CHAPTER XVIII.THE DIALOGUE.

THE winter term of the academy was now drawing towards an end, and preparations were already commenced for the closing examination and exhibition. Thus far the term had been a very harmonious and prosperous one, and the students, with but few exceptions, had made good progress. There seemed, indeed, to be an unusual ambition and rivalry in some of the classes. One morning, the following line from Dr. Young was found, written in a large hand on the most conspicuous blackboard in the room:—

“PRAISE NO MAN E’ER DESERVED, WHO SOUGHT NO MORE.”

After the usual opening exercises, Mr. Upton called attention to it, saying it contained a truth which every scholar would do well to ponder.“If we aim at excellence as students,” he added, “merely to secure praise, and to gain a prize, or for the love of excelling, we are giving ourselves up to a very mean and unworthy motive. Whatever we may accomplish or win, under the influence of such a base impulse, we shall really deserve neither praise nor reward. Can any of you explain what is the true and proper motive for the student?”

There was a pause. Finding no one was likely to respond, Jessie Hapley arose, and said:—

“I suppose we ought to seek knowledge because it is good, in itself, and because it will increase our usefulness, hereafter.”

“That is a very good answer,” replied Mr. Upton. “There may be other lawful motives for studying hard, such as a wish to please our parents and friends, or to better our condition in the world, or to gratify our own tastes; but the noblest and purest motive is that which Miss Hapley has given—knowledge is a good thing in itself, and is a mighty power for good, in the hands of one who aims to serve God and bless the world. Compared with such a motive as this, how contemptible is theambition which seeks only to shine on examination day, or to outdo a rival, or take the highest prize! That we may bear this in mind, we will let this motto remain before us until the blackboard is needed for other purposes.”

Ronald was a very good declaimer, as were several others of the boys in his class. Marcus had given him some encouragement that he would prepare an original dialogue for Ronald and a few of his classmates to bring out at the exhibition. This half-promise he was now reminded of, almost daily, until at length he agreed that if Ronald would find a suitable plot or subject for a dialogue, he would assist him in putting it upon paper. This, he said, was all he could promise to do, at present. Ronald was at first a little discouraged by this proposal; but setting his wits to work, in a day or two he suggested to Marcus a plan of a dialogue.

“I should think we might make something out of that,” said Marcus, after Ronald had explained the plan. “Now you sit down, and write out a rough outline of it, and then let me see it.”

“But you said you would help me write it out,” said Ronald.

“So I will,” replied Marcus; “but I want you to do what you can, first, without my help. After you have made your first draft, we will go over it together, and see what improvements we can make in it.”

“But I can’t do it—I don’t know where to begin,” pleaded Ronald.

“O, yes, you can,” replied Marcus. “Write it out just as you explained it to me, and that will he a good beginning.”

Ronald at length mustered courage enough to make the attempt. His dialogue was of course quite imperfect, but it served as a good basis for Marcus to work upon. Two or three evenings were spent over it, by the joint authors, before it was pronounced satisfactory. When completed, the ideas and incidents of the piece were for the most part Ronald’s, while they were indebted to Marcus for much of the language in which they were clothed, and for the general arrangement they assumed.

The following is a copy of the dialogue, as it read when completed. The part which Ronald decided to take was that of “Joseph Foot,” as hispowers of mimicry enabled him to imitate the backwoods dialect very successfully:

HEAD AND FOOT.

Scene—A school-room, with a class of ten or twelve boys, seated on a bench.Principal Characters—John Head,who is at the head of the class, andJoseph Foot,a wonderfully good-natured backwoods lad, who is at the other extremity.

Head[rising, and holding in his hand something concealed in a cloth.]—Friends and classmates! We have passed through the dread ordeal of another examination. Our grave and reverend seigniors have set in solemn inquisition over us, to their hearts’ content. They have weighed us, and gauged us, and tested us, and dissected and analyzed us, till we feel as if they had found out about all we know, besides some things that we don’t know. Our learned and venerable teacher, of whom we would ever speak with affection and esteem, has shown us in all our paces—trotting through our declamations and reading lessons, at a lively rate—tripping lightly among the big words in the dictionary—limping over verbs, and participles, and relatives, and copulatives—stumbling among cubesand roots, and the vulgarest of fractions—and floundering in a sea of forgotten geographical names and latitudes.

Boy.—I say, Johnny, there’s one of your paces he didn’t put you through to-day—that’s the pace you exhibited when he flogged you round the school-room and out of the window, the other day.

