INSUBORDINATION.
IT was a cherished opinion with Marcus, that the best government for a
child is that which teaches him to govern himself. He had derived this
notion from his mother and aunt, both of whom, in all their intercourse
with the young, had endeavored to keep it in mind. Marcus had put this
theory in practice, to some extent, in the management of Ronald, and not
without success. He anticipated a still greater triumph of this
principle, however, with Oscar, whose age, and peculiar circumstances,
seemed favorable to the experiment. Accordingly, instead of fixing metes
and bounds for Oscar, and hampering him with set rules and commands,
Marcus usually made known his wishes in the form of suggestions, advice,
etc., taking it for granted that his will, plainly declared, would be
regarded as law by his cousin. And so it was, for a few weeks. But
gradually a change came over Oscar. He still attended faithfully to his
work and studies, but began to manifest some impatience of control in
other matters, and to take advantage of the liberty accorded to him. It
was evident that he was falling into the notion that, aside from his
stated work and his lessons, he could do pretty much as he pleased.
Marcus noticed this change with no little anxiety and regret. He began
to fear that he should be obliged to abandon the self-government theory,
at least with Oscar. He kept his uneasiness to himself for a time, but
as the evil manifestly increased, he at length broke the subject to his
mother. It was at the close of a mild October afternoon. Supper was
finished, the cows were milked, and as dusk approached, Oscar was seen
to go over towards Mr. Hapley’s, and soon after re-appeared, with Sam,
with whom he walked rapidly towards the village.
“Mother, how do you think Oscar is getting on? Does he do as well as you
expected?” inquired Marcus, as he entered the house, after observing his
cousin’s movements.
“Why, yes, I do not see but that he is doing pretty well,” replied Mrs.
Page. “He works better than I supposed he would, and he gets his lessons
well, too.”
“But don’t you think he is a little too much inclined to have his own
way?” inquired Marcus.
“I have suspected it was so,” replied his mother; “but as you have had
the principal management of him, you can judge best about that.”
“For instance,” resumed Marcus, “I gave him to understand, when he first
came here, that we didn’t want him to have anything to do with Sam
Hapley.”
“So did I,” interrupted Mrs. Page.
“I never actually forbade him to associate with Sam,” continued Marcus,
“but Oscar knows what he is, and he knows better than to go with him.
And yet they are getting quite intimate. They were off together nearly
all the afternoon, yesterday, hunting squirrels, as Oscar says; and this
evening he has gone off with him again, notwithstanding I have told him
two or three times that we all made it a rule not to be away from home
after dark, except by special arrangement.”
“I told him the same thing, the last evening he was out,” added Mrs.
Page.
“He has gone contrary to my wishes in several other matters,” resumed
Marcus. “There’s tobacco, for one thing. I am satisfied that he is
beginning to use it again; you know he formed the habit in Boston.”
“Yes, but I hope he isn’t sliding into it again,” said Mrs. Page.
“I think he is,” replied Marcus; “in fact, I am very certain he is, for
I have smelt tobacco in his breath, several times. I have talked to him
about the bad effects of tobacco, but didn’t let him know that I
suspected he used it. Last Saturday I wrote something on the subject,
and addressed it to him, and dropped it into our letter-box. I have got
a copy of it—here it is.”
Marcus took from his pocket a note, and read it aloud. As it may
possibly interest some young reader who is trying to cultivate an
acquaintance with tobacco, it is here given entire.
“WHY I DON’T LIKE TOBACCO.
“It does a man no good.
“It is a powerful poison.
“It is injurious to the health, and sometimes fatal to the life,
especially of the young.
“It weakens and injures the mind.
“It begets an unnatural and burning thirst, which water will not
quench, and thus prepares the way for the intoxicating cup.
“It makes a man a slave to its use, so it is almost impossible
for him to abandon it, after a few years.
“It is offensive to all who do not use it.
“It is a letter of introduction to bad associates.
“The use of it is a filthy habit.
“It is an expensive habit.
