Part 2 — THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.

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BY C. M. FARMER.

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Gentle reader! allow me to introduce to your consideration the characters of Mr. Brigs, (soi disant Allen Brigs, Esquire,) and his distinguished lady Mrs. Polly Brigs. Imagine a stout built, corpulent “five footer,” with a very big head, on which there never was hair enough to make a decent pair of whiskers, and on which, consequently, rode a red wig, curled as many different ways as the sunbeams point; with the largest of all large noses, into which he incessantly—or at least fifty times in each day—thrust the raw rappee with no small degree of relish; little pop-eyes, just large enough to see every body in church at one and the same time; a blue silk vest, striped cassimere pantaloons, a leviathian shad-belly coat, and a milk-white cravat tied in a double bow before, and surrounding a collar made partly of very coarse linen, and mostly of very stiff starch, which came up on either side to his ears, sustaining the equilibrium of his head. Of course, his head could only move in two directions—backward and forward—without manifest danger to the implements of hearing thereto attached, all set off by a pair of cork-sole boots six and a quarter inches across the instep when on, the toes of which looked right into the master’s face; and here you have Allen Brigs—alias, Mr. A. Brigs, Esquire.

Mr. Brigs had undoubtedly seen the eclipses of a great many years. According to his own averment, he had “waded through as many snows as there were hairs on his wig;” and as he had repeated this averment so many times, and nobody had ever evinced any inclination to contest the point with him, he had persuaded himself that he was ipso facto, a “very old man.” Be this as it may, Mr. Allen Brigs was not the man to be eschewed for his aged stupidity. He was amusing and buoyant as a boy. He never took the unnecessary trouble to correct himself for errors in language, no matter how gross, but would leave that to be done by any body who chose to “take it up.” If he was asked if it was Jonah who swallowed the whale, he would reply in the affirmative, and when corrected, would invariably answer—“Zooks! it’s all the same in Dutch—just vice versa, as the lawyers say—that’s all!”

In short, Mr. Allen Brigs was a man not to be scared by any “livin’ warmint,” two-legged, or four-legged, male or female—a perfect man of the world in business—“a real out and outer”—crushing all opposition to his own schemes, and believing in his heart that every body was a fool who did not coincide in all things with him, Mr. Allen Brigs.

Mrs. Brigs was some ten years the junior of her partner in life, and was a lady in every sense of the word. It was evident that she had once been beautiful, but that once had been past a long time; and now, where then dangled the glossy curls, (not false curls—girls never wore false curls in those days,) she displayed two huge bows of yellow ribbon. These were necessary ornaments, however, for they were appendages to a very neat frilled cap. Mrs. Brigs had never been known to wear a stay-body frock, or a bustle—indeed, such things were not then in fashion—she never wore sleeves of the mutton-leg cut; nor were they ever so tight as to render the arms useless members, but always large enough and small enough to be comfortable. Mrs. Brigs never could endure small shoes—consequently, she never was compelled to endure the pains incident to corns. She was an inflexible knitter and darner, and though Mr. Brigs never had but one pair of socks, they never had a hole in them, because whenever the legs wore out she would leg them, and when the feet wore out she would foot them. Mrs. Brigs was so good herself—so artless and unsuspecting, that she thought every body else was good, and artless, and unsuspecting too. Mrs. Brigs was literally the very woman for Mr. Brigs, and that gentleman was the very man for Mrs. Brigs. Hence, it can only be inferred that they lived happily together—so happily, indeed, and contentedly, that they were known but to be loved. A peaceful country village was their home. A ten acre farm of fertile land, through which murmured a dear, bright stream

“That wound in many a flow’ry nook,”

was the fee simple property of Allen Brigs. A pretty little white-washed house, almost hidden by the clustering fruit-trees, was their humble tenement. A handsome little garden, tastefully laid out, occupied the space between the house and rivulet, and here Mrs. Brigs sought recreation when burthened with the ennui of knitting and darning. A cow and calf—a sow and pig—a horse, and a yard full of poultry of every species, composed the family stock. And with all these, and nothing more, they were rich—rich in the honesty of their own hearts which knew no covetousness—contentment was theirs, and that was riches. They were surrounded by kind neighbors—some affluent, but not aristocratic. An athletic son of sixteen, and a beautiful daughter of twelve, were their only offspring. Solomon Brigs was his father’s sole help, but they managed every thing to admiration. Nanny was a sweet tempered child—affectionate and dutiful. Every body loved her, and she loved every body. Notwithstanding she was a country girl, there was a native, witching, fascinating grace in her every movement. She was so active, and gay, and cheerful—so full of life and joy—and so mild and modest! She had never known sickness: health flowed through every vein, and glowed in her soft dark eyes and blooming cheeks—and her smiling face was a sure index to her pure heart. Her finely shaped head, and intelligent forehead, bore testimony to her keen susceptibilities.

Solomon was a smart boy—so said his knowing father; and though he had made no higher attainments than reading, writing, and cyphering to the single rule of three, he knew how to plough the corn, and hill the potatoes, and weed his sister’s flower-beds. He could not solve a problem in mathematics, but he could jump higher and hallo louder than any boy in the village, large or small.

Nanny was a proficient in the art of housekeeping, but not in French, painting, &c. &c. She, too, could read, write, and cypher, and Mr. Brigs considered that enough book learning for his children. It was all he knew, and there was danger in too much. But we come now to give our characters a more conspicuous place in the public mind.

It was one cold morning in December, when the snow was thick on the ground, and a luxuriant fire was blazing on every hearth in the village, and when nobody living would have thought of visiting, except Miss Lachevers, the housekeeper of John Doe, next door neighbor to the Brigses, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. As I said, it was cold—extremely cold; but Miss Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane, did not regard cold weather. Now, whether a young lady, living to the age of forty odd, becomes invulnerable to the piercing air of a December morning, or whether the young lady in question was differently constituted from other people, I shall not attempt to decide—probably the latter. Nevertheless, on this same morning, almost as soon as the sun showed his face, Miss Lachevers peeped in at the door of Allen Brigs. Mr. Brigs was drying the morning’s paper by the fire, while Mrs. Brigs busied herself “clearing away” the breakfast table. Solomon and Nanny were both reading from the same book, the story of “Aladdin’s Lamp.”

“Good mornin’ to you,” said Miss Lachevers, introducing her body as well as her head—“cool mornin’ this.”

“Rather,” replied Mr. Brigs senior, laying down the paper and rubbing the palms of his hands hard enough together to erase the skin. “Come to the fire, Betty—be seated—have off your bonnet.”

The finishing clause of this address proceeded from the voluble tongue of Mrs. Brigs; and Nanny arose from her seat to hand Miss Lachevers a chair.

“Don’t trouble yourself, child—I never have time to sit. I must go back in one second. It’s trot, trot, from mornin’ till night, with me. I just stepped in,” she continued, turning her eyes on Mrs. Brigs, “to ask you all if you’ve hearn the news?”

“What news?” inquired Mr. Brigs senior, glancing first at the paper on the chair and then at the early visiter—“any body dead or dying—or any steamship busted—or any thing of that species?”

“Oh, no!” said Miss Lachevers, “nothin’ of that are character. But somethin’ more important and novel than either.”

All eyes were now turned toward the significant countenance of Miss Betty Lachevers, who still remained standing. Mr. Brigs senior, not exactly understanding the application of the word “novel” to the sudden intelligence of any thing new—having never heard it applied to any thing but a book—requested Miss Lachevers to explain herself. Mrs. Brigs insisted that Betty should take a chair and tell all about it; and Solomon and Nanny continued their reading, as if nothing novel was going on.

“Why, raly,” said Miss Lachevers, drawing a seat, and depositing her person thereon, “I haint hardly got time to tell you. But it’s wonderful to think of. The fact is, a young schoolmaster arrived in town last night, and I hear it’s his intention to set up a school here for the eddication of youth; and the worst of all is, nobody knows who he is, or where he come from. His name I heered, but I almost forgot it—it’s Dubbs—or Grubbs—or Dobbs—or somethin’ like that. They say he’s a wonderful genus, smart as can be, and full of larning. He stopped at old Jenkins’s, cross the way—whether he means to board there I can’t say—but there he is. I s’pose we’ll get a peep at him to-day. For my part, I should like to know why he put up at old Jenkins’s.”

“A schoolmaster!” repeated Mr. Brigs, the elder, with emphatic surprise.

“Yes—a reg’lar built, yankee schoolmaster,” replied Miss Betty.

“Come to teach the children how that the earth revolves round the sun, instead of the sun revolving round the earth, and things of that extravagant natur’, I s’pose?”

“To be sure he will,” said the young lady, “and he’ll be after coaxin’ your children into his notions—see if he don’t.”