Several Boys.—Order! order! order!

Head.—I will only say to my tow-headed colleague from Misery Swamp, that if his insulting personalities were not entirely out of place on such an occasion as this, I would stop and settle with him on the spot [shaking his fist.]

Several Boys.—Order! order! order!

Another Boy.—That’s right, Johnny—stand up for your honor! Form a ring, boys, and let ’em fight it out!

Boys.—Order! Shame! (with hisses.)

Head.—Some of you called me to order—I should like to know why.

A Boy.—It isn’t parliamentary to shake your fist at a fellow.

Head.—I don’t care for that. We’ve nothing to do with parliamentary rules, here—we are governed by Congressional usage; and it’s Congressional to shake your fists, and use them, too, if you choose. Does anybody deny that?

A Boy.—Enough said—go on with your speech, Johnny.

Head.—Well, as I was saying, we have passed through the fiery trial of another examination, and the magnificent series of prizes—the total cost of which to our beloved teacher, as I learn from good authority, could not have been less than one dollar and twenty-five cents—have all been awarded. As is apt to be the case, I believe, on such occasions, some three or four scholars who are supposed to be brighter than their fellows, have carried away all the prizes, leaving absolutely nothing for the great body of the school. Now it has seemed to some of the more philanthropic members of the class that this is hardly fair; and to equalize in some degree this unjust scale of awards, it was suggested that we all unite and purchase an appropriate offering for thepoorestscholar in the class. Though it was my fortune, or misfortune, whichever you choose to regard it, to take the highest prize offered to this class, consisting of a touching account of a dear little girl who never was naughty, and died young—

A Boy.—O my! Lend it to me, Johnny, wont you?

Several Boys.—And me, too! And me, too And me too!

A Boy.—There, John Head! It’s too bad to make fun of your prize.

Head.—I beg your pardon, I’m not making fun of it. But I wish folks wouldn’t interrupt me. You put me out so, that I don’t know as I can get through with my speech. As I was saying, although I took the prize myself, I go in for doing justice to all, and am happy to comply with the request, to present this testimonial of respect and affection to our esteemed friend who heads the other end of the class, as an Irishman might say. Brother Joseph Foot, will you please to rise? [Foot rises, with a broad grin on his face.]

A Boy.—Brother Foot is on his feet.

Head.—My dear sir, you have been selected as the honorable recipient of a testimonial from your classmates, out of respect to the position you occupy, as the lowest round of our literary ladder. Your quick native intelligence probably will not demand that I should attempt to prove that there must be one round in the ladder lower than all the others; and I suppose it is equally evident to your enlightened mind, that if you constitute this round, yourself, the rest of us can be spared for other and higher posts of duty. We should, therefore, and I trust do, feel truly grateful to you for settling down so permanently and contentedly into this importantand truly fundamental office, thus relieving us from all anxiety in regard to it. Your position may seem an humble one, but I may say for myself, that I have considerable respect for it. I like to see a person decidedly one thing or another. Let those eat luke-warm porridge who love it—I prefer mine either hot or cold. Moreover, the brighter scholars of the class are indebted to you not a little for their brilliancy, like the stars at night, which owe much of their beauty to the dark background. But the chief comfort and satisfaction of your life must be the thought that many of the greatest men the world has produced have been very dull and stupid boys. It is said that the bright boys of the school and the college are seldom heard from, when they become men. According to this rule, we may confidently hope to hear a tremendous report from yourself, one of these days.

Accept, then, classmate, this slight token of good-will and esteem, from your friends. It is a heart tribute, whose expressiveness and significance will doubtless be appreciated by you. Accept it—and while you indulge the fond consciousness that you have attained to this distinction without resorting to selfish and unworthy means, you may also comfort yourself with the grateful assurance that youhave escaped the sting of envy—that inevitable bane of the prize scholar.

[He uncovers the testimonial, which proves to be a cabbage, and stepping up toFoot,who stands grinning, proffers it to him.]

Boy.—Why don’t you take it, Jo?—it’s a big rose.

Another Boy.—Yes, Jo, take it—he wont charge you anything for it.

Foot[taking the cabbage.] Wall, I guess it’s good to b’ile, any heow.

Head.—But, my good friend, you do not propose to consign this token of esteem from your classmates to the dinner-pot, as though it were nothing but a common vegetable!

