poor_. She was subject to these attacks, under which she always

resorted to the heroic treatment, retrenching and economizing with the

greatest zeal. This attack of hers was the primary cause of my taking a

winter school in the little village of Norway, about twenty miles from

home. I was perfectly willing to keep school; it seemed the easiest

thing in the world.

The night before leaving home, my aunt summoned me to her chamber. She

sat erect in her straight-backed chair, a tall, dark woman, in a

bombazine gown, with white muslin frill and turban. Her eyes were black

and deep. Her nose was rather above than below the usual height, and

eminently fitted to bear its spectacles. She was evidently a person who

thought before she acted, but who was sure to act after she had thought.

Good advice was what she wanted to give me. The world was a snare. The

Devil was always on the lookout, and everywhere in a minute. She read

considerable portions from the "Boston Recorder," after which she

dropped some hints about the marriage-state,--said she had noticed, with

pleasure, my prudence in not hurrying these matters, adding, that it was

much safer to choose a wife from among our own neighbors and friends

than to run the risk of marrying a stranger. No names were mentioned,

but I knew she was thinking of Alice, the postmaster's daughter, a fair

young maiden, soft in speech, quiet in manners, and constant at

meeting,--a maiden, in fact, of whom I had long stood in dread.

My school commenced the week after Thanksgiving. I had fancied myself

appearing among my scholars like a king surrounded by his subjects. But

these lofty notions soon melted down beneath the searching glances of

forty pairs of eyes. A sense of my incompetency came over me, and I felt

like saying,--"Young people, little children, what can I do for you, and

how shall I show you any good?"

The first thing I did was to take the names. Ah! in what school-record

of modern times could be found such a catalogue of the Christian

virtues? Think of mending pens for Faith and Prudence!--of teaching

arithmetic to Love, Hope, and Charity!--of imparting general knowledge

to Experience! There were three of this last name, and it was only after

a long _experience_ of my own that I learned that the first was called

"Pelly," the second, "Exy," and the third, "Sperrence." Penelope was

rendered "Pep."

It gave me peculiar sensations to find among my scholars so many large

girls. I have said that I had never been in the habit of running after

the girls, and I never had. I was one of those quiet young men who read

poetry, buy pictures and statues, and play the flute on still, moonlight

evenings. Not that I was indifferent to female charms, or let beauty

pass by unnoticed. In fact, I was keenly alive to the beautiful in all

its forms. I had seen, in the course of my life, a great many handsome

faces, which, in my quiet way, I had studied, when nobody was minding,

comparing beauties, or imagining alterations for the better, just as if

I had been studying a picture or a statue, and with no more fear of

being myself affected. Passing strange it was, that, exposed as I had

been, I should have remained so long unscathed. My time had not yet

come. But now dangers thickened around me, and I felt that Aunt Huldah

knew the world, when she said it was a _snare_. For, in glancing about

the room carelessly, while taking the names, I could not but perceive

that I was beset by perils on every side,--perils from which there

seemed no possible escape: for no sooner did I turn resolutely away from

a dove-like face in one corner than my eye was caught by a bright eye or

a sweet smile in another; and the admiring glance which with reluctance

I withdrew from a graceful figure was arrested by a well-shaped head or

a rosy cheek. One was almost a beauty, with her light curls and delicate

pink cheeks; another was quite such: her smile was bewitching, and her

eyes were roguish. But I soon found that there were other things to be

attended to besides picking out the prettiest flowers in my winter

bouquet.

I have intimated that my ideas regarding school-keeping were exceedingly

vague. Nevertheless, I had in the course of my studies picked out and

put together a system for the instruction and management of youth. This

system I now proceeded to apply.

It is curious, as we trace back the current of our lives, to discover

the multitude of whims, plans, and mighty resolves which lie wrecked

upon the shore. I cannot help smiling, as, in looking back upon my own

life-stream, I discern the remains of my precious system lying high and

dry among the rocks of that winter's experience. Yet I tried all ways to

make it go. I was like a boy with a new boat, who increases or lessens

his ballast, now tries her with mainsail, foresail, topsail, jib, flying

jib, and jibber jib, and now with bare poles,--_anything_ to make her

float. Each night I took my poor system home for repairs, and each

morning, full of hope, tried to launch it anew in my school-room. I have

always felt that I wronged those scholars, that I learned more than I

taught. I have no doubt of it.