“The only real advantage arising from the use of tobacco that I
ever heard of happened to one of a party of sailors who were
wrecked upon the Feejee islands. The savages killed and cooked
them all, anticipating a delightful feast; but one of the tars
tasted so strongly of tobacco, that they couldn’t eat him, and
so he escaped a burial in their stomachs. As I intend to keep
clear of cannibals, I don’t think this solitary fact offers me
any inducement to steep and pickle myself in tobacco; therefore
I intend to remain an
=ANTI-PUFFER-AND-CHEWER.”=
“I’m afraid it didn’t do much good,” resumed Marcus, somewhat sadly. “I
smelt tobacco in his breath again to-day.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Page, after a pause, “it will never do to let him go
on in this way. I think it will be necessary to tell him very plainly
and decidedly, that if he will not restrain himself, we must do it for
him. One or the other he _must_ submit to, or go back to the Reform
School, and the sooner he understands this, the better it will be for us
all.”
The entrance of the other children put a stop to the conversation; but
Mrs. Page’s last remark confirmed the conclusion to which Marcus had
already reluctantly arrived, and left him no longer in doubt as to the
proper course to pursue.
The lamps had been lit nearly an hour when Oscar came in, that evening.
Nothing was said to him about his absence at the time; but the next day,
taking him alone, Marcus talked long and earnestly to him about the
course he was pursuing, and told him very decidedly that he could go on
in this way no longer. “If we will not put ourselves under restraint,”
he said, “others must do it for us. It is so in society, in the school,
in the family, and everywhere else. The best form of government is
self-government, and there is little need of any other, where that is;
but if a man wont practise that, then the strong arm of the law must
take him in hand, and compel him to do what he could have done much more
pleasantly of his own free will.”
Oscar attempted no justification of himself, neither did he acknowledge
that he had done wrong. He listened in silence to Marcus, with an
expression upon his countenance that at once puzzled and disappointed
the latter. It were difficult to say whether shame, sadness or
sullenness mingled most largely in the feelings mirrored in his face.
There was a marked change in Oscar’s demeanor for several days after
this event, though not precisely such a change as Marcus desired to see.
He was silent, and carried a moody and sullen look upon his face, which
did not escape the notice even of the children, although they knew
nothing of its cause. Marcus treated him as kindly as ever; but how he
longed to look into that troubled heart, and read the thoughts and
feelings that were stirring its depths!
About this time a new wonder suddenly appeared in town. The children
came home from school with glowing accounts of a mammoth poster or
show-bill exhibited outside of the post office, and covering a good
portion of one side of the building. It was printed in all kinds of gay
colors, and besprinkled from top to bottom with pictures, representing
men, women and horses performing all manner of wonderful feats. They
also brought home some small bills that had been scattered among the
children. It was very seldom that a circus found its way into the small
and secluded village of Highburg, but it was pretty evident that one was
coming now, “for one day only,” and that the children were well-nigh
bewitched with the highly-colored descriptions of the entertainment
given by the great poster.
There was a decided drawing down of faces, when Mrs. Page informed the
excited group that she did not consider the circus a suitable place for
them to visit, and could not consent to their going. Some of them were
even disposed to question her position.
“Why,” said Otis, “mother would let us go, if she were here.”
“I do not know about that,” replied Mrs. Page; “and therefore I must act
according to my own judgment.”
“I don’t see what harm there could be in our going just once,” remarked
Kate.
“We ought not to go to an improper place even ‘just once,’” replied Mrs.
Page. “Circus performers are generally a low class of men and women;
their entertainments are low and degrading; and the dregs of the
community usually gather around them. Those are the reasons why I do not
wish you to go to such a place.”
“You’ve been to the circus, haven’t you, Oscar?” inquired Ronald.
“Yes, I have been a good many times,” replied Oscar.
“And you agree with me, in your opinion of it, don’t you?” inquired Mrs.
Page.
“I don’t know—I always liked to go pretty well,” replied Oscar.
This remark gave Mrs. Page much uneasiness, and she took the first
opportunity, when Oscar was alone, to caution him against saying
anything in the presence of the children that would excite their desires
to go to the circus; a request which he promised to comply with.
The circus paraded through the town on the appointed morning, with its
wagon-load of noisy horn-blowers and drum-beaters, and its procession of
fancy carriages and fine horses. The great tent was pitched, in the
presence of all the idlers of the village, and in due time the door was
opened to the public, and the performance commenced.
