ONE

XIX.

The Schoolmistress.

NE does not often meet with Shenstone's "Schoolmistress" now-a-days, and as every year makes her more of a rarity, we have given her a place in our rustic group. There appears to be no doubt that Shenstone, who learned to read from the old dame who taught the village school at HalesOwen, his native hamlet, sketched from life, when he drew the old "Schoolmistress," her blue apron, her single hen, and the noisy little troop about her. To us, however, in these very different days, the simple rustic sketch assumes something of the dignity of an historical picture.

The little thatched cottage of the dame is still to be seen near Hales-Owen, as well as the gabled roof of the Leasowes, under which the poet was born. The old homes of England, whether cot or castle, are seldom leveled by the hand of man, and they long remain as links between successive generations.

A few of the stanzas have been omitted, in order to bring the poem within the limits of this volume.

308

THE SCHOOLMISTRESS.

In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to Fame,
There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire,

A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame;
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame,
And ofttimes, on vagaries idly bent,

For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.
And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,

Which Learning near her little dome did stowe,
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,

Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;

For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd, and their pulse beat low;
And as they look'd, they found their horror grew,
And shap'd it into rods, and tingled at the view.
So have I seen (who has not, may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden plac'd;

So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave,

Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;

They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast;
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper age e'er taste!
Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display;
And at the door imprisoning-board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray,
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!

The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,

Do Learning's little tenement betray;

Where sits the dame, disguis'd in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet, of decency does yield;

Her apron dy'd in grain, is blue, I trowe,

As is the hare-bell that adorns the field;
And in her hand for sceptre, she does wield

Tway birchen sprays, with anxious fears entwin'd,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill'd,

And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontroul'd and chastisement unkind.

Few but have ken'd, in semblance meet portray'd,
The childish faces of old Eol's train;
Libs, Notus, Auster; these in frowns array'd,
How then would fare on earth, or sky, or main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,

The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell,
Where comely peace of mind and decent order dwell.
A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown;
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;

'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;
'Twas her own labour did the fleece prepare;

And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang'd around,
Through pious awe did term it passing rare;

For they in gaping wonderment abound,

And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground!

Albeit ne flattery did corrupt the truth,

Ne pompous title did debauch her ear;

Goody, good-woman, n'aunt, forsooth,

Or dame, the sole additions she did hear;

Yet these she challeng'd, these she held right dear;

Ne would esteem him act as mought behove,
Who should not honour'd eld with these revere;
For never title yet so mean could prove,
But there was eke a mind that did that title love.

One ancient hen she took delight to feed,
The plodding pattern of the busy dame;
Which, ever and anon, impelled by need,
Into her school, begirt with chickens, came!
Such favor did her past deportment claim;

And if Neglect had lavish'd on the ground
Fragment of bread, she would collect the same,
For well she knew, and quaintly could expound,
What sin it were to waste the smallest erumb she found.