The old schoolmaster

Preface

For a year or two I have had in mind to write a book something like the following pages, but no definite plan presented itself until last summer. I then sent circulars to many former pupils regarding the matter. The replies received set me to work. I thought when I commenced the work I could devote my whole time to it, but conditions compelled me to teach; hence the story of my experiences has been written nights after teaching school for six hours. A radical change in the material used has also been made. The conception first entertained was to make the book consist mostly of biographical sketches of former pupils. I made this idea known to my pupils, and the almost universal voice of all called for a change. The demand was for more about the "Old Master" and less about the boys. I yielded to the request though still thinking the change was a mistake. I wish to thank, with tears of gratitude filling my eyes, the "Boys and Girls" who have helped me in this labor and kindly encouraged me.

Foxcroft, May I.

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE

I. Childhood 9

II. Schooldays 23

Chapter I. Childhood

I was born at East Sangerville, Maine, October 21st, 1839. My earliest recollection is an old clock that stood in the corner of the room where I slept in a trundle-bed. This bed was rolled out at night and served for a sleeping place for my brother and myself. In the morning it was pushed under the bed where father and mother slept. That trundle-bed had a history. There were fourteen children in all, and, although the house was large, with an ell on either side, yet it was always crowded, as my father boarded the men who worked in his mills.

The bed was about four feet long. Two boys always occupied that bed till their feet began to stick out over the footboard ; then they graduated to a real bed in a large room where there were three beds. Sometimes the boy had to leave the trundle-bed before his feet touched the footboard ; since the graduate from the cradle was obliged to make a place for the last new comer.

That bed now lies neglected in the attic. It finally fell into the hands of my brother Kendall. My brother and wife belong to the new century, and believe in allowing the foreigner to fill the schoolhouses and swell the Census Reports. So that poor old rheumatic trundle-bed was relegated to the darkness of the attic, where it grows old more gracefully than its former occupants do.

IO THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER

That old clock was very intimately connected with my childhood days. I could see it as my mother bent over me to give the good-night kiss. It stands, as I write, in the hall, constantly reminding me of that dear mother with whom it was so long associated, though its hands, like hers, are folded at twelve and its voice, like her dear lips, is silent. The clock belonged to my maternal grandfather. It was an eight day clock, was very stately and dignified, always on time, like my mother. It reached from the floor to the ceiling. It once had a sort of head-dress or crown on its head, but this had been removed when once it stood in a low room. This gone, it had, as I thought, a kind of bald-headed look. In the other room was another tall clock that belonged to my paternal grandfather. This one had to be wound up every day. This was typical of my father. He wound himself up every morning for a busy day of hurry and bustle.

There was also a cupboard I could see from the bed. There were two doors. Behind one, I knew, were those precious china dishes that were used only when distinguished company came to tea. The other door enclosed a family medicine chest. I realized, as I gazed with a shudder, just what that door concealed from view. There was that nauseous castor oil ; that detestable rhubard ; those abominable salts ; some peppermint and camphor. There were herbs there also ; burdock leaves for the feet, when a cold had been contracted. I have often wondered since if that burdock plant did not illustrate pretty well some of our moral and physical antidotes of today. That plant was cultivated in those days for its curative properties. Today almost every farmer spends hours in trying to extirpate an obnoxious, useless weed.

Perhaps some of our social fads, so highly recommended by our professional quacks and learned theorists, may, in the future, stick simply because of their burrs, and not because of any real value.

When we had a cold in the head mother put burdock leaves on our feet, so some of these modern old ladies apply the "medicine of their advice" to points in the mental body politic farthest from the real trouble.

I could also see from my bed a small fireplace, and a cranky one too it was, and always smoked when the wind was in the northwest and, as that was the prevailing tendency of the wind, the smoking habit of that fireplace became chronic. I have since discovered that the smoking habit, once assumed, is a lifetime habit. I suppose that chimney smoked to cure the effect of the cold north wind, and continued to try the medicine through length of days. So men, with the pertinacity of a senseless chimney, persist in a treatment of some imaginary trouble, hoping that before old age comes on, a complete cure can be accomplished.

Not long ago I slept in that same room. The clock is gone but the cupboard is there ; the fireplace still smokes, but the trundle-bed is in the attic.

From the back windows of that room I could see a grove of lofty pines where afterwards my woody temple of worship was. My father's house was situated in the middle of a large plain, which was nearly encircled by a high ridge or horseback. The mill stream and pond subtended the arc on the other side. The house was a large, story and a half one with ells and there were long sheds and a big barn. The chimney of that house was four feet square and stands today a monument of the faithfulness of the artisan of ninety years ago.

