Class I ±23.1 Bonk 'HZ PRESENTED BY 5 wonder : for SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 37 he is the most engaging little animal you ever saw. You would be diverted to see him drink tea out of the ladies' cups. And he kisses his mistress delightfully ! Eli. It is very noble in your aunt to pay such atten- tion to an object of so much consequence. He is cer- tainly more valuable than half a dozen children. Does your aunt expect to teach him to talk ? Nan. Talk ! why he talks already. She says she perfectly understands his language. When he is hungry, he can ask for sweetmeats. When he is dry, he can ask for drink. When he is tired of running on foot, he can ask to ride; and my aunt is never more happy than when she has him in her arms ! Eli. iVnd yet she would not be seen with one of her own children in her arms ! Nan. Why, that would be very vulgar ; and all her acquaintances would laugh at her. Children, you know, are always crying ; and no ladies of fashion will ever admit them into their company. Eli. If children are always crying, little dogs are often barking ; and which is the more disagreeable noise ? Nan. Oh, the barking of Trip is music to all who hear him ! Mr. Fribble, who often visits my aunt, says he can raise and fall the eight notes to perfection ; and he prefers the sound of his voice to that of the harpsi- chord. It was he who brought his mother from Lon- don; and he says there was not a greater favorite among all the dogs in possession of the fine ladies of court. And more than all that, he says Trip greatly resembles a spaniel which belongs to one of the royal family. Mr. Fribble and my aunt almost quarrelled, last night, to see which should have the honor of carrying the dear little favorite to the play. Eli. After hearing so many rare qualifications of the little quadruped, I do not wonder at your aunt's choice of a companion. I am not surprised she should set her affections upon a creature so deserving of all her care. It is to be wished her children might never come in competition with this object of her affections. I hope she will continue to maintain the dignity of her sex ; 4 38 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. and never disgrace the fashionable circle to which she belongs, by neglecting her lap-dog for the more vulgar employment of attending to her own offspring. DIALOGUE XVI. EQUALITY. {Jack Anvil, the Blacksmith, and Tom Hod, the Mason.) Jack. What's the matter, Tom? Why d' ye look so dismal ? Tom. Dismal, indeed ! Well enough I may. Jack. What ! is the old mare dead? or work scarce? Tom. No, no ; work 's plenty enough, if a man had but the heart to go to it. Jack. What book art thou reading? Why dost thou look so like a hang-dog? Tom. [Looking on his book.] Cause enough. Why I find here that I am very unhappy, and very miserable; which I should never have known if I had not had the good luck to meet with this book. O 't is a precious book ! Jack. A good sign, though ; that you can't find out you're unhappy without looking into a book for it! What is the matter ? Tom, Matter ? Why I want liberty. Jack. Liberty ! That 's bad, indeed ! What ! Has any one fetched a warrant for thee. Come, man, cheer up ; I'll be bound for thee. Thou art an honest fellow in the main, though thou dost tipple and prate a little too much at the Rose and Crown. Tom. No, no ; I want a new constitution. Jack. Indeed ! Why, I thought thou hadst been a desperate healthy fellow. Send for the doctor directly. Tom. I'm not sick : I want liberty and equality, and the rights of man. Jack. O, now I understand thee. What ! thou art a leveller and a republican, I warrant ! Tom. I'm a friend to the people. I want a reform. Jack. Then the shortest way is to mend thyself. Tom. But I want a general reform. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 39 Jack. Then let every one mend one. Tom. Pooh ! I want freedom and happiness, the same as they have got in France. Jack. What, Tom, we imitate them? We follow the French ! Why, they only began all this mischief at first in order to be just what we are already; and what a blessed land must this be, to be in actual possession of all they ever hoped to gain by all their hurly-burly. Imitate them, indeed ! Why I 'd sooner go to the negroes to get learning or to the Turks to get religion, than to the French for freedom and happiness. Tom. What do you mean by that? are not the French free? Jack. Free, Tom ! ay, free with a witness. They are all so free that there's nobody safe. They make free to rob whom they will, and kill whom they will. If they don't like a man's looks, they make free to hang him without judge or jury, and the next lamp-post serves for the gallows ; so then they call themselves free, because you see they have no law left to condemn them, and no king to take them up and hang them for it. Tom. Ah, but Jack, didn't their king formerly hang people for nothing, too? and, besides, were not they all papists before the revolution ? Jack. Why, true enough, they had but a poor sort of religion ; but bad is better than none, Tom. And so was the government bad enough, too ; for they could clap an innocent man into prison, and keep him there, too, as long as they would, and never say with your leave, or by your leave, gentlemen of the jury. But what's all that to us ? Tom.. To us ! Why don't many of our governors put many of our poor folks in prison against their will ? What are all the jails for ? Down with the jails, I say \ all men should be free ! Jack. Iflarkee, Tom ; a few rogues in prison keep the "est in order, and then honest men go about their busi- ness in safety, afraid of nobody; that's the way to be free. And let me tell thee, Tom, you and I are tried by our peers as much as a lord is. Why, the king can't send me to prison, if I do no harm ; and if I do, there 's 40 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. good reason why I should go there. I may go to law with Sir John, at the great castle yonder; and he no more dares lift his little finger against me than if I were his equal. A lord is hanged for hanging matter, as you or I should be ; and if it will be any comfort to thee, I myself remember a peer of the realm being hanged for killing his man, just the same as the man would have been for killing him. Tom. A lord ! Well, that is some comfort, to be sure. But have you read the " Rights of Man? " Jack. No, not I : I had rather by half read the " Whole Duty of Man." I have but little time for read- ing, and people like me should therefore only read a bit of the best. Tom. Don't tell me of those old fashioned notions. Why should not we have the same fine things they have got in France? I'm for a constitution, and organiza- tion, and equalization, and fraternization. Jack. Do be quiet. Now, Tom, only suppose this nonsensical equality was to take place ; why, it would not last while one could say Jack Robinson ; or suppose it could — suppose, in the general division, our new rulers were to give us half an acre of ground a-piece ; we could, to be sure, raise potatoes on it for the use of our families ; but as every other man would be equally busy in raising potatoes for his family, why, then, you see, if thou wast to break thy spade, I, whose trade it is, should no longer be able to mend it. Neighbor Snip would have no time to make us a suit of clothes, nor the clothier to weave the cloth ; for all the world would be gone a digging. And as to boots and shoes, the want of some one to make them for us would be a still greater grievance than the tax on leather. If we should be sick, there would be no doctor's stuff for us ; for doctors would be digging, too. And if necessity did not compel, and if equality subsisted, we could not get a chimney swept, or a load of coal from pit, for love or money. Tom. Well, I am not certain but things are about right, after all ; and I '11 try to make the best of them. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 41 DIALOGUE XVII. LEARNING AND USEFULNESS. Mr. Hoivard and Mr. Lester. Howard. Life is much like a fiddle:— every man plays such a tune as suits him. Lester. The more like a fiddle, the better I like it; — anything that makes a merry noise suits me ; and the man that does not set his hours to music has a dull time on't. How. But. Lester, are there no serious duties in life ? Ought we not to improve our minds, and prepare for usefulness? Les. Why, in the present day, a man's preparing himself for usefulness is like carrying coals to New- castle. Our country is full of useful men; ten, at least, to where one is wanted, and all of them ten times as ready to serve the public as the public is to be served. If every man should go to Congress who is fit for it, the federal city would hardly hold them. Hoio. You mean, if all who think themselves fit for it. Le^. No ; I mean as I said. How. Then, what do you think fits a man for Con- gress 1 Les. Why, he must be flippant and bold. How. What good will these do him, if he is without Knowledge? Les. O ! he must have knowledge, to be sure. How. Well, must he not be a man in whom the peo- ple can trust? must he not understand politics? and must he not be able and willing to serve his country? Les. I agree to all that. Hoiv. Then you suppose that the federal city could hardly hold all our men who unite eloquence with con- fidence, knowledge with integrity, and policy with pa- triotism. I fear that a counting-house could give them full accommodation. Les. I don't go so deep into these matters ; but this is certain, that when the election ernes, more than enough are willing to go. 4* 42 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. How. That, my friend, only proves that more than enough are ignorant of themselves. But are there no other ways of serving the public 1 Les. Yes ; one may preach, if he will do it for little or nothing. He may practise law, if he can get any one to employ him ; or he may be a doctor ; or an in- structor ; but I tell you the country is crowded with learned men begging business. How. Then you intend to prepare yourself for the ignorant herd, so that you may not be crowded. Les, I have serious thoughts of it. You may take your own way ; but I will never wear out a pair of fine eyes in preparing myself for usefulness, till this same public will give me a bond to employ me when I am ready to serve them. Until such a bond is signed, sealed, and delivered, I shall set my hours to the tune of " Jack 's alive." " To-day ; s" the ship I sail in, and that will carry the flag, in spite of the combined powers of "yesterdays" and "to-morrows." How. Well, Lester, you can take your choice. I shall set my hours to a more serious time. I ask no bond of the public. If my mind is well furnished with knowledge, and that same generous public, which has so uniformly called to her service the well-informed and deserving, should refuse my services, still I shall possess a treas- ure, which, after a few years' dissipation, you would give the world to purchase, — the recollection of time well spent. DIALOGUE XVIII. THE TWO ROBBERS. Alexander the Great and a Thracian Chief. Alexander. What! art thou that Thracian robber, of whose exploits I have heard so much? Chief. I am a Thracian, and a soldier. Alex. A soldier! — a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the pest of the country ! I could honor thy courage, but I must detest and punish thy crimes. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 43 Chief. What have I done, of which you can com- plain ? Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and properties of thy fellow subjects? Chief. Alexander ! I am your captive — I must hear what you please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my soul is unconquered ; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man. Alex. Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage of my power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse. Chief. I must then answer your question by asking another. How have you passed your life? Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns, the noblest: among conquerors, the mightiest. Chief And does not Fame speak of me, also? Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever — but I scorn to boast. You yourself know I have not been easily subdued. Alex. Still, what are you but a robber — a base, dis- honest robber ? Chief. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting the fairest fruits of peace and industry; plundering, rav- aging, killing, without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion ? All that I have done to a single district with a hundred followers, you have done to whole nations with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have des- olated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities on the earth. What, then, is the difference, but that, as you were a king and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I ? Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have found- ed greater. . I have cherished arts, commerce, and phi- losophy. Chief. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I 44 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. have taken from the rich. I have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind, and have stretched out my protecting arm over the op- pressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosophy of which you talk, but I believe that neither you nor I shall ever atone to the world for half the mischief we have done it. Alex. Leave me. Take off his chains, and use him well. Are we then so much alike? Alexander like a robber ! Let me reflect. DIALOGUE XIX. THE EVIL ADVISER. Thomas. What 's your hurry, Frank ? stop a minute. Frank. 1 can't stay ! Father sent me with this let- ter to the railroad depot. Th. Well, the depot won't run away. Fr. But the cars will; there's a gentleman going to New York, who promised to carry this letter, and there 's money in it for my brother. Th. But don't you see it's but ten minutes past three, — and the cars don't start till four, and you have time enough for what I want of you. Fr. Well, what do you want? Th. Just step in here to see the wild beasts with me ; you have never been, have you? Fr. No : I '11 go when I come back from my errand. Th. No, you can't, for then it will be time to go to the writing-master. Fr. Then I '11 go with you to-morrow. Th. No, you can't, for this is the last day of the ex- hibition. Fr. Is it ? that 's bad ! I did not know there were any beasts in town till to-day. How many are there ? Th. Ever so many; there's a polar bear, and an elephant, and a most beautiful rhinoceros Fr. I have seen a rhinoceros, and he is the ugliest creature that ever was; his skin sets as loosely upon him as a sailor's trousers. Th. Well, there's a royal tiger- SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 45 Fr. Is there ? I never saw a royal tiger ! Th. Oh! he's a beauty — all yellow, and covered with black stripes. Then there are little leopards play- ing just like kittens ; and, — there! there! do you hear that] that's the lion roaring! Fr. Whew! that's a peeler! How long will it take to see them all? Th. Oh! not half an hour; and it won't take you rive minutes to run down to the depot afterwards, if yon clip it like a good fellow. Fr. Are there any monkeys ? Th. Plenty of them ! the funniest monkeys you ever saw ; they make all sorts of faces. Fr. Well, — I don't know, — what if I should be too late for the cars ? Th. No danger of that, I tell you ; the town clock up there is too fast ; it 's all out of order ; and, besides, you might see half the beasts while you are standing here thinking about it ; looking up the street and down the street. Fr. Well ; come along, then ; where 's your money ? Th. Oh ! I don't pay ! I got acquainted with the door-keeper after I had been in twice, and now he lets me in for nothing every time 1 bring a fellow that does pay. Fr. Oh ho ! well, I suppose it 's quarter of a dollar, and I have one somewhere in my pockets. [Pulling out his handkerchief to search for the money, drops the let- ter.] Ah ! here it is ! Come, Tom ! no time to be lost. Mind you do not let me stay too long. [They go into the exhibition booth.] [Frank's father, passing along, picks vp the letter, examines it, looks round for Frank, and passes hastily away.] [After some time, the boys come out.] Th. You did not see half of them, you were in such a huriy and worry. Fr. I know it. Are you sure that clock is too fast, Tom? Th. I don't know, — I suppose so, — the clocks are wrong half the time. 46 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Fr. Why, you told me it was too fast, