nor end; others, while they give every little incident with wearisome
minuteness, stop suddenly when they come to the colophon, pause in doubt
and trepidation, and finally conclude with two or three sentences of
sententious brevity, in which the word _marriage_ occurs at least once.
The writer of this history, like all right-minded scribes, becomes
disgusted when the last difficulty is surmounted, but yet has sufficient
moral power to devote a whole chapter (though a short one) to the
conclusion. Gentle reader, you ought to be indulgent to one who has such
self-abnegation--such firmness of purpose--such greatness of mind.
This story draws to an end for several reasons: first, there is no great
affinity between schoolboys, for whom it professes to be written, and
volumes seventy-nine chapters in length; secondly, if the reader is not
tired of it, the writer begins to be; thirdly, a story dies a natural
death as soon as its writer unriddles, or attempts to unriddle, its
mysteries; fourthly (and this is perhaps the strongest reason of all),
there is nothing more to be written.
If there are other reasons why the story should be brought to an end,
they concern the writer, not the reader, and therefore need not be
specified. But in case the reader should care to hear what became of
those boys, the writer graciously spins out a few pages more.
Naturally they married, observes the reader who is familiar with works of
fiction. Certainly; every one of them married.
Marmaduke fell desperately in love; and, as was evinced when he rescued
Sauterelle, he was a man who could love passionately and for ever. He
married the object of his choice, of course. By the way, she was actually
a French heiress--at least, her papa was a Frenchman teaching French in
one of our colleges, and on the wedding-day he gave her the magnificent
dowry of five hundred dollars, the accumulated savings of very many years.
Charles married the young lady referred to incidentally in the last
chapter. All the heroes were present at his wedding; and their enthusiasm
ran so high that they clubbed together, and bought the happy pair a
marvel of a clock, that indicated not only the seconds, minutes, hours,
days, weeks, months, years, and centuries, but was furnished, also, with
a brass band,--which thundered forth “Yankee Doodle,” “Hail Columbia,”
and “Home, Sweet Home,”--a regiment of well-dressed negroes, an
ear-piercing gong, and “all the latest improvements.”
Charles and his pretty little wife tolerated this nuisance exactly three
days, and then the former proposed the following resolution: “That clock
runs just one year after being wound, and the boys wound it up tight when
they brought it here and set it up. If we let it alone till it runs down,
we shall be as mad as the man that made it. I used to delight in “Yankee
Doodle,” but now I abominate it! We can keep the handsomest darkey in
remembrance of the boys’ mistaken kindness,--rather, in remembrance of
the horrible fate they prepared for us,--but the clock’s doom is sealed.
I will immolate it this very evening; and the street boys may make off
with its broken remains.”
It is hardly worth while to go on and describe the wedding-feast of each
of the heroes. Turn to the last page of any novel whatsoever, and you
will find an account quite as applicable to this case as to the original
of a hero’s marriage.
Will continues to commit his ridiculous blunders as of yore; but they
are not quite so ridiculous as those narrated in this tale, for he has
learned to keep a strict watch over himself. But, notwithstanding that,
notwithstanding his bumps, notwithstanding that he is now a man, he
will occasionally unstring the nerves of some weak-headed person by an
unseemly act.
Stephen still takes delight in playing off his practical jokes. He often
gets into trouble by this means, but it is not in his nature to profit by
experience.
George is a man, wise and learned in his own estimation. He sends
scientific treatises to the leading journals sometimes, but, alas! it
generally results in their being declined. But George does not value time
and postage-stamps so highly as he should, consequently he still persists
in harassing the editors with his manuscripts. He is very dispassionate
in his choice of subjects, writing with equal impartiality and enthusiasm
about astronomy, geology, philosophy, aëronautics, and philology.
Probably that is the reason why he does not succeed. If he should take
up a single science and devote all his energies to it, his name might
eventually become known to every school-boy in the land.
The less said about Timor, the better. Any boy who will attempt to hide
from a June thunder-storm by skulking under his bed, can never become a
_man_. He may grow up to man’s estate, doubtless; but he will be nothing
but a big, overgrown coward.
Bear this in mind, O parent; and if you should ever catch your little son
skulking in the aforementioned place while the lightning is playing over
the vault of heaven, fall on him, drag him out by the coat-collar, and
hoist him on the gate-post, that he may see how beautiful and marvellous
the lightning is.
Henry is a _man_, in every sense of the word. He has a good head for
business, and in a few years will, in all probability, become a rich
man--which, in good romances, is the main point.
Marmaduke never became a poet, as Steve fondly prophesied. But he is
probably the most orthodox antiquary in the United States. He may safely
be consulted on whatever relates to antiquities, as his information
is unlimited, and his home one great museum of curiosities and
monstrosities. To be sure, there are some hideous and repulsive objects
in his cabinets--objects which a child would shudder to pass in broad
daylight--but his home is the resort of profound, but absent-minded and
whimsical, antiquaries from all parts. He and his wife live a quiet
and happy life, pitied contemptuously by the ignorant, but honored and
respected by those who know them best. He is not so romantic as formerly,
his experience with “Sauterelle” having shaken his faith in romance
and mystery so much that he afterwards transferred his attention to
antiquities, leaving romance and mystery for the novelists and detectives
to deal with. He is undeniably a genius, and, much to Steve’s joy, a
thorough American.
Reader, it is utterly impossible for the writer to inform you of the
occupation of all the others--in fact, he is not morally certain that he
did right in making an antiquary of Marmaduke. Take the matter into your
own hands, and think in what business those boys would succeed best. If
you can tell, good--very good; the writer is spared the trouble.
Therefore: Each reader is at liberty to make what he pleases of Will,
Charles, George, Stephen, Jim, and Henry. There is, however, this
proviso: Do not think of Charles as an ambassador to Persia; of Steve, as
the “proprietor” of a pea-nut stand; of Jim, as a reader of ghost-stories
at midnight. Do not think of _one_ of them as a future candidate for the
presidency.
Something has been said of Steve’s calligraphic propensities. But he
never made his fortune with his pencil; he did little more than while
away an idle hour.
“Ah,” sighs the conscientious reader, “were those boys not reformed? Did
the faults of their boyhood cling to them in their manhood?”
Yes; they clung to them. It was originally the intention to reform them,
one and all; but insurmountable difficulties lay in the way. In the
first place, nothing short of a frightful, perhaps _fatal_, catastrophe
could have a lasting effect on them; and it is unpleasant to deal with
catastrophes. Consequently, they are suffered to live on, their ways not
amended. But the writer is as grieved at their follies, or faults, as you
are, gentle reader.
After a careful and critical perusal of this composition,--which the
writer is conceited enough boldly to call “tale,” “story,” and “history,”
and indirectly to call “romance” and “novel,”--the reader may inquire,
vaguely: “Who is supposed to be the hero of it, anyway?”
The writer does not resent this as an insult, but replies calmly that he
does not know. In the beginning, it was designed that Will should be the
hero-in-chief, but it soon became manifest that that was a mistaken idea.
Will is, at best, a shabby hero, not half so noble as the gamins in the
fable, who stopped stoning the frogs when the frogs reasoned them out of
it.
In point of religion, Will is probably the best of all, though each one
is sound in his belief. George does not permit his scientific hobbies
to shake his faith in God or man; and if the reader imagines he detects
profane levity in the course of this book, he is mistaken, for nothing of
the sort is intended.
We do not inform possible inquirers what church these worthies attended,
or whether each one attended a different church. We do not disclose with
which political party they sided, but it may be taken for granted that
they were not all Republicans nor all Democrats.
There is a motive for this reticence--a very base and significant motive.
That motive is--_policy_!
To return to Will. He endeavored to live up to the precept enforced in
the following lines:
“So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”
The disgusted reader, if he has persevered to the end, tumbles this
volume into an out-of-the-way corner, fetches a yawn of intense relief,
and mutters, “Good-bye to that self-styled writer, with his Wegotism
and his ‘demoralized’ heroes, who are always ‘chuckling’ over their
atrocities; and who are a set of noodles, anyway; always quaking with
fear, overwhelmed with consternation, or shuddering with horror--and all
for nothing.”
* * * * * *
Transcriber’s note:
A large number of printing errors have been corrected without note.
Use of hyphens, e.g. schoolboy/school-boy, is variable.