I, of course, as was then the custom, boarded round; and this method of

obtaining nourishment, though savoring somewhat of the Arab or the

common beggar, I, on the whole, enjoyed. It gave me a much stronger

interest in the children, seeing them thus in their own homes, where was

so much love, so much solicitude for even the dullest of them. Besides

this, I came in contact with all sorts of curious people, found new

faces to study.

Another custom of the place I also fell in with, which was, to keep an

evening-school. All the schoolmasters had kept one from time immemorial.

This evening-school I really enjoyed. Plenty of charming girls, too big

or too busy to waste their daylight upon books, came from great

distances, bringing their brothers and their beaux, all intent upon

having a good time and getting on in their ciphering. Teaching them was

a pleasure, for they felt the need of knowledge. I feel bound to say,

however, that imparting knowledge was not my only pleasure. In intervals

of leisure, before or after school, or at recess, I found much that was

worthy attention. Seated at my desk, wrapped in my dignity, I watched,

with many a sidelong glance, the progress of rustic love-making. I only

mean by this, that from their general movements I constructed such

love-stories as seemed to me probable. I learned who went with whom, who

wished they could go with whom, who could and who couldn't, who did and

who didn't.

Did I not go into the business on my own account? That is by no means an

improper question. In fact, I might have expected it. Some have, no

doubt, considered it a settled thing that I fell in love with the

bright-eyed beauty, before mentioned, or with the pink-cheeked; but I

beg that such fancies may be brushed away, that all may be in readiness

to receive the true queen, who in due time will come to take possession

of her kingdom. For I will be honest with you, and not, like most

story-tellers, try to pull wool over your eyes all the way through. I

will say openly, that I did first see the girl who was afterwards my

wife in that cold little village of Norway. Cold it seems not to me now,

in the light of so many warm, sunshiny memories!

When my evening-school had been in operation a few weeks, I noticed, one

evening, at the end of the back-form on the girls' side a new face. The

owner of this new face was very quietly studying her book, a thin,

blue-covered book, Temple's Arithmetic. She was dressed in black,--not

fine, glossy black, but black that was gray, rusty, and well worn. A

very small silk handkerchief of the same color was drawn over her

shoulders and pinned where its two corners met her gown in front, making

a sort of triangle of whiteness,--some would say, "revealing a neck and

throat pure and white as a lily-leaf"; and they would say no more than

the truth, only I never like to put things in that way. Just so white

was her face. Her hair was black, soft, but not what the other girls

would have called smooth, or "slick." It was pulled away behind her

ears, and fixed up rather queerly in a great bunch behind, as if the

only aim were to get it out of the way. The upper part of her face was

the most striking,--the black eyebrows upon such a white, straight

forehead. I am rather particular in describing this new face,

because--well, perhaps because I remember it so distinctly. While I was

studying her as, I might perhaps say, a work of Art, she suddenly raised

her eyes, as people always do when they are watched. I looked away in a

hurry, though her eyes were just what I wanted to see more of, for they

were splendid eyes. "Splendid" is not the right word, though. Deep,

thoughtful, sorrowful, are the words which are floating about in my

mind. I wondered how she would look when animated, and watched, at

recess, for some of the others to talk to her.

But she seemed one by herself. While other girls chatted with their

beaux, or whispered wonderful secrets, she remained sitting alone, now

looking at her book, and now glancing around in a pitiful sort of way,

that made me feel like going to speak to her. In fact, as her teacher, I

was bound to do this, and, true to the promptings of duty, I walked

slowly down the alley. As I paused by her side, she glanced up in my

face. I never forgot that look. I might say that I never recovered from

the effects of it. I asked about her studies, and very willingly

explained a sum over which she had stumbled.

After this, she came every evening, and it usually happened that it was

most convenient for me to attend to her at recess. Helping her in her

sums was a pleasant thing to do, but in nothing was I more interested

than in the writing-exercise. I felt that I was indeed fortunate to be

in duty bound to follow the movement of her charming little hand across

the page, to teach her pretty fingers how to hold the pen; but then, if

pleasure and duty _would_ unite, how could I help it? Then I had a way,

all my own, of throwing looks sidelong at her face, while thus engaged;

but sometimes my eyes would get so entangled in her long lashes, that I

could hardly turn them away before she looked up.

Yet I never thought then of being in love with the girl. Marriage was a

subject upon which I had never seriously reflected. Much as I liked to

watch, to criticize pretty faces, I never had thought of taking one for

my own. I was like a good boy in a flower-garden, who looks about him

with delight, admiring each beautiful blossom, but plucking none. Not

that I meant to live a bachelor; for, whenever I looked forward,--an

indefinite number of years,--I invariably saw myself sitting by my own

fireside, with a gentle-faced woman making pinafores near me, a cradle

close by, and one or two chaps reading stories, or playing checkers with

beans and buttons. But this gentle maker of pinafores had never yet

assumed a tangible shape. She had only floated before me, in my lonely

moments, enveloped in mist, and far too indistinct for revealing the

color of the eyes and hair. So I could not be in love with Rachel,--her

name was Rachel Lowe,--only a sort of magnetism, as it would be called

in these days, drew my eyes constantly that way. I soon found, however,

that it was impossible to watch her face with that indifference with

which, as I have before stated, it had been my custom to regard female

beauty. Its peculiar expression puzzled me, and I kept trying to study

it out. Interesting, but dangerous study! The difficulties of

school-keeping are by no means fully appreciated.

One evening, after school, the young folks stopped to slide down-hill.

Rachel and a few little girls stood awhile, watching the sleds go by;

but it was cold standing still, and they soon moved homewards. I walked

along by the side of Rachel: this was the first time I ever went home

with her. I found she was living in the family of Squire Brewster, a

family in which I had not yet boarded. After this I frequently walked

home with her. Sometimes I would determine not to do so again, for I was

afraid I was getting--I didn't know where, but where I had never been

before; but when evening came, and I saw how handsome she looked, and

how all alone, I couldn't help it. It was not often I could get her to

talk much. She was bashful, different from any girl I had ever met. The

only friend she seemed to have was the young wife of the Doctor, Mrs.

James. The Doctor, she said, had attended her through a fever, and asked

no pay. His wife was kind, and lent her books to read.

I was boarding at that time with a poor widow-woman, and one night I

asked her about Rachel. She warmed up immediately, said Rachel Lowe was

a good girl and ought to be "sot by," and not slighted on her parents'

account.

"And who were her parents?" I asked.

"Why, when her father was a poor boy, the Squire thought he would take

him and bring him up to learnin'; but when he came to be a man grown

almost, he ran away to sea; and long afterwards we heard of his marryin'

some outlandish girl, half English, half French,--but Rachel's no worse

for that. After his wife died,--and, as far as I can find out, the way

he carried on was what killed her,--he started to bring Rachel here; but

he died on the passage, and she came with only a letter. I suppose he

thought the ones that had been kind to him would be kind to her; but,

you see, the Squire is a-livin' with his second wife, and she isn't the

woman the first Miss Brewster was. In time folks will come round, but

now they sort of look down upon her; for, you see, everybody knows who

her father was, and how he didn't do any credit to his bringin' up, and

nobody knows who her mother was, only that she was a furrener, which was

so much agin her. But you are goin' right from here to the Squire's; and

mebby, if you make of her, and let folks see that you set store by her,

they'll begin to open their eyes."

I thought I felt just like kissing the poor widow; anyway, I knew I felt

like kissing somebody. To be sure, the talk was all about Rachel, and it

might--But no matter; what difference does it make now who it was I

wanted to kiss forty or fifty years ago?

The next day I went to board at the Squire's. It was dark when I reached

the house; the candles were just being lighted. The Squire, a kindly old

man, met me in the porch and took my bundle. I followed him into the

kitchen. There something more than common seemed to be going on, for

chairs were being arranged in rows, and Mrs. Brewster was putting out of

sight every article suggestive of work. There was to be an evening

meeting. I watched the people as they came in, still and solemn. Not

many of the women wore bonnets. All who lived within a moderate distance

just stepped in with a little homespun blanket over the head, or a

patchwork cradle-quilt. I noticed Rachel when she entered and took her

seat upon the settle. It will only take a minute to tell what a settle

is, or, rather, was. If you should take a low wooden bench and add to it

a high back and ends, you would make a settle. It usually stood near the

fireplace, and was a most luxurious seat,--its high back protecting you

from cold draughts and keeping in the heat of the fire. It was now

shoved back against the wall. This neighborhood-gathering was called a

conference-meeting, being carried on by the brethren. I liked to hear

them speak, because they were so much in earnest. The exercises closed

with singing "Old Hundred." I joined at first, but soon there fell upon

my ear such sweet strains from the other side of the room that I was

glad to stop and listen. They came from the settle. It was Rachel,

singing counter. Only those who have heard it know what counter is, and

how particularly beautiful it is in "Old Hundred." I think it has

already been intimated that I was somewhat poetical. It will not,

therefore, be considered strange, that, when I heard those clear tones,

rising high above the harsher ones around, above the grating bass of the

brethren and the cracked voices of elderly females, I thought of summer

days in the woods, when I had listened to the notes of the robin amid a

chorus of locusts and grasshoppers.