Back of the house, at a distance of a quarter of a mile, there was a deep ravine between two parallel horsebacks. Through that valley flowed a small stream. On both sides of the ridges grew some lofty pines. Opposite the pines was a waterfall of some fifteen feet. I remember now the many happy hours I spent, sitting near that waterfall, hearing the noisy waters dash against the rocks, while the wind soughed through the branches of the somber pines.

There were a few tall spruce trees near by whose contralto tones coalesced with the high treble of the sharp toned birches and maples. The rhythm was complete. It was Nature's orchestra, attuned to my appreciative soul.

I had read about Niagara; but that cataract was to me a paper waterfall. Here was a real one that eclipsed Niagara a thousand fold. That torrent seemed so majestic; that defile so marvelous ; those pine tops so near Heaven. I loved to go there and read the simple rhymes that delighted a rather precocious childhood.

This was my Paradise. Adam had his, but it was never more real to him than mine was to me. In my childhood days, my mind took on a religious and poetical coloring that seems now rather remarkable. I worshipped here and saw and heard God, speaking to me. The doxology of the majestic, solemn pines, the cooing of the pigeons which filled the tree-tops, the noisy chatter of the fearless squirrels, the reverberating notes of the waterfall, the happy voices of the many colored birds ; all seemed to inspire me to lift up my voice in joyousness and praise. There was a cluster of violets close by and a few bunches of arbutus. In those flowers I saw God, a being so pure, so kind, so sweet and attractive that I could but worship him. And my God talked and walked with me, as with Adam, and sweet was that companionship, and many lessons sank deep into the soul in that, my Paradise. I resolved to be like the God I saw in my beloved Shekinah.

Those flowers were sacred, those squirrels God's choristers, those pines his temple. And I thought it would last ; never dreamed the scene would change, or that I should ; thought life would be one grand meandering through pleasant scenes, or sauntering through flowery meadows that ever were in bloom.

After I graduated from college I visited that well-remembered Eden, and did not recover my spirits for a month. Blackberry bushes had overgrown the old familiar path, the ruthless hand of man had laid low those sacred pines, vandals had shot the squirrels, the pigeons had long - since departed ; the very brook had nearly dried up ; the water, as it trickled over the well-worn rocks, seemed to lament its departed glory. I was saddened, discomforted, shocked. I could not worship there, could not dreamily muse and talk with my old friends, could realize one fact only — that my Eden was gone forever.

I have since learned, in revisiting the scenes of former activities, something sharper than briars have obstructed my pathway ; that the temples of friendship, cemented for eternity, have crumbled to dust ; that selfishness has slain every impulse to even remember.

There were also mills, — a shingle-mill, sawmill, and grist-mill. In those mills I learned to exercise and develop my muscle. There was no football in those days.

My father's name was Isaiah, and my mother's Lydia Pollard, Knowlton. The Captain Knowlton who fortified Charlestown Neck and fought so bravely at Bunker Hill was one of our ancestors. The first man killed in that battle was Luke Pollard, a great, great uncle of my mother.

The Pollard family was good stock, but have nearly all disappeared from this part of the State. W. T. Pollard, the efficient game warden, is a cousin. My father had many brothers and sisters, most of them settling in Sangerville, hence about a quarter of the people of the town are relatives. The Knowlton people in Sangerville were and are good folks. They are industrious, peaceable citizens, and are favorably regarded. There have been several teachers in the family — my nephews and nieces. George H. Knowlton was for many years a prominent superintendent of schools in Massachusetts.

There were fourteen children in my father's family. Xine of whom survive.

Whether or not any of my ancestors came over in the Mayflower I do not know. If they did, I must confess that many of their descendants have sadly departed from their theological views. The name has never been prominent in history. Some

I 4 THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER

i

have, however, occupied eminent positions. The Rev. Ebenezer Knowlton was, at one time, a Congressman, and the Hon. Hosea Knowlton was an eminent Attorney-General of Massachusetts. No one has ever been hung, and none, to my knowledge, have served the State at Thomaston. My father was Captain in the Militia, and came near covering himself with glory, in the Aroostook War. Before he got there that famous command had been given :

"Run, Strickland, run ! Fire, Stover, fire !"