Oscar finished his work and lessons as early as possible, in the
afternoon, and then quietly slipped away from home, without the
knowledge of any one. He turned his steps towards the village, where the
circus was encamped. He wished merely to see what was going on, and did
not intend to venture within the tent, since his aunt was so strongly
opposed to such places of amusement. On reaching the circus grounds, he
found a motley crowd assembled, composed chiefly of young men and
half-grown boys, with a sprinkling of women and young children. There
were few representatives of the better class of the population to be
seen; but that marvel of laziness, old ’Siah Stebbins, was there,
leaning against a fence, with his hands in his pockets; and so was
Gavett, the man who once served three months in the county jail for
stealing wood; and so were poor Silly John, the pauper, and Tim Hallard,
the drunkard, and Dick Adams, the loafer _par excellence_, and little
Bob Gooden, swaggering about with a cigar in his mouth, and Sam Hapley,
swearing faster than ever, and his brother Henry, eagerly taking lessons
in vice. All these were on the field, and others of like character. Some
of the boys were mimicking performances they had witnessed inside the
tent—turning somersets, standing on their hands, leaping, twisting their
bodies into unaccountable shapes, etc.
[Illustration]
Two donkeys belonging to the circus, mounted by boys, were driven around
the field at a furious pace. A donkey being a novel sight to most of the
people, the race attracted much attention from the outsiders, and served
admirably to tole them into the enclosure—the object intended.
As Oscar was sauntering about, he came unexpectedly upon Otis, who, with
several others of the academy boys, hastened over to the circus, as soon
as dismissed, “to see what was going on.”
“What, are you here? I thought aunt told you to go right home when
school was dismissed,” said Oscar.
“I’m going right home,” replied Otis, adding, to himself, “I rather
think I’ve just as good a right here as you have.”
A moment after, as Otis was still standing by the side of Oscar, there
came along a boy about the age of the latter, foppishly dressed, and
with a bold face and a careless, swaggering air. His eyes met Oscar’s,
and there was an instant recognition.
“What, is that you, Alf!” exclaimed Oscar.
“Halloo, Oscar, is that you!” cried the other.
“How came _you_ here—do you belong to the circus?” inquired Oscar.
“Yes,” replied the other; “but how came _you_ here? I thought you were
in the house of correction, or some such place. How did you get out of
that last scrape, say? O, I remember, they sent you to the Reform
School, didn’t they?”
Oscar, confused and distressed by this unexpected exposure, made signs
to the other to desist, and attempted to turn off the affair as a joke.
The strange remark of the strange boy, however, attracted the attention
of Otis and several others of Oscar’s acquaintances who were standing
by, and set them to wondering.
The real name of Oscar’s new-found acquaintance was Alfred Walton, but
he figured on the circus bills as “Master Paulding.” For years the two
boys lived near each other, in Boston, and had been very intimate, their
tastes and habits being much alike. The hotel and stables kept by
Alfred’s step-father had been one of Oscar’s favorite resorts, and there
he learned many of the bad lessons which he was now trying to forget. He
had heard nothing from Alfred for a long time, but now learned from him
that he quarrelled with his step-father and ran away from home five or
six months previous, and being familiar with horses, had since followed
the career of a circus rider.
“And look here,” added Alfred, taking Oscar aside, “if you want a
chance, I’ll speak a good word for you to the old man. I shouldn’t
wonder if he would take you on trial—I bet I can put him up to it. We’ve
got a good company—they are a high old set of fellows, I tell you.”
“O no, I can’t join you—I’ve engaged to stay here two or three years,”
replied Oscar.
“Pooh, never mind that—you can slip off easily enough, just as I did,”
said Alfred, who seemed to have no idea that any thing but force could
hold a person to an engagement with which he was dissatisfied.
“But I don’t want to slip off—I like here, well enough,” added Oscar.
“Then you must have altered amazingly, if you can content yourself in
such a horribly dull hole as this,” rejoined Alfred. “Why, I’d hang
myself before I’d stay here three weeks. Come, you like to see the world
as well as the rest of us do. Say you’ll go, and I’ll speak to the old
man. He’ll give you twelve or fifteen dollars a month, as soon as you
get broke in a little. That’s better than you can do here, I know. What
do you get now, any how?”
“I don’t have wages—father pays my board, and I’m going to school this
winter,” replied Oscar.
“Well, I should think you’d rather be your own man, and have a chance to
see the world, than be cooped up in the woods here, two or three years,”
added Alfred. “But come in, or you wont get a seat—performances begin in
five minutes,” he added, drawing out a watch, to which was attached a
flashy chain.
“No, I didn’t intend to go in—the folks wont know where I am,” replied
Oscar.
“Yes, you are going in, too—it wont cost you anything—I’ll put you
through,” said Alfred, pushing Oscar towards the door.
