The above, reader, I consider the best verse of poetry
of modern production: the best, because the most useful,
that has been given to the world by the whole tribe of poets
of the present century, whether born or made so, from
Byron, intellectual giant of lofty imaginings, down to N. P.
Willis, puny prince of poetical puppyism. Don't stare so:
I am in earnest; and make my appeal, not to finical critics,
but to the great mass of the people, learned and unlearned,
for a confirmation of my opinion. What man,
woman or child, in their daily reckoning of the days in the
different months, for the calculations of business, profit or
pleasure, does not instantly recur to this verse, which is
fixed in the memory of all, or a majority of all, who speak
the English language, as the readiest way of ascertaining
at once what would otherwise require a considerable exertion
of the memory, or perhaps an inconvenient recurrence
to the almanac to determine. And what is modern poetry?—
what is its real utility, and what are its effects? Metal
refined to dross—a crazy man's dreams—a combination
of vague, mystified, and unmeaning imagery, containing

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scarcely one natural simile—one sensible thought, or one
sound maxim of moral instruction; and calculated only to
enervate and undiscipline the mind, without bettering the
heart by awakening one commendable sensibility or by fostering
one virtue. Such at least is too much the character
of the productions of our mistaken poets. The above lines,
however, are obviously an exception to these remarks; and
thus viewing them, I thought I would quote them in compliance
with the custom of heading chapters with a
catch of poetry; and as to their applicability to the
subject matter of the chapter over which they are placed,
I have little fear of violating the precedents of many
of my superiors in authorship.

I left my hero, lodged for the night in a tavern situated
in a town some miles west of the Green-Mountains. This
town, as he found on enquiry, contained a village of considerable
size lying about three miles distant from the tavern
of which he was then an inmate. After a night's selfconsultation,
Timothy concluded he would make his debut
in this village without further wanderings. Whether he
came to this determination just at this time, because he
considered it a public duty to try to enlighten the inhabitants
of this particular town, or whether the diminished
gravity of his purse admonished him that he could not
proceed any farther without replenishing it, is a matter of
no consequence; but certain it is, he was now making an
inroad on his last guinea.

I mention these trifling circumstances, because I am
aware that even trifles become invested with interest and
importance when connected with subsequent greatness.
Timothy was informed by the landlord that there was an
academy, or town school in the village, which having no
funds, was supported by subscription, and taught by such
preceptors as could, from time to time, be obtained; some
of whom instructed in the dead languages, and all the classics,
and some only in English branches, and that this
academy was at present destitute of a teacher. For this
station our hero now resolved to offer himself, not in the

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

least doubting his qualifications to instruct the children of
a people so rude and ignorant, as he had been taught in
his own country to believe the Vermonters. For this purpose
he proceeded directly to the village, and calling on
one of the trustees or committee, who, he was told, superintended
the hiring of instructors, promptly offered himself
for the vacant situation. The gentleman, as soon as he
was made to understand this proposal of Timothy, eyed its
author a moment with keen attention—then took out his
spectacles, rubbed the glasses, put them on, and took a
second look, surveying from head to foot the goodly dimensions
of the young six-footer before him, (our hero stood
just six feet high in his cowhides, reader,) his looks seeming
to say, “a sturdy fellow, truly! but does he look like
a preceptor?” For a while he appeared puzzled what answer
to make to Timothy. At last however he observed,
that perhaps they had better walk over to Esquire Hawkeye's
office, as the Squire was also a committee-man, and
usually took the main management of the establishment.
Accordingly he led our hero to the office of the 'Squire,
and introduced him by observing, “A gentleman, who
wishes to engage as teacher of our academy, 'Squire.—I
always leave cases of this kind to your management, you
know, 'Squire,” he added, with a kind of half grin. After
all the necessary introductory nods, &c. had been made
by the parties, the 'Squire, who was a lawyer, laid aside
the writs and executions which were ostentatiously displayed
on the table before him, and proceeded to put a
few general questions to Timothy, who promptly answered
them in the way he thought best calculated to produce a
favorable impression of his abilities. The 'Squire listened
with great attention to every answer, rolling his tobacco
quid at the same time in his mouth with increased rapidity.
“What say you,” at length he said, addressing the man
who introduced Timothy, “what say you, Deacon Bidwell,
shall we proceed to examine into the gentleman's qualifications,
or does he bring with him sufficient credentials?”
The Deacon looked to Timothy for an answer to the last

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

question, but not receiving any, he observed, “The 'Squire
means to ask you whether you have brought any credentials,
or letters of recommend with you.” To this our hero,
conceiving the question implied a doubt of his qualifitions,
and feeling indignant that any doubts should be entertained
of him by a people whom he considered so much
his inferiors, rather haughtily replied, that he “never carried
about with him such superfluous superfluities; and
that, if they were not already satisfied with his blandishments,
they might proceed to invistigate them.” The
'Squire now rolled his quid faster than before. At this
moment, a little thin, sallow-faced, important-looking fellow
came bustling in, who was saluted as Doctor Short,
and who was a no less important personage than the village
physician, and a third member of the august board who
were about to sit in judgement on the literary and scientific
qualifications of our hero. The Doctor having been informed
of what was on the carpet, and invited to take a
part in the examination, the 'Squire now observed, “Perhaps
we may as well proceed to invistigate the gentleman
a little, as he expresses it.—So, I will propound a question
or two, with his leave:—And in the first place, What is
grammar?”

`That part of speech,' replied Timothy, with the utmost
promptitude, `which teaches us to express our ideas with
propriety and dispatch.'

“How would you parse this sentence,” said the 'Squire,
holding up in his hand an old book of forms, “This book
is worth a dollar?”

`Pass!' replied Timothy, with a sneer, `pass it? why, I
should pass it as a very absurd incongruity, for the book
evidently is not worth half that sum!'

“Ah, well, Sir, we will take another branch,” said the
'Squire, in an apologetic tone—“What histories have you
read?”

`Robinson Cruso, George Barnwell, Pilgrim's Progress,
Thaddeus of Warsaw, Indian Wars, Arabian Nights, the

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

account of the Great Gunpowder Plot, and a multitudinous
collection of others, too numerous to contemplate.'

“At what time did the Gunpowder Plot take place—how,
and in what country?”

`In England, in the dark ages of ancestry, when it blew
up the King, whose name was Darnley, into the immeasurable
expanse of the celestial horizon—shook the whole of
Europe, and was heard even into France and Scotland.'

“What is Geography?”

`It is a terraqueous description of the circumambular
globe.'

“The gentleman really seems to answer the questions
with great promptitude,” said the 'Squire, with well-supported
gravity. “Doctor, will you take your turn in a few
interrogatories?”

The Doctor now assuming a wise look, and taking a new
pinch of snuff by way of sharpening his faculties for the occasion,
asked Timothy if he had ever studied the Latin
language.

Our hero hesitated; but thinking it would not do to be
thought deficient in any branch of education, and having
caught the signification of a few words from having heard
the recitations of a Latin scholar or two in a school which
he once for a short time attended, he concluded to risk the
consequence of giving an affirmative answer: Accordingly,
he told the Doctor that he did profess to know something
about that language.

“Well, then,” said the Doctor, “What is the English
meaning of this sentence—Varium et mutabile semper femina?”

`Why,' replied Timothy, `it means, I opinionate, that
simpering females will mutiny without variety.'

“Not so wide from the mark, by the shade of old Virgil!”
said the other, laughing: “but let us try another—a famous
quotation from Horace: it is this—Poeta nascitur, non fit?”

`O, that is plain enough,' quickly replied our hero, `and
I agree with that Mr. Horace—he says that a nasty poet is
not fit—that is, not fit for any thing.'

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

The Doctor and 'Squire now laughed outright—the Deacon
looked round to see what was the matter, and smiled
faintly through sympathy, but said nothing. “I will now,”
said the Doctor, after having recovered from his fit of merriment,
“I will now give you a sentence in prose, with
which you, being a teacher, will of course be familiar:—
Bonus doctor custos populorum.”

`Why,' replied Timothy, with a look of mingled doubt
and wicked triumph glancing at the lean visage of the other,
`seeing you put it out to me, I will explanitate it: It
says and signifies, that bony doctors are a curse to the
people.'

The laugh was now against the Doctor, in which even
the Deacon joined heartily; while the somewhat discomfited
object of the joke, after a few shrugs of the shoulders,
hastily proceeded to say,

“Well, well, let us drop the Latin,—other studies are
more important,—let us take some of the higher branchos
of English education. What, Sir, is Chemistry?”

`Chemistry!' said our hero, `why, that I take to be one
of your physical propensities which has nothing to do with
education.'

“Well, then,” said the Doctor, “we will take a view of
the higher branches of Mathematics—algebraical, geometrical
or trigonometrical principles, if you please.”

But Timothy, thinking he had answered enough of their
impertinent questions, replied, that `as to algymetry and
trygrimetry, and such other invented abstrusities,' he considered
too insignificant to monopolize his internal consideration:
He therefore wished them to tell him at once
whether or not they would employ him. This unexpected
request rather disconcerted the learned trio, and they appeared
much at a loss what to say. After some shuffling
of feet, spitting and looking down upon the floor, the Deacon
and Doctor both turned their eyes imploringly on the
'Squire, as much as to say, “you must be the man to smooth
the answer as well as you can.”

The 'Squire then told Timothy, that they were not

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

exactly prepared at present to give any answer. But our hero
was not to be put off in this manner, and desired to know
when they would be ready to answer him. The 'Squire replied
that it was extremely difficult to tell, but if at any
time hence they should wish to employ him, they would
send him word. Timothy, however, was determined to
bring them to something definite, and therefore insisted on
their naming a day when they would let him know their
decision. On this, the 'Squire finding himself likely to be
baffled in his plan of indefinite postponement, as the legislators
say, very gravely proposed that Timothy should call
in one year from that day, at half past four o'clock in the
afternoon, precisely, when he should have the answer which
he so much desired.

Our hero hearing this strange proposition, and observing
them exchange sundry winks, instantly rose, and, with becoming
indignation declaring that he had no sort of desire
to enter the employment of men too ignorant to appreciate
his talents, abruptly left the office. Pausing not a moment
to look either to the right or left, he strode on with
rapid steps till he was fairly out of the village; when he
turned round and gave vent to his smothered resentment
in a torrent of anathemas against those conceited and impudent
fellows, who, with such astonishing stupidity, had
failed to discover his capacities in an examination in which
he had, in his own opinion, acquitted himself so honorably.
But he was now clear of them, and he determined to
trouble them no more. Indeed, he began now to entertain
a contemptible opinion of school-keeping altogether,
and he therefore concluded to make no more applications
for this kind of employment, at least among the conceited
Vermonters. “But where am I going?” he now for the first
time thought to ask himself. He revolved several things
in his mind, and at last resolved, as it was now nearly night,
to return to the tavern where he lodged the last night, and
consult with the landlord, who had treated him with much
kindness, relative to the course he had better pursue in his
present unpleasant circumstances.

p389-046

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