The Schoolmaster

There will no mosse stick to the stone of Sisiphus, no grasse
hang on the heels of Mercury, no butter cleave on the bread of
a traveller. For as the eagle at every flight loseth a
feather, which maketh her bauld in her age, so the traveller
in every country loseth some fleece, which maketh him a beggar
in his youth, by buying that for a pound which he cannot sell
again for a penny--repentance.

LILLY'S EUPHUES.

Among the worthies of the village, that enjoy the peculiar confidence of
Master Simon, is one who has struck my fancy so much that I have thought
him worthy of a separate notice. It is Slingsby, the schoolmaster, a
thin, elderly man, rather threadbare and slovenly, somewhat indolent in
manner, and with an easy, good-humoured look, not often met with in his
craft. I have been interested in his favour by a few anecdotes which I
have picked up concerning him.

He is a native of the village, and was a contemporary and playmate of
Ready-Money Jack in the days of their boyhood. Indeed, they carried on
a kind of league of mutual good offices. Slingsby was rather puny, and
withal somewhat of a coward, but very apt at his learning; Jack, on the
contrary, was a bully-boy out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books.
Slingsby helped Jack, therefore, to all his lessons: Jack fought all
Slingsby's battles; and they were inseparable friends. This mutual
kindness continued even after they left school, notwithstanding the
dissimilarity of their characters. Jack took to ploughing and reaping,
and prepared himself to till his paternal acres; while the other
loitered negligently on in the path of learning, until he penetrated
even into the confines of Latin and mathematics.

In an unlucky hour, however, he took to reading voyages and travels, and
was smitten with a desire to see the world. This desire increased upon
him as he grew up; so, early one bright, sunny morning, he put all his
effects in a knapsack, slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and
called in his way to take leave of his early schoolmate. Jack was just
going out with the plough: the friends shook hands over the farm-house
gate; Jack drove his team afield, and Slingsby whistled "Over the
hills, and far away," and sallied forth gaily to "seek his fortune."

Years and years passed by, and young Tom Slingsby was forgotten: when,
one mellow Sunday afternoon in autumn, a thin man, somewhat advanced in
life, with a coat out at elbows, a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a
few things tied in a handkerchief, and slung on the end of a stick, was
seen loitering through the village. He appeared to regard several houses
attentively, to peer into the windows that were open, to eye the
villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then to pass some
time in the churchyard, reading the tombstones.

At length he found his way to the farm-house of Ready-Money Jack, but
paused ere he attempted the wicket; contemplating the picture of
substantial independence before him. In the porch of the house sat
Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday dress, with his hat upon his head, his
pipe in his mouth, and his tankard before him, the monarch of all he
surveyed. Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poultry
were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees hummed from their
hives in the garden; the cattle lowed in the rich meadow: while the
crammed barns and ample stacks bore proof of an abundant harvest.

The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously towards the house.
The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-looking intruder, but
was immediately silenced by his master, who, taking his pipe from his
mouth, awaited with inquiring aspect the address of this equivocal
personage. The stranger eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his
dimensions, and decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon
his own threadbare and starveling condition, and the scanty bundle which
he held in his hand; then giving his shrunk waistcoat a twitch to make
it meet his receding waistband; and casting another look, half sad, half
humorous at the sturdy yeoman, "I suppose," said he, "Mr. Tibbets, you
have forgot old times and old playmates?"

The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowledged that he
had no recollection of him.

"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger; "everybody seems to
have forgotten poor Slingsby?"

"Why, no sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"

"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his head.

Ready-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling; thrust out his hand,
gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and slapping the other hand
on a bench, "Sit down there," cried he, "Tom Slingsby!"

A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby was regaled
with the best cheer that the farm-house afforded; for he was hungry as
well as wayworn, and had the keen appetite of a poor pedestrian. The
early playmates then talked over their subsequent lives and adventures.
Jack had but little to relate, and was never good at a long story. A
prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narrative; it
is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world, that are the true
heroes of story. Jack had stuck by the paternal farm, followed the same
plough that his forefathers had driven, and had waxed richer and richer
as he grew older. As to Tom Slingsby, he was an exemplification of the
old proverb, "A rolling stone gathers no moss." He had sought his
fortune about the world, without ever finding it, being a thing oftener
found at home than abroad. He had been in all kinds of situations, and
had learned a dozen different modes of making a living; but had found
his way back to his native village rather poorer than when he left it,
his knapsack having dwindled down to a scanty bundle.

As luck would have it, the squire was passing by the farm-house that
very evening, and called there, as is often his custom. He found the two
schoolmates still gossiping in the porch, and, according to the good old
Scottish song, "taking a cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne." The
squire was struck by the contrast in appearance and fortunes of these
early playmates. Ready-Money Jack, seated in lordly state, surrounded by
the good things of this life, with golden guineas hanging to his very
watch chain, and the poor pilgrim Slingsby, thin as a weasel, with all
his worldly effects, his bundle, hat, and walking-staff, lying on the
ground beside him.

The good squire's heart warmed towards the luckless cosmopolite, for he
is a little prone to like such half-vagrant characters. He cast about
in his mind how he should contrive once more to anchor Slingsby in his
native village. Honest Jack had already offered him a present shelter
under his roof, in spite of the hints, and winks, and half remonstrances
of the shrewd Dame Tibbets; but how to provide for his permanent
maintenance was the question. Luckily the squire bethought himself that
the village school was without a teacher. A little further conversation
convinced him that Slingsby was as fit for that as for anything else,
and in a day or two he was seen swaying the rod of empire in the very
school-house where he had often been horsed in the days of his boyhood.

Here he has remained for several years, and being honoured by the
countenance of the squire, and the fast friendship of Mr. Tibbets, he
has grown into much importance and consideration in the village. I am
told, however, that he still shows, now and then, a degree of
restlessness, and a disposition to rove abroad again, and see a little
more of the world; an inclination which seems particularly to haunt him
about spring-time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer as the
vagrant humour, when once it has been fully indulged.

Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor Slingsby, I have more than
once mused upon the picture presented by him and his schoolmate
Ready-Money Jack, on their coming together again after so long a
separation. It is difficult to determine between lots in life, where
each is attended with its peculiar discontents. He who never leaves his
home repines at his monotonous existence, and envies the traveller,
whose life is a constant tissue of wonder and adventure; while he, who
is tossed about the world, looks back with many a sigh to the safe and
quiet shore which he has abandoned. I cannot help thinking, however,
that the man that stays at home, and cultivates the comforts and
pleasures daily springing up around him, stands the best chance for
happiness. There is nothing so fascinating to a young mind as the idea
of travelling; and there is very witchcraft in the old phrase found in
every nursery tale, of "going to seek one's fortune." A continual change
of place, and change of object, promises a continual succession of
adventure and gratification of curiosity. But there is a limit to all
our enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very
gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants, novelties
cease to excite surprise, until at length we cannot wonder even at a
miracle. He who has sallied forth into the world, like poor Slingsby,
full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different the distant
scene becomes when visited. The smooth place roughens as he approaches;
the wild place becomes tame and barren; the fairy tints that beguiled
him on still fly to the distant hill, or gather upon the land he has
left behind, and every part of the landscape seems greener than the spot
he stands on.

The Schoolmaster

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