“Not he!” consequentially returned the old man—“Sol has too much sense for any Yankee that ever lived yet; and I guess Nanny will have enough to do to larn of her mother. Not he!” and Mr. Brigs inflicted two slaps on the left side pocket of his blue vest.

Mrs. Brigs sighed, and Miss Lachevers coughed—whether for want of something to say, or to render what she had said complete, it matters not—but she coughed, and bidding a hasty adieu, left the room.

Mr. Brigs settled himself down to read the paper, and his lady settled herself down to her favorite exercise—knitting; while Solomon and Nanny repeated to each other surmises as to the probable appearance of the new comer—his age—dress, &c.

The day passed away, and night came on. Tea was over, and this happy little family had gathered around the cheerful fire. A gentle tap was heard at the door, and a voice pronouncing the simple word—“housekeepers.”

“Come in,” responded Mrs. Brigs, and in came Mr. Jenkins, followed by a young man apparently about twenty-two, with black hair and eyes, straight, tall, and erect, handsome, and of a genteel and prepossessing appearance, who was introduced by his conductor as Mr. Timothy Dobbs.

“My friend,” said Mr. Jenkins, after being seated, and taking an accurate survey of the premises, “has come among us for the purpose, he says, of opening a school. He is an orphan, of very superior endowments—brings with him ample credentials of his capacity, and expects to find patronage for his support from the inhabitants of our village.”

Mr. Dobbs bowed a concurrence in the remarks of Mr. Jenkins, and hoped that Mr. Brigs could furnish him with board and a convenient room in his house.

“Ah, that’s it!” said Mr. Jenkins, recollecting the object of his visit—“that’s what we’re a coming to. This gentleman, Mr. Brigs, wishes to reside in your family, and to eat at your table, sir. I hope—I s’pose you can accommodate him, Mr. Brigs?”

Mr. Brigs said that he could, and that he should be happy to serve him, Mr. Dobbs, in any other manner possible. Matters being thus considered, and terms agreed on, Mr Jenkins arose to depart; having first satisfied Mr. Dobbs that he, Dobbs, would be sure to sleep soundly that night, and assured him of the total absence of all danger from external assaults under the roof of so great and good a man as his friend and neighbor Allen Brigs.

Before retiring to rest, Mr. Dobbs acquainted himself with the characters before him, by conversing with them, and each of them, on various topics; and found to his satisfaction that they were kind and noble-hearted people. The characteristic traits of Mr. Brigs were rough and unique, yet there was a generous frankness about him—such a flow of spirits and good humor—that he considered him a pleasant man. Nor was Mrs. Brigs unlike her husband in these particulars. To tell the truth, Mr. Dobbs was pleased. More than once did he get a full view of the sweet face of Nanny; and more than once did Nanny blush to catch his eye. Timothy admired her modest looks, and fancied that he might one day love her. He wondered how old she was, and blest his luck that he had fallen into that particular family, where such a beautiful face as hers might shed its sunny smiles about him—perhaps to cheer many of his tedious moments. He fancied she must be young, yet she seemed already expanding into womanhood. Such perfect symmetry of form, and grace of carriage, he had never seen in a country girl: and then the rich intelligence that beamed through her soft dark eyes, convinced him that she was born to follow some more noble pursuit than housewifery.

The hour grew late, and Timothy bade good-night, and crept softly to his room, where fatigue soon lulled him to sleep. But he dreamed! Yes, he dreamed of one sweet angelic being, whom he had only seen once—only once—and that sweet being was Nanny!

“Zooks!” said Mr. Brigs, after Timothy had left the parlor—“but he seems to be a clever youth. Nanny, what do you think of him—eh?”

“I don’t know, father,” replied Nanny—“but—I think—he’s quite handsome.”

“Handsome! Yes, and I reckon he considered Miss Nanny Brigs a leetle specimen of the handsomest girl he ever saw. I saw him a squintin’ on that side of the house.”

“Oh, father!” cried Nanny, faintly blushing. “I’m sure he looked at us all—he looked at Solomon, too.”

“What’s his name, father?” inquired Solomon—“Stobbs?”

“Dobbs—Timothy Dobbs, I think, and that’s all I know about him yet: but we’ll find what kind of a chap he is soon, I guess. I expect he’s a squirt, any how.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Brigs.

“And I hope not, too,” rejoined Mr. Brigs; “but we’ll see!”