Oscar was unable to withstand the pressing invitation of his old
comrade, and suffered himself to be led into the enclosure, where he
remained through the entire performance, which did not close until
nearly dark. His prolonged absence was noticed at home, and led to
unpleasant suspicions; but as Otis remained silent, for fear of exposing
himself, nothing definite was known of his whereabouts.
Oscar hurried home with many misgivings, after the exhibition had
concluded, and was agreeably surprised to find the supper table still
standing for him, and was yet more gratified that no questions were
asked in relation to his absence. When he went up to bed, however,
Marcus accompanied him to his chamber, and the following conversation
took place:—
“Oscar, where have you been this afternoon?”
“Over to the circus.”
“Did you go in, or only remain outside?”
“I went in.”
“I am very sorry to hear it, and surprised too. You knew it was much
against our wishes, did you not?”
Oscar made no reply.
“You knew neither mother nor I would have consented to your going to
such a place, did you not?” continued Marcus.
“I supposed you wouldn’t.”
“Then why did you go? Do you intend to pay any regard to our wishes, or
do you mean to have your own way in everything?”
Oscar remained silent.
“Do you remember what I said to you a few days ago, about your
behavior?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I suppose all it is necessary for me to say now, is, that I
intend to abide strictly by what I said at that time. Your going to the
circus was to all intents an act of wilful disobedience, and as a
punishment, I shall have to declare you a prisoner for the rest of the
week.”
Oscar did not appear much pleased with this announcement, and something
like an expression of anger flitted across his countenance, but he made
no reply.
“I do not intend to make you a _close_ prisoner,” continued Marcus. “I
shall let you go on parole, if you agree to that arrangement. I suppose
you know what that means.”
“It means that I can go at large, if I’ll agree not to go off,” said
Oscar.
“Yes,” replied Marcus, “you have the idea. When a prisoner of war is
released on parole, he gives his word of honor that he will not go
beyond certain fixed limits, and that he will not take part in any
hostile act. As we are not at war, we can dispense with the latter part
of the bargain. All I shall require is, that you will give me your word
of honor not to go beyond certain limits I shall name, without special
leave from me, during the rest of this week. You can have your choice
between this, and being kept a close prisoner in the house. Which do you
choose?”
“To go on parole.”
“And do you give your word of honor?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, you may consider yourself on parole, from this time,” added
Marcus, and he mentioned the limits beyond which he was not to pass.
“Supposing I should go beyond the limits—what then?” inquired Oscar, who
was beginning to regard the deprivation with curiosity rather than
displeasure.
“I can suppose no such thing,” replied Marcus. “The parole system takes
it for granted that when a man deliberately gives his word of honor that
he will do a certain thing, he will regard his promise as sacred and
inviolable, come what may. If it were not so, there would be an end to
the parole, very quick. I believe it seldom happens that a man is found
base enough to abuse the parole. I read an account a few days ago,
however, in the Life of Napoleon, of some soldiers who broke their
parole, but they were Turks. During one of Napoleon’s campaigns in
Syria, he captured ten or twelve hundred Turkish troops, and released
them on parole. Soon after, they were again taken prisoners, while
defending a city. A council of war was held, and after considering the
matter three days, it was unanimously decided that the prisoners must
die. Accordingly they were led out in small groups and shot; and it is
said that the pyramid of their bones remains in the desert to this day.
But this is a very rare case, and I shall take it for granted that you
will keep your promise. In fact, I have so little doubt of it, that I
shall not watch you in the least, nor take any pains to find out where
you go. If you go outside of the limits, I probably shall not know it,
unless I discover it accidentally.”
“Well, you may depend on my keeping within the bounds, unless I should
forget myself,” replied Oscar.
Oscar faithfully kept his parole, through the two remaining days of the
week. Under the kind and forbearing yet firm treatment he had received
from Marcus, his feelings now began to relent, somewhat, and, despite
the mitigating circumstances in the case, which he had not explained to
any one, he felt some reproaches of conscience for the course he had
pursued. On Saturday afternoon, he half resolved to acknowledge his
fault to Marcus, freely and frankly, and ask forgiveness; but when the
opportunity came to do so, a false pride overcame the better promptings
of his heart, and stifled the words that were trembling on his lips. The
quick eye of Marcus, however, perceived that a change had been wrought
in the feelings of his pupil, and greatly did he rejoice at it.
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