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 the
ambition 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 his
powers 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, and_ JOSEPH 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 cubes and 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 the _poorest_ scholar 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 important and 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 you have 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 to_ FOOT, _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 then_ JOHN’S _head_.]
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. [HEAD _walks 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 belongs to 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 of_ Good! 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 made you 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 learning is, 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._]
[_Exit_ JAKE. _Curtain falls._]
[Illustration]
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