Foot[surveying first the cabbage, and thenJohn’shead.] Wall, ’tis ’most too bad to b’ile it—sich a good likeness o’ your top-piece. They say all flesh is grass, but I guess some folks’ heads don’t want much of bein’ cabbages, neow that’s a fact. [Headwalks back to his seat.] Jest look, neow! it’s the very image of his head, behind, isn’t it, you?

Several Boys.—Good! Good! Ha, ha, ha!

Foot[examining the cabbage.] Wall, this ’ere’s a pooty good sort of a cabbage, any heow, and a feller hadn’t oughter make fun of it. But if’t belongsto the biggest fool in the class, I shall feel as if I was cheatin’ you, Johnny, if I keep it.

Head.—O, no, Jo, don’t be too modest—there’s no doubt you have the best claim—the whole class voted it to you.

Foot.—Wall, s’posin’ I ken prove that you’re the feller that oughter had it?

Head.—You can’t do that little thing, Johnny—if you can, I’ll eat the cabbage raw.

Foot.—I don’t take no stumps, but if yer want to bet, jest say so. I’ll bet this ’ere ‘token,’ as yer call it, ag’inst a quarter dollar, that you oughter have it.

Head.—Agreed. [Fumbles in his pockets for money.] Here’s the quarter.

Foot.—So ’tis! Wall, here’s the cabbage. Bill, you hold the stakes, will you? [Bill takes them.]

A Boy.—You’re sold, Johnny, as sure as a gun! He’s got it on to you!

Head[scratching his head a moment.] Why, Jo is going to put down a quarter, too, isn’t he?

Foot.—No, he isn’t going to put down a quarter tew, nuther. I said I’d bet this ’ere cabbage ag’inst a quarter—didn’t I, boys?

A Boy.—Yes, that is just what he said.

Head.—O, I didn’t understand it so.

Foot.—O, wall, you ken back deown if you wanter—I knowed it would be jest so.

Head.—But I shan’t back down, so go ahead and win the bet, if you can.

Foot.—Wont you, though? Seems to me I would, if I’s in such a fix.

Head.—O yes, you want to back out yourself, don’t you?

Foot.—Wall, no, I’ve gone so far I wont back eout; but I’ll tell ye what, Johnny, I don’t want to git away your money, so I’ll give in han’somely.The cabbage is yourn!

[General laughter and clapping of hands in the class, with cries ofGood! Capital! You’ve got to eat it raw, Johnny! &c.]

Foot.—There, now, I’ll leave it to all hands if Johnny hadn’t oughter have that ’ere cabbage?

All.—Yes! yes! To be sure he had! All right! &c.

Foot.—Then I’ll take that ’ere quarter, Bill—I b’lieve I’ve won my bet!

[Renewed demonstrations of merriment through the class.]

Head.—But stop, I thought you just backed out from the bet.

Foot.—Back eout? No such thing—I said I wouldn’t back out, any way. I only kinder madeyou think I’d give in beat, but I won the wager fairly, arter all, didn’t I, boys?

Several Boys.—Yes! yes! So he did. It’s all fair.

Foot.—Wall, Johnny, if I’ve won, I expect that ’ere cabbage b’longs to me, tew. But I don’t want to be hard on yer; besides, ’twixt you and I and the teown pump, I don’t ’prove of bettin’, for dad says it’s jest about as bad as gamblin’; so s’posin’ we jest swap even—I’ll keep the quarter, and you may have the cabbage, and eat it raw or b’iled, jest as you please. It’s a pooty good price for it, I expect, but what’s the use of a feller’s tradin’, if he can’t make something?

Head.—Well, Jo, you shan’t say I’m such a fool that I don’t know when I’m fairly cornered. I’ll own up handsomely, that I went to gather wool, and came home shorn; so you may keep the quarter, and I’ll take the cabbage. Here, Bill, pass over the property. [Bill obeys.] Boys, I’ll just say to you, that the next time you want to make a present to the foot of the class, you will have to get somebody else to be your orator. And to you, Jo, I will frankly confess that you have taught me a lesson I shall never forget. I have learned that a boy is not necessarily a fool, because he is at the foot of his class, and that excellent as book learningis, common sense and mother wit are sometimes more than a match for it.

Foot.—Thank ye, Johnny; you done that han’somely, that’s a fact. Neow, Jake, you jest run over to the bake-shop, and git as much gingerbread as this ’ere quarter will buy, and we’ll have a gineral treat all reound. [Hands him the money.]

[ExitJake.Curtain falls.]

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