Time sped on. The village school was in a flourishing condition. Pupil after pupil had been added to the charge of Mr. Timothy Dobbs, the “great unknown,” until (to use a cant phrase) he had his hands full. It is very natural to suppose that our village schoolmaster had become very popular among all the villagers, and particularly so in the discerning eyes of Miss Betty Lachevers, No. 10 Lachevers’ lane. Notwithstanding the violent protestations of Mr. Brigs against the idea of suffering his children to become scholars of Mr. Dobbs, the old gentleman had confessed his wrong in that respect, and now protested with the same vehemence, that Mr. Timothy Dobbs was the finest fellow that ever lived; and that it would be high treason in any parent or guardian to refuse children and wards generally, the benefits of Mr. Dobbs’s seminary of learning; and he (Mr. Brigs) was firmly of the opinion that Solomon and Nanny would one day become the successors of their tutor in the office of “eddicating youth;” and on this hypothesis, he built the future prospect of the erection of the “Brigs’ College,” to be called after his own name, and of which, as a matter of course, Solomon was to be principal professor. Mr. Brigs saw all this as clear as a whistle, and he had no doubt that his prophecy would be fulfilled. Mr. Dobbs continued to board and lodge at Mr. Brigs’ house. Nanny grew more lovely and interesting every day, and made rapid advancement in her studies. Solomon declared that Mr. Dobbs paid more attention to his sister than to any other young lady in the school—to her instructions he meant; and that he believed seriously, that Mr. Dobbs had a notion of making her his assistant—in the school he meant. Miss Lachevers always happened to hoist the window of Mr. Doe’s parlor at the particular moment when the schoolmaster, Nanny, and Solomon passed the gate, on their return from school; and as it was as invariably the case that Mr. Dobbs walked closer to Nanny’s side than Solomon’s, the former young lady never failed to give her features an expression of scorn—at least, whenever her eye met Nanny’s. It might have been necessary for Miss Betty to hoist the window on all these occasions, for some domestic purpose, such as dusting, &c., and therefore she could not help seeing the passers by; she, however, at such times looked unusually prim, but Mr. Dobbs seemed, in every case, unconscious that the eyes of any third person were upon him, for he never turned his on either side, but looked straight forward. One day Nanny actually had her arm in that of the schoolmaster, when the walking was very bad on account of snow, and then Miss Lachevers looked daggers, and from thenceforth her deportment toward our innocent heroine grew cold and formal. Perhaps Miss Betty had different views of village etiquette from other young ladies, and thought it extremely rude for a young lady to lock arms with a gentleman, under an acquaintance of four years and a half; or perhaps she considered the law of primogeniture applicable to her individual case, and thought that if any body was to lock arms with the schoolmaster, it should be herself, as she was rather older than Miss Nanny Brigs. Nevertheless, she did not make her visits to Mr. Brigs’s less frequent. She would sometimes—though altogether accidentally—chance to “fall in” when Mr. Dobbs was there; and whenever that event occurred, she made herself extremely agreeable—so she thought. But Mr. Dobbs was a sober-minded man, of keen perception and sound views of propriety, and could read her writing as well as she could herself. Nor was it long ere his disgust was manifested at her sociable behavior, which caused her to bestow upon him the classic epithet of “itinerant pedagogue.” And now matters took another turn.

A year had passed away since the “itinerant pedagogue” first opened his school. The population of the village had considerably increased. Uncle Sam had established a post-office there. Lachevers’ lane was become the principal thoroughfare of the “town.” Stores—groceries—and tailor’s shops had been erected; sign-boards hung out and nailed to the window shutters. A handsome church “with tapering spire,” and surrounded by young trees, was now the Sabbath rendezvous of the villagers. The school-house had been enlarged—the play-ground enclosed—and every thing wore a new aspect. Miss Betty Lachevers, after exhausting all her efforts to captivate Timothy Dobbs, had abandoned him to the more attractive charms of Miss Brigs; and the former young lady was now scarcely ever seen, save at church on Sundays. A Sabbath-school had been opened in the basement-room of the village church, of which Timothy was superintendent, and Solomon and Nanny teachers; and the signs of the times bade fair to verify the predictions of Mr. Brigs with regard to colleges, &c. in general. But, still all was not right! Timothy had declared his love to Nanny, and had received an answer of satisfaction. He had solicited the consent of her parents, and had received a REFUSAL!! Not that Mr. Brigs thought him unworthy of the hand of his daughter, but because his history was still enveloped in mystery and obscurity. Mr. Jenkins and Mr. Brigs, and Mrs. Jenkins and Mrs. Brigs, and half a dozen more misters and mistresses, had used all means to find out his origin, but to no effect. He would always, when spoken to on that point, fall into a state of dejected gloom, and evade all questions bearing on his nativity; and this was a barrier which intervened between him and the object of his affections.

A large oil painting ornamented the wall over the fire-place, representing a young mother, with an infant on her breast, reclining on the left arm of a man, who was defending her with his right, from the assaults of a ruffian. A beautiful girl lay weltering in blood near the surviving group; and the husband seemed to have received several dangerous wounds, from which large drops of blood were falling. It was a scene of deep and thrilling interest, and expressive of some awful tragedy. It was also well executed, and the languishing despair which beamed from the face of the young mother would almost seem, at times, to convert the painted canvas into a mass of animation. At this picture Mr. Dobbs was often seen to gaze with sad countenance and quivering lip; while the throbbings of his temples told that the mind was at work with melancholy thoughts. He became sad and cheerless, avoided all company (but Nanny’s) as much as possible, and was sometimes found weeping. Yet none knew the cause of his silent grief. Nanny observed the effect which had been wrought on him by the picture, and communicated the fact to her mother.

“He seems,” said she, “to take a sad pleasure in looking at the painting. He showed me a miniature yesterday, which is the express image of the lady with the infant child in her arms; and when I had examined it, and returned it to him, he pressed it to his lips, and the tears fell from his eyes. There must be something strange connected with his history!”

“And did he say nothing about the miniature or the painting?” inquired Mr. Brigs.

“Nothing!” replied Nanny, “I saw the subject gave him pain, and I feared to ask him any thing about it.”

“Where is the miniature?” asked Mrs. Brigs.

“He keeps it in his vest pocket,” answered Nanny. “I will beg him to show it to you, mother—I know he will.”

“No, child—don’t. I will inquire into the secret myself. But Nanny, did you never hear the story of the painting over the fire?”

“No,” said Nanny; “what is it?”

“Ah! it’s an awful thing—all true as Gospel—dreadful!”

Here Mrs. Brigs requested her daughter to ask her no questions, and she would tell her some other time. The young girl’s fears were excited, but she concealed them within her own bosom.

“Mr. Dobbs,” said Mrs. Brigs one evening, “what on earth ails you? You look like you have lost the best friend you had in the world. Do pray tell us what has made you so gloomy for so many days.”

Timothy sighed deeply, and a crimson flush suffused the cheek of Nanny. Mr. Brigs turned up his collar, and ran his fingers through his gray locks, and looked very hard at Mr. Dobbs. Solomon looked very hard at his father; and Mrs. Brigs looked at every one in the room alternately.

“Come,” said Mr. Briggs—“Come, Mr. Dobbs, let’s hear what’s the matter. Remember, young man, you are among friends; and if I can do any thing for you—why, I’ll do it. Come, now, let out. Don’t kill yourself for no trifle, young man.”

“I feel much obliged to you,” replied Timothy, “and will ask but one favor. I cannot now tell you what ails me; but there is something in this house which gives me great anxiety. I have long wished to make the inquiry, but had not the courage. Tell me, then, what is the meaning of that picture which hangs before me?”

“Zooks!” cried Mr. Brigs, “and is it the picture that has caused all your bad feelings, Mr. Dobbs?”

“It is,” returned the schoolmaster; “and I wish to know what it means!”

The surprise of Mr. Brigs and Solomon may be better imagined than described. The old gentleman drew out his red silk handkerchief and rubbed his eyes, stuffed it into his pocket again, and stared with all his might right into the schoolmaster’s face. Solomon stared also; and laying down the book he was reading, prepared himself to hear something strange. Mrs. Brigs and her daughter were before partially acquainted with the cause of Timothy’s disease—at least, they knew that it sprung from the oil painting in question. All was now deep interest, awaiting the development of some wonderful discovery.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Brigs, “it’s a solemn thing that! It used to make me sick to look at it; but it’s a long time since it was hung up there, and I’ve got used to it. Still it sticks deep into my heart—it does! It tells a sad story—but you shall hear it, Mr. Dobbs!” And Mrs. Brigs began.

I will not give the reader the story in the very words in which Mrs. Brigs gave it to Timothy; because that is impossible: for she paused more than once to wipe away the big tears, and to sob; and was obliged to commence afresh as many as three times before she satisfied herself that she was in the right path, and had begun at the beginning. But, as I said, she began, and the following is the substance of the narrative: