Boarding Round/Chapter 12

It should not be supposed that the odd characters, brief sketches of whom may be found in this story, were the only people in the Corner district. Neither should any reader be left to surmise that their peculiar eccentricities were shared by others. Their mode of living was not that of their neighbors. The folks with whom we have to do, were, for the most part, very similar to other human beings, having their residence elsewhere. They were not all of the best quality, while the most of them were not of bad quality. To the teacher, who had come to stay with them for a time, they manifested the sincere respect which they felt. In their homes they treated him with the greatest kindness. If anything seemed in any way otherwise, it was not intended. Their best table was set for the schoolmaster. There were the Hales, the Crosbys, the Lelands, the Sweets, the Ordways, and many other families, in which the comforts and pro​prieties, that characterize the best New England country homes, were by no means lacking. Mr. Sears' "boarding round" at these places is not particularly narrated, because it would be only a repetition of the same thing,—a pleasant home and good fare. He could not, in any case, have the quiet, restful home, which any schoolteacher, wearied with the care and the constant talking of the day, ought to have; but that was not the fault of the people. It was inherent in the nature of the bad custom of which he was a victim.

It is true, however, that among these neat, pleasant homes of the good people of the Corner district, were a considerable number, that might be described, in a word, as sui generis. They were not like the homes of other folks, neither were they like each other. And the people that made these homes were like unto them. This is the apology we offer for the prominence which they have in our story. We do not naturally speak of the things which are alike, and are constantly occurring. The long stretch of plain land, though covered with beautiful vegetation, does not waken new thoughts; it is the sharp, craggy hill, thrust into it, that makes us wake up and take notice. That may not have anything, of itself, that is pleasantly attractive; yet, in the monotony of travel, it is an agreeable change. It is on this principle that we now venture to pull the latch string of the door admitting us to the place ​where an old bachelor stayed; or, it might be said, as a matter of courtesy, where he lived. James Sears resolved that he would visit this old man, at least for one night, although he had been advised not to do so. A boy, who went by the name of Jack, was living with him, going to school and doing chores for his board, whatever that might be. This man, who was his own company day and night, was given, soon after his birth, the name of Moses; and his father's name was Bunnell; so he should properly have been called Moses Bunnell. And he probably was so called when he was young; but within the memory of most of his acquaintances, he had been distinguished from other folks as "Old Mose." And this was not because he was really older than others of his age, but because the epithet "old" conveyed a slight implication of disrespect. Moreover, in accordance with an acknowledged tendency of our poor human nature, this disrespect was intentional. Now the amount of pleasure extracted from saying "Old Mose" instead of Mr. Bunnell, was, each time, by itself, exceedingly small; but in the course of many years the accumulation would amount to considerable. It was this state of things that the schoolmaster perceived, and believing that the lone man's failings were rather of a negative than a positive character, he resolved to visit him. He should not be made to suffer still further because one more refused to show ​him the respect that every human being is entitled to. Besides Jack had said more than once that Mr. Bunnell would like to see the teacher. He should see him. Mr. Sears believed that he could endure it one night, and yet be able to teach school the next day. He went. He rapped at the door. He heard the welcome, "Come in." He was not unexpected, for Jack had told of his teacher's benevolent intention. The old gentleman, thinking that he should have sufficient time to prepare for his expected guest, was sitting before his large fireplace, with a cloak wrapped around him, endeavoring by means of needle and thread, and some bits of cloth, to repair the imperfection which was daily becoming more apparent in his wardrobe.

"Good evening, Mr. Bunnell! I'm your schoolmaster, and I've come to stay with you to-night."

"Glad to see ye, Mr. Sears. I've been wantin' to see ye ever sence y' been keepin' here. Jack's told me a gra' deal 'bout ye. He thinks there never was no such master afore. And so fur as I can hear, all the rest o' the scholars thinks so too. Take a chair. You must 'scuse me. I can't git up so well now. I'm tryin' to do a little mendin'. It may seem t' you I'm unfortunate; but I think I'm lucky t' be able to git along by myself. The Bible says 'tain't good for a man to be alone. But I think it's better for a man to be alone than ​to be a tryin' all the time to be alone when y' can't. So many merried folks that can't pay a lawyer to git a divorce for 'em. When I see how hard they are workin' to git apart, I'm glad I ain't one on 'em. I s'd had this mendin' all done, only the new minister come in t' see me. He's lame, but I liked him. Some on 'em go right past me, but he didn't. He read the Bible with me, an' prayed an' talked. He seemed liberal-minded, kinder, an' not set up in his knowledge o' divine things. Ye see that old Bible there—I'v read that through a dozen times."

At this point Jack came in with potatoes for supper. "What shall I do with 'em?" he asked. "Shall I bile 'em or roast 'em?"

"How do you like 'em, Mr. Sears? They shall be jest as you say."

"Oh, I like them any way. They're good roasted."

"If we had a leetle butter. I'm afraid we hain't no butter."

"I don't care for butter; just as good without."

"We have salt enough."

"That's just right. Roasted potatoes with salt is a supper for a king."

"I meant to had more of somethin' when you come."

"It's enough, Mr. Bunnell. I used to have roasted potatoes at home. My mother used to give them to us children, and they went ​good. I don't wish you to get anything else."

Against the time that the potatoes were roasted and the tea well steeped, the delighted host had arrayed himself in garments that permitted of his coming to the table.

The hot potatoes were put on with the salt beside them. "Jack, see if we have any sugar for the tea."

Jack said he knew there was none.

"I'm sorry we're out of everything."

"It's all right, Mr. Bunnell. Tea of as good rich color as this doesn't need sugar. Potatoes and salt—nothing better."

The good host did not ask the master to invoke a blessing; he prayed himself for the grace they needed.

The potatoes being right from the fire, they found it convenient to drop them on the table, and thus let them cool a little before attempting to eat them. Then holding one-half of the tempting tuber in both hands, having with some difficulty broken them open while hot, with much blowing, and long, vigorous "suspirations," they succeeded in finishing the devouring process without seriously burning their tongues. There can be no reasonable doubt that the trousers-mender and his guest found keen enjoyment in their frugal repast.

But supper out of the way, then came the real enjoyment of the evening. This singular old recluse cared little for food, and what was better, he indulged in no spirituous ​liquors of any kind. His English, as he spoke it, continued to have the imperfections which characterized the talk of the children with whom he was brought up; but what he wrote was free from such defects, and his chirography was remarkably neat. He had a little library of books, some of which one would hardly expect to find in such a home. First of all was the Bible, which he had read many times; then commentaries, and theological treatises, and a church history. All these he had studied with great care, noting down his own thoughts and conclusions. The schoolmaster was greatly surprised at what he found, as well as with the real intelligence of his host. When the latter began to propound theological problems, James Sears was glad that he was not in a larger company, as he attempted to answer them. As it was, he felt obliged to say many times, "Well, really, Mr. Bunnell, I don't know." He had not yet lived long enough to realize that other folks also were in the same kind of ignorance. "Old Mose's" pet hobbie was the question of the real historicity of some parts of the Bible. Also some theological dogmas he contended were absurd.

"I've ben a wantin' to see ye," he said to the master, "ever sence I heard that you replied to Dr. Colon that you must get through repentin' of your own sins before y' c'd begin on Adam's. I said to myself then, if we've got a schoolmaster who sees through the ab​surdity of puttin' the sins of a man who lived thousands o' years ago over onto us, and then obligin' on us to repent on 'em, I'd like t' see that young man. He ain't nobody's fool, I know. What'd the Doctor say to ye, when you give him such an answer?"

"He didn't say anything. Squire Bitum laughed, and the rest of the committee looked as solemn as owls. I thought that they were waiting to hear the stern rebuke which my impudence deserved."

"No, the approval that your wisdom merited, I should say."

"I haven't made theology a study," the teacher said.

"Y'd better not, ef it's goin' to affect ye as it doos some folks. Dr. Colon is a great and good man, but when instead of tellin' poor sinners like me of God's love an' forgiveness, when we repent of our own sins, not Adam's, and he tries to make us understand his Calvinism, that's had t' be salted down for a great many years, to make it keep,—I ain't much edified, and I'd ruther he'd tell me somethin' that I can know about. But that ain't so bad as folks' supposin' that Eve was made out o' one o' Adam's ribs. Do you think, Mr. Sears, that once men lived about a thousand years, and continued to raise up families o' children all that time?"

"No, Mr. Bunnell, I don't think so."

"Well, too, did ye ever stop to consider how ​many people there must have been on the earth, at the time o' the flood, if they lived so long, an' raised up sons an' daughters all that time?"

"No, I never did."

"Well, you're good in 'rithmetic. You jest sed 'own, an' work it out. I guess you'll find it's the biggest crowd you ever knew of. And Noah didn't try to take any on 'em in. There was his old grandfather Methuselah—it's a pity that, after livin' so long, he should have been left t' die in the flood. But Noah's father had died jest a few years afore—Noah didn't have to see him drown. Perhaps his mother did drown; and brothers and sisters, too, a big lot on 'em."

"I never thought that so many of Noah's immediate family friends perished," put in the master.

"Well, you look at the record of their birth, and their ages, an' see for yourself. And did y' ever think of the amount of food needed for so many thousand animals, an' birds, an' creepin' things, for a whole year, even ef he could o' stowed 'em all away somehow,—and he couldn't. An' what kind o' air you think they had t' breathe after they'd all ben all jammed in together a month or two—three stories to the thing, an' one winder to the top? Noah an' his boys must o' had their hands full, t' du their chores every mornin'. Don't we see, Mr. Sears, that the thing, as it is told us, was utterly impossible?"

​"I must confess," said the master, "I've never stopped to think very much whether the story could be true historically or not."

"Jest like other folks, Mr. Sears. Do y' think there's anything in the Bible that's meant we should suppose a real fact, when we c'n see it's impossible, or when it contradicts common sense?"

"No, Mr. Bunnell, I shouldn't suppose so."

"We say God is the author of the Bible, then we shouldn't charge him o' not havin' common sense, should we?"

"That would be an awful thing to do."

"There's one thing more that I'll speak of," continued the old man, who had studied, and who loved his Bible,—"them sons of God, who merried the daughters of men. Who was these sons of God? They tell us that they was good men, and the women that they took, was all bad. Now I, for one, want t' know why these so good men all wanted to take for their wives bad women? And why didn't a single son of 'em take after his father? The men's goodness couldn't counteract the women's badness. So all their children was giants in wickedness."

"Yes, it does seem as if these men's goodness was rather of a negative character," interrupted the schoolmaster. "Their matrimonial ventures don't seem to have turned out very well."

"Why should they, sence they went an' took ​to themselves bad women, 'as many as they would,' as it says. I think they'd better o' done as I have. If such good men takin' to themselves wives was the means o' drownin' out the whole world, what could such a poor wicked creater as I expect? Ain't it better to live alone as I do?"

"Yes, sir, of the two, I think your lot a good deal better."

Mr. Bunnell now went to a cupboard and took out a large number of manuscript poems. This was a new turn in affairs. Mr. Sears had perceived that his host was a theologian, but he little imagined that he was a poet also. A poem was selected for reading that bore directly upon the subject in hand. Or, at least, it set forth the beauty and pleasantness of life in the Garden of Eden, when Adam and Eve enjoyed it all to themselves. The master begged permission to copy it.

When the master had secured a copy of the old bachelor poet's conception of the happy life of Adam and Eve, in their early home, he looked at many other of his poems and hymns, of more or less merit, till nearly midnight; then, although with some misgivings as to what might be in store for him, he suggested to his strange host, that the necessity of getting a little rest would oblige him to forego, until some future time, the pleasure of reading more of the pile of papers before him. Jack had long before gone off to bed, so the master hoped he should have the "spare bed" all to himself. And this proved to be true, so far as any creatures of somewhat the size and appearance of himself were concerned; but he soon found his bed thickly inhabited; he was ​by no means alone. And his new acquaintances were very affectionate. They gathered around him, even claiming a kind of blood relationship. This, however kind of them, was not what the master needed; he wanted to sleep. But it was soon painfully apparent to him that we cannot always have what we want. He would not be the object of so much attention. But this he was receiving from all sides, and in the middle, at the same time. His room was pitch darkness, and there was no way of having a light. The one thing that he could faintly discern was the dim outline of the sash of the uncurtained window. If it were only warm enough, he might get up, and sit up; but it was too cold. When would it be morning! He could think of only one good thing possible in his lying there. It would surely enable him to keep in mind forever one passage of Scripture; the Psalmist speaks of those who long for something, "more than they who watch for the morning." As he lay there, he would repeat, "more than they who watch for the morning!" There must be a meaning in that passage of which he had never before had any conception. There must be a depth of human experience to which he had hitherto been an entire stranger. Surely there was more than one way of learning life's most important lessons. There is another passage, in the Psalms, which came to the mind of the young philosophizer; namely, "If I take the wings of the ​morning." "Ah, yes," he said to himself, "as soon as there is a particle of light, if I can get hold of those 'wings,' you had better believe I shall fly."

So the thoughts of the heroic young schoolmaster alternated between watching for the morning, and flying away in the morning. Sometimes one was uppermost and sometimes the other. But there were no other prospects of future felicity that he was able to entertain during the six and a half hours that he waited for the opportunity of clothing himself in his ordinary garments, and in his right mind.

In the morning, for breakfast, more of the same kind of potatoes that were on the table the evening before, were greatly enjoyed.

"If you can come up to dinner, Mr. Sears, I'll try to have something a little better for you," remarked the benignant host as they rose from the table.

"Oh, no; I shall not be able to come up," replied the master; "but if I could, I should like nothing better than these splendid potatoes."

"Then you must take some dinner with you."

"Well, if anything, a potato or two, if you please. I'm greatly obliged for your kind hospitality."

"Jack, you put two or three nice potatoes ​in the ashes, and git 'em well roasted f' Mr. Sears t' take 'long with him."

The potatoes were taken out as hot as the place where they had been roasting. Mr. Bunnell was about to put them into a basket, but the master slipped one into each of his two overcoat pockets, thinking they would be most out of sight there. With a cheery "good-by" he was soon away. The potatoes, however, grew too hot for his pockets. So he took one in each hand, but they were too hot for his hands. What should he do? He wrapped dry leaves around them, and thus carried them till they were sufficiently cooled to be put in his pockets. He put them in his desk to await the dinner hour.