He was Justice of the Peace and hence known far and near as "Squire." It was an office of some repute in those days. His father, Isaiah, and his mother, Jemima Johnson Knowlton, came to Sangerville from Framingham, Mass., when my father was seventeen years old. He felled the trees and cleared the farm on which he lived till he was nearly eighty years old. There was, on the falls of the Black Stream, a small grist-mill, when he came. This mill was run by a man by the name of Phineus Ames generally known as "King Ames." It was a very accommodating mill. It took care of itself mostly. Mr. Ames would pour into the hopper two bushels of corn and hoist the gate and go away to his farm. At noon he would put in another two bushels, which sufficed till night. At night he would put in four bushels, and that rickety old mill would rattle and bang and wheeze, and faithfully grind away till morning.

Father lived, for some time, in a log house. In 1815 he built the house in which I was born. He afterwards built and rebuilt shingle, saw and grist mills.

Sangerville was settled by five distinct classes. East Sangerville was mostly settled by Massachusetts people. They were a thrifty, hardworking people, who cleared up their farms, lived on them till their deaths and left them to their children. There are few spots in Maine where so many farms in one community have remained in the same unbroken line of possession. The Oakes, the Ponds, the Lanes, the Adams, the Watermans, who were the early settlers whose descendants are prominent citizens at this time.

East Sangerville has always been noted for the sobriety and progressiveness of the people, and the interest taken in education. General Jackson was never more firmly established in the principles of democracy than are those untrammeled voters.

Toward Dover came the Buckfield clan, consisting principally of Thompsons, with a few other families sandwiched in. Three Thompson brothers settled on the same road, on adjoining farms and lived there many years. This family became a prominent one in town and county. One of the farms still remains in the Thompson family, F. D. Thompson occupying the farm his father cleared.

The southern part of Sangerville was settled by people from New Hampshire. This was the religious part of the town. Hon. J. F. Sprague was born here. Sangerville Village grew up, like Topsy, with no particular parentage. There were some very characteristic men, however, among the early settlers.

The Carleton family was somewhat noted. Old Elder Oakes, the grandfather of Wm. P. Oakes, of Foxcroft, was a noted preacher and when he spoke in stentorian tones "Words of sequipedalian length and thundering sound" came forth and routed all the hosts of sin. His son William, known aa "Colonel," was the father of a large family of boys, all of whom were men of more than ordinary ability. Elder Clark occupied a prominent position in the town. His son, William, died at middle age, but left a large family of boys and one girl. The boys nearly all became lawyers and each one distinguished himself.

Four served in the army during the Civil War. Two were Colonels and the others held positions of responsibility. They are nearly all dead now. Col. Charles A. Clark lives in Cedar Rapids, Mich., and is well known in the West and in Maine as of sterling worth and eminent ability.

The Hussey family was well known. I personally knew one of them. I slept with him one night after he had eaten a quarter of a custard pie, two boiled eggs, three poached eggs and a fried egg or two. He groaned, squirmed, and groaned and "gritted his teeth" all night long. He said, the next morning, that he had the nightmare and dreamed that he was Sinbad the Sailor, and had eaten a roc's egg.

The Carr family later became well known. One of the original settlers is still living, Moses Carr, over ninety years of age. He has always been a very busy man and has accumulated a large property. He helped build a church a few years ago and is a constant attendant.

Sangerville Village is now a large and flourishing one ; has modern factories and other industries. The history of Sangerville is, on the whole, an interesting one. It is the best farming town in the county and has sent forth into the world some very bright men. "Brockway's Mills" was, in my boyhood, an enterprising place. There was a hotel, store, and blacksmith shop there and some lumber mills. Nearby the mills lived a very peculiar man by the name of Maxim. He was an undeveloped genius. He invented a machine which would turn out an oblong bowl, but some other reaped the reward. Mr. Maxim used to come to my father's mill to have his grain ground, and often Hiram would come with his father. I remember he was full of fun and a great boy to laugh. He is now Sir Hiram and lives in England but occasionally revisits the scenes of his boyhood. His history is so interesting that I have appended to this paper a more extended narrative.

Another boy whom I knew was born near by. His career is a noted one. With but a limited education, he started out in life to make his own way. He became a trader, and later, a speculator in real estate. But this did not satisfy him. He determined to educate himself by an extensive course of reading, with the result that he has become a master of classical English and has published books. Mr. S. has been thrice in the legislature and prominent in the political world. In the meantime he was admitted to the bar and has a lucrative practice. He is a member of the Maine Historical Society and is Notary Public and is now Referee in Bankruptcy.

He is well known to the political world as the Hon. J. F. Sprague. Should Mr. Sprague devote his whole time to literary matters, he would do honor to his native town.

