Western Characters; or, Types of Border Life in the Western States

by John Ludlum McConnel

THE SCHOOLMASTER.

In the progress of society, the physical wants are felt before the intellectual. Men appreciate the necessity for covering their backs and lining their stomachs before storing their minds, and they naturally provide a shelter from the storms of heaven, before they seek (with other learning) a knowledge of the heavenly bodies. Thus the rudest social system comprises something of the mechanic arts—government begins to advance toward the dignity of a science—commerce follows the establishment of legal supremacy—and the education of the citizen comes directly after the recognition of his social and political rights. So, the justice of the peace (among other legal functionaries) indicates subjection, more or less complete, to the regulations of law; the peddler represents the beginning of commercial interests; and the schoolmaster succeeds him, in the natural order of things.

It may be possible to preserve a high respect for a calling, while we despise the men who exercise it: though I believe this is not one of the rules which “work both ways,” and the converse is, therefore, not equally true. A man's occupation affects him more nearly than he does his occupation. A thousand contemptible men will not bring a respectable profession into so much disrepute, as a contemptible profession will a thousand respectable men. All the military talents, for example, of the commander-in-chief of our armies, would not preserve him from contempt, should he set up a barber-shop, or drive a milk-cart; but the barber, or the milkman, might make a thousand blunders at the head of an army, should extravagant democracy elevate him to that position, and yet the rank of a general would be as desirable, because as honorable, as ever.

It is certainly true, however, that the most exalted station may be degraded by filling it with a low or despicable incumbent, for the mental effort necessary to the abstraction of the employment from him who pursues it, is one which most men do not take the trouble to make: an effort, indeed, which the majority of men are incapable of making. A vicious priest degrades the priestly vocation—a hypocrite brings reproach upon the religious profession—a dishonest lawyer sinks the legal character—and even the bravest men care but little for promotion in an army, when cowardice and incompetency are rewarded with rank and power. But manifest incapacity, culpable neglect of duty, or even a positively vicious character, will not reduce a calling to contempt, or bring it into disrepute so soon, as any quality which excites ridicule.

An awkward figure, a badly-shaped garment, or an ungainly manner, will sometimes outweigh the acquirements of the finest scholar; and the cause of religion has suffered more, from the absence of the softer graces, in its clerical representations, than from all the logic of its adversaries. A laugh is more effectual to subvert an institution, than an argument—for it is easier to make men ashamed, than to convince them. Truth and reason are formidable weapons, but ridicule is stronger than either—or both.

Thus: All thinking men will eagerly admit, that the profession of the schoolmaster is, not only respectable, but honorable, alike to the individual, and to the community in which he pursues it: yet, rather than teach a school for a livelihood, the large majority of the same men would “split rails” or cut cord-wood! And this is not because teaching is laborious—though it is laborious, and thankless, too, beyond all other occupations; but because a number and variety of causes, into which we need not inquire, have combined to throw ridicule upon him, who is derisively called the pedagogue—for most men would rather be shot at, than laughed at. Cause and effect are always inter-reactive: and the refusal of the most competent men, to “take up the birch”—which is the effect of this derision—has filled our school-rooms with men, who are, not unfairly, its victims. Thus the profession—(for such is its inherent dignity)—itself, has fallen into discredit—even though the judgment of men universally is, that it is not only useful, but indispensable.

Nor is that judgment incorrect. For, though home-education may sometimes succeed, it is usually too fragmentary to be beneficial—private tutors are too often the slaves of their pupils, and can not enforce “attention,” the first condition of advancement, where they have not the paraphernalia of command—and, as for self-education, logically there can be no such thing: “one might as well attempt to lift himself over the fence, by the straps of his boots,” as to educate himself “without a master.”

The schoolmaster, then, is a useful member of society—not to be spared at any stage of its progress. But he is particularly necessary to communities which are in the transition state; for, upon the enlightenment of the rising generation depend the success and preservation of growing institutions. Nor does his usefulness consist altogether—or even in a great measure—in the number of facts, sciences, or theories, with which he may store the minds of his pupils. These are not the objects of education, any more than a knowledge of the compartments in a printer's “letter-case,” is the ultimate result of the art of printing. The types are so arranged, in order to enable the compositors more conveniently to attain the ends, for which that arrangement is only a preparation: facts and sciences are taught for the improvement of the faculties, in order that they may work with more ease, force, and certainty, upon other and really important things; for education is only the marshalling of powers, preliminary to the great “battle of life.”

The mind of an uneducated man, however strong in itself, is like an army of undisciplined men—a crowd of chaotic, shapeless, and often misdirected elements. To bring these into proper subjection—to enable him to bind them, with anything like their native force, to a given purpose—a prescribed “training” is necessary; and it is this which education supplies. If you can give a mind the habit of attention, all the power it has will be made available: and it is through this faculty, that even dull minds are so frequently able to mount the car of triumph, and ride swiftly past so many, who are immeasurably their superiors. The first element of the discipline which develops this power, is submission to control; and without such subordination, a school can not exist. Thus, the first lesson that children learn from the schoolmaster, is the most valuable acquisition they can make.

But it was no easy task to teach this principle to the sturdy children of the early Western “settler;” in this, as in all other things, the difficulty of the labor was in exact proportion to its necessity. The peculiarities of the people, and the state of the country, were not favorable to the establishment of the limited monarchy, requisite to successful teaching. In the first place, the parents very generally undervalued, what they called “mere book-learning.” For themselves, they had found more use for a rifle than a pen; and they naturally thought it a much more valuable accomplishment, to be able to scalp a squirrel with a bullet, at a hundred paces, than to read the natural history of the animal in the “picture-book.” They were enthusiastic, also, upon the subject of independence; and, though they could control their children sternly enough at home, they were apt to look, with a jealous eye, upon any attempt to establish dominion elsewhere. The children partook largely of the free, wild spirit of their fathers. They were very prompt to resist anything like encroachment upon their privileges or rights, and were, of course, pretty certain to consider even salutary control an attempt to assert a despotism. I believe history contains no record, whatever the annals of fiction may display, of a boy, with much spirit, submitting without a murmur to the authority of the schoolmaster: if such a prodigy of enlightened humility ever existed, he certainly did not live in the west. But a more important difficulty than either of these, was the almost entire want of money in the country; and without this there was but little encouragement for the effort to overcome other obstacles. Money may be only a representative of value, but its absence operates marvellously like the want of the value itself, and the primitive people of those days, and especially that class to which the schoolmaster belonged, had a habit, however illogical, of considering it a desirable commodity, per se.