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 _aeon_, 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 phraseology 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,
Roman-nosed 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:
MR. EDITOR--SIR: This, for two reasons, is my last article for
your journal. Firstly: My time and the exigencies of my
profession will not permit me to further pursue a discussion
which, on your part, has degenerated into the merest twaddle.
Secondly: It only needs, at my hands, an exposition of the
false and fraudulent claims you make to classical attainments,
to entirely annihilate your unsubstantial and wholly undeserved
popularity in this community, and to send you back to peddling
your bass wood hams and maple nutmegs. In order to put on a
false show of erudition, you lug into your last article a
familiar Latin sentence. Now, sir, if you had sensibly foregone
any attempt at translation, you might, possibly, have made some
one think you knew a shade more than a horse; but "whom the
gods would destroy they first make mad."
You say, "_De mortuis nil nisi bonum_" may be freely
translated, "If you can't say something good of the dead, keep
your tarnal mouth shut about them!" Shades of Horace and
Praxiteles! What would Pindar or Caesar say? But I will not
jest at the expense of sound scholarship. In conclusion, I
simply submit the following _literal translation_ of the Latin
sentence in question: "_De_--of, _mortuis_--the dead,
_nil_--nothing, _nisi_--but, _bonum_--goods," so that the whole
quotation may be rendered as follows--"Nothing (is left) of the
dead but (their) goods." This is strictly according to the
dictionary. Here, so far as I am concerned, this discussion
ends.
Your ob't serv't,
T. BLODGETT.
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:
"EDITOR OF THE STAR--DEAR SIR: In answer to your letter
requesting me to decide between yourself and Mr. Blodgett as to
the correct English rendering of the Latin sentence '_De
mortuis nil nisi bonum_,' allow me to say that your free
translation is a good one, if not very literal or elegant. As
to Mr. Blodgett's, if the man is sincere, he is certainly crazy
or wofully illiterate; no doubt the latter.
"Very respectfully,
"W----,
"_Prof. Languages, Wabash College._"
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.