The Thompson family was a prominent one. I have spoken of them before. Dr. E. A. Thompson, of Dover, is the son of James Thompson, one of the early settlers. The doctor is one of Dover's most prominent citizens. He has had an extensive practice and is still in practice as a consulting physician of wide reputation. Dr. Thompson has been one of the Council, and occupied other prominent political positions, is President of the Board of Trustees of Foxcroft Academy. Four years ago, he gave ten thousand dollars to found the Thompson Free Library. J know of no way in which a man can embalm his memory more certainly in the souls of men than by furnishing them with good books. Bacon says: "Reading makes a full man." No man can be an all-round educated person without extensive reading. The especial reason why one person is a ready speaker, a good conversationalist, a sound adviser and deep reasoner, lies in the one fact, he has read much and read good books.

But it is all important to know just what books to put into the hands of the young. I know of no better way of judging the influence of a book than for a teacher to read the book and then sit and think it over ; call up the characters one by one and discover where his sympathy lies ; to picture to himself the whole career of the chief characters and discover if the character is one that leaves an impression on the mind of the reader that sin is rewarded. Is vice made attractive, and virtue neglected? Does the book leave an impression that tells for purity, honesty, and a useful life?

No one would be so stupid as to take a child to an abattoir to teach refinement. Certainly we would shield the young from l8 THE OLD SCHOOLMASTER

brutal sights and associations in actual life ; so should the child be kept from brutal mental visions which degrade. But, it is urged, the young do see all these things in real life, then why not in books? In real life the moral goes with the deed that is objectionable. In books too often the sequel is not as well known. The suggestive is often worse than the blunt statement of facts. There are books that, on a casual reading appear all right ; yet a careful perusal locates them among the objectionable.

There are but few objectionable words in "Don Juan," but the whole poem is fit for the fire only. A superintendent once objected to my pupils reading "Jane Eyre." I can see no objection to the book. A young lady reads the book and learns that wickedness is terribly punished ; that virtue and decency can only bring peace and happiness. The reading of that book, in my opinion, would make every one better, and none the worse.

"The Scarlet Letter" is another book under ban with many teachers. I would put it into the hands of every young lady. The literary style of the book is worth everything. The book is interesting, and will compel a complete reading. It gives an admirable description of the social and religious conditions of those stern times.

Lastly — the moral impression left upon the mind is that sin, — however secret, — will be proclaimed from the housetop ; that every deviation from moral rectitude engenders a punishment that is the more terrible as the crime is more repulsive. The book is full of the most minute details in every part that appertains to events of life, and especially in describing mental anguish and pain, but the crime is just alluded to. It is the specific details in questionable books that give offence.

I do not believe in giving to the young nothing but "nambypamby" books. "The Bonny Brier Bush" will do nicely for the goody boy or girl who dies young. Feed their intellect on such breakfast food as that book for a year; the result would be debilitating in the extreme. The age does not demand young men who are good simply because they have not activity enough to lead them in devious pathways.

Many teachers object to Dickens. They think him coarse, rough, and vulgar ; and advise their pupils to refrain from reading his books. I take issue immediately with such critics and advocate reading Dickens' works by all means. The first and obvious reason is that Dickens' characters are so interwoven into literature that a knowledge of his writings becomes indispensable to an accurate appreciation of other books. "Barkis is willing" will never cease to be quoted ; "Like Oliver Twist" will be a simile for many years to come. A page of description and denunciation of brutality can portray no such appreciation as the simple name of "Squiers." I hesitate not to venture the statement that many an incipient Pecksniff has been driven shamefacedly from a chosen course in Pecksniffism by reading the portrayal of that airy impostor. Observation of any man shows very clearly that the man who would win the ladies' affection does as fresh and green things as the man in small-clothes did when he threw cucumbers over the wall to Mrs. Nickleby. How would the aspirant for political honors know how to close a letter to his constituents, if he did not have "Micawber" for a guide? Lots of men and women have been made better by becoming acquainted with Yarden and wife, and Dolly — the charming, true-hearted, good-natured Dolly — every girl ought to know her.

Someone called Dickens' description of "Little Nell" and her death "bathos." Nothing can be farther from the truth. If that is bathos, then much of the writings of Washington Irving is unworthy of perusal. It seems to me that every word in that almost inspired description expresses the real emotion that a man with a human soul in his breast would feel in seeing and recording his emotions.

The description of the death of Paul Dombey is unrivaled, No writer has ever even approached the delineation of a character like Dombey's wife. Esther will never fade from human appreciation. I have seen the Cheeryble Brothers in actual life. Mr. Carker lives in every village. No writer ever described a repulsive murder with less unsightly exhibitions of the horrid as did Dickens in the death of Nancy. Mark Tapley has been a source of great enjoyment to me, and not only that, but many a dark hour when the tired brain and discouraged heart was almost ready to lay down the burden, the jolly Tapley has driven away the "blues" and brought back a fresh determination to still strive and hope. Sweet "Little Dorrit" — who does not love her and in loving become better? Tom, loving, trusting, Tom Finch. Every town needs just such a man and, if he cannot b~ found in actual life, then it is something to find the character delineated in books. Nor is Tom Finch an impossible character. I have met just such men. I could not wish all men to be such as he was, neither would the world be very comfortable if everybody was like Martin Chuzzlewit.

But books are as different as men. One man leads by his association to a higher and better life; while another injures everyone with whom he comes in contact. So with books — One moulds the taste in the right direction, gives true views of life, stimulates the ambition, and furnishes the mind with an immense fund of knowledge. Another book ruins the taste, vitiates the morals, and gives wrong conceptions of the duties of life. It is my opinion, formed by careful observation of young people, that there need be no cheap or bad book read. I fully believe, if a requisite amount of good reading be placed in the hands of the boy or girl while young, that a taste would be formed that would make it impossible for them to read a bad book.

I am aware there is a great diversity of opinion concerning books and what I might call a good book another might call bad. I lay down this rule that no book should be read that does not refine the taste. No one can afford to be made coarser than he is by nature.

There must be a good literary style abouf a book; or it should not be read, however much of good thought and fact there may be expressed within the covers. Every book should teach something, or it is not worth reading. I have been told that the author of "The God of Things" remarked that no definite aim actuated her in writing that book. But still, I can read between the lines, I think, a half-hidden advocacy of a certain condition.

There are books just to amuse. That is a necessary book for the tired brain-worker. The book may not contain an idea worth remembering, but still, it had an object and had accomplished it.

I have no doubt but that, should every woman in the land read "Great Expectations" there would be less termagants in the home. When a person sees a delineation of themselves in print and recognizes the likeness, it leads to reform and a change of life. Even an habitual scold would be disgusted with the performances of "Mrs. Joe."

There have been a few books written that should never become antiquated. "The Vicar of Wakefield" left an impression upon the literature of that day that still lives. The same is true of Dickens' works. Most books die young. All do which do not present to the reader a distinctive character. There is nothing in "David Harum" which will immortalize it except the one point — the presentation of an unique character, coarse though it be.

My boyhood was so uneventful that but little comment need be made. I know I was a quiet boy, and very shy. I liked some kinds of fun and sports and became an expert wrestler.

There was a maiden lady living on one corner of our farm who used to lecture us boys a good deal, and we liked to teaze her. One day we threw snow-balls down her chimney. She told father, and he said he would whip all four of us, in the morning. I remember lying awake a long time that night, wondering how he would do it : whether he would stand us all up in a row and go up and down the line and switch each as he passed by ; or whether he would take one at a time, while the rest looked on and pitied the one in "actual commission ;" or if he would use a shingle ; and then I wondered if one shingle would last through ; again I pictured the condition of each after the operation was completed. I felt sure I should cry the loudest.

But the shingle-mill broke down that morning, and father had to go to Bangor for repairs, and forgot all about it. I have ever felt grateful to the unknown workman who manufactured that defective saw. Wish I could feel that mv misdeeds lead to such happy results to somebody.

I can remember that once, and once only, did I swear. Then I was chasing the sheep. I feel sure that no one ought to swear. But. if the Recording Angel does ever, with a tear, blot out the record of an oath, he will be especially gracious to a boy chasing sheep, or trying to make a calf drink milk. My mother heard me swear, and I was very much ashamed. To evade her. I went to bed supperless that night ; and received a severe punishment, alone with my conscience.

My uncle lived just across the mill stream. There were three girls in the family. One of these girls was a little younger Iban I. I used to go to school with those girls. That is, I ran along ahead of them, or capered along behind them as boys generally do. I used to be desperately in love with Emily, but wa > <fery careful not to let her know it. In those days there were large farm houses in which was one room without a carpet. Th-; young people of East Sangerville would, in the winter time, meet at our house one week and dance till twelve ; next week at Mr Pond's, and so on. All my brothers learned to dance. I nevei tried to do so. I guess, if my mother had danced I should have learned ; but no desire, however strong, could have made me face a girl on the floor. I rather enjoyed sitting in the corner and watching them. I wonder if I was the last boy created who acted that way ?