Squire Brewster treated Rachel kindly; but women make the home, and Mrs.

Brewster was a hard woman. The neighbors said she was close, and would

have more of a cat than her skin. Miss Sarah had been out of town to

school, and was proud. Sam, the grown-up son, was coarse, but just as

proud as his sister. I disliked the way he looked at Rachel. Her

position in the family I soon understood. She was there to take the

drudgery from Mrs. Brewster, to be ordered about by Miss Sarah,

tormented by the younger children, and teased, if not insulted, by Sam.

What puzzled me was her manner towards them. She spoke but seldom, and,

it seemed to me, had a way of looking _down_ upon these people, who were

so bent upon making her look _up_ to them. The cross looks and words

seemed not to hit her. Her deep, dark eyes appeared as if they were

looking away beyond the scenes around her. I was very glad to see,

however, that she could notice Sam enough to avoid him; for to that

young man I had taken a dislike, and not, as it turned, without reason.

One evening, during my second week at the Brewsters', I sat long at my

chamber-window, watching the fading twilight, the growing moonlight, and

the steady snow-light. Presently I saw Rachel come out to take in the

clothes. It seemed just right that she should appear then, for in her

face were all three,--the shadowy twilight, the soft moonlight, and the

white snow-light.

She wore a little shawl, crossed in front, and tied behind at the waist,

and over her head a bright-colored blanket, just pinned under the chin.

This exposed her face, and while I watched it, as it showed front-view

or profile, not knowing which I liked best, admiring, meanwhile, the

grace with which she reached up, where the line was high, sometimes

springing from the ground, I saw Sam approaching, very slowly and

softly, from behind. When quite near, watching his opportunity, he

seized her by the waist. He was going to kiss her. I started up, as if

to do something, but there was nothing to be done. With a quick motion

she slid from his grasp, stepped back, and looked him in the face. Not a

word fell from her lips, only her silence spoke. "I despise you! There

is nothing in you that words can reach!" was the speech which I felt in

my heart she was making, though her lips never moved. Other things, too,

I felt in my heart,--rather perplexing, agitating, but still pleasing

sensations, which I did not exactly feel like analyzing. One of the

children came out to take hold one side of the basket, and Sam walked

away.

I went down soon after and look my favorite seat upon the settle, which

was then in its own place by the fire. The children were in bed, the

older ones had gone to singing-school, and Mrs. Brewster was at an

evening-meeting. The Squire was at home with his rheumatism.

I liked a nice chat with the Squire. He was a great reader, and

delighted to draw me into long talks, political or theological. My

remarks on this particular evening would have been more brilliant, had

not Rachel been sprinkling and folding clothes at the back of the room.

The Squire, in his roundabout, came exactly between us, so that, in

looking up to answer his questions, I could not help seeing a white arm

with the sleeve rolled above the elbow, could not help watching the

drops of water, as she shook them from her fingers. I wondered how it

was, that, while working so hard, her hands should be so white. My

sister Fanny told me, long afterwards, that some girls always have white

hands, no matter how hard they work.

This question interested me more than the political ones raised by the

Squire, and I became aware that my answers were getting wild, by his

eying me over his spectacles. Rachel finished the clothes, and seated

herself, with her knitting-work, at the opposite corner of the

fireplace. I changed to the other end of the settle: sitting long in one

position is tiresome. She was knitting a gray woollen stocking. I think

she must have been "setting the heel," for she kept counting the

stitches. I had often noticed Fanny doing the same thing, at this

turning-point in the progress of a stocking; but then it never took her

half as long. After knitting so many feet of leg, though, any change

must have been pleasant.

A mug of cider stood near one andiron; leaning against the other was a

flat stone,--the Squire's "Simon." It would soon be needed, for he was

already nodding,--nodding and brightening up,--nodding and brightening

up. While he slept, the room was still, unless the fire snapped, or a

brand fell down. I said within myself, "This is a pleasant time! It is

good to be here!" That cozy settle, that glowing fire, that good old

man, that pure-hearted girl,--how distinctly do they now rise before me!

It seems such a little, little while ago! For I feel young. I like to be

with young folks; I like what they like. Yet deep lines are set in my

forehead, the veins stand out upon my hands, and my shadow is the shadow

of a stooping old man; and when, from frequent weariness, I rest my head

on my hand, the fingers clasp only smoothness, or, at best, but a few

scattered locks,--_wisps_, I might as well say. If ever I took pride in

anything, it was in my fine head of hair. Well, what matters it? Since

_heart_ of youth is left me, I'll never mind the _head_.

Many writers speak well of age, and it certainly is not without its

advantages, meeting everywhere, as it does, with respect and indulgence.

Neither is it, so the books say, without its own peculiar beauty. An old

man leaning upon his staff, with white locks streaming in the wind, they

call a picturesque object. All this may be; still, I have tried both,

and must say that my own leaning is towards youth.

Remembering the desire of the poor widow, that Rachel should be "made

of," I continued to walk home with her from evening-school, and to pay

her many little attentions, even after I had left the Squire's. The

widow was right in saying, that, when folks saw that I "set store" by

her, they would open their eyes. They did,--in wonder that "the

schoolmaster should be so attentive to Rachel Lowe!" We were

"town-talk." I often, in the school-house entry, overheard the scholars

joking about us; and once I saw them slyly writing our names together on

the bricks of the fireplace. Everybody was on the look-out for what

might happen.

One evening, in school-time, I stood a long while leaning over her desk,

working out for her a difficult sum. On observing me change my position,

to rest myself, she, very naturally, and almost unconsciously, moved for

me to sit down, and I took a seat beside her, going on, all the while,

with my ciphering. Happening to look up suddenly, I saw that half the

school were watching us. I kept my seat with calmness, though I knew I

turned red. I glanced at Rachel, and really pitied her, she looked so

distressed, so conscious. That night she hurried home before I had put

away my books, and for several evenings did not appear.

But if she could do without me, I could not do without her. I missed her

face there at the end of the back-seat. I missed the walk home with her:

I had grown to depend upon it. She was just getting willing to talk, and

in what she said and the way she said it, in the tone of her voice and

in her whole manner, there was something to me extremely bewitching. She

had been strangely brought up, was familiar with books, but, having

received no regular education, fancied herself ignorant, and different

from everybody.

Finding that she still kept away from the school, I resolved one night

to call at the Squire's. It was some time after dark when I reached

there; and as I stood in the porch, brushing the snow from my boots, I

became aware of loud talking in the kitchen. Poor Rachel! both Mrs.

Brewster and Sarah were upon her, laughing and sneering about her

"setting her cap" for the schoolmaster, and accusing her of trying to

get him to come home with her, of moving for him to sit down by her

side! Once I heard Rachel's voice,--"Oh, please don't talk so! I don't

do as you say. It is dreadful for you to talk so!" I judged it better to

defer my call, and walked slowly along the road. It was not very cold,

and I sat down upon the stone wall. I sat down to think. Presently

Rachel herself hurried by, carrying a pitcher. She was bound on some

errand up the road. I called out,--

"Rachel, stop!"

She turned, in affright, and, upon seeing me, hurried the more. But I

overtook her, and placed her arm within mine in a moment, saying,--

"Rachel, you are not afraid of me, I hope!"

"Oh, no, Sir! no, indeed!" she exclaimed.

"And yet you run away from me."

She made no answer.

"Rachel," I said, at last, "I wish you would talk to me freely. I wish

you would tell what troubles you."

She hesitated a moment; and when, at last, she spoke, her answer rather

surprised me.

"I ought not to be so weak, I know," she replied; "but it is so hard to

stand all alone, to live my life just right, that sometimes I get

discouraged."

I had expected complaints of ill treatment, but found her blaming no one

but herself.

"And who said you must stand alone?" I asked.

"That was one of the things my mother used to say."

"And what other things did she say?"

"Oh, Mr. Browne," she replied, "I wish I could tell you about my mother!

But I can't talk; I am too ignorant; I don't know how to say it. When

she was alive," she continued, speaking very slowly, "I never knew how

good she was; but now her words keep coming back to me. Sometimes I

think she whispers them,--for she is an angel, and you know the hymn

says,

'There are angels hovering round.'

When we sing,

'Ye holy throng of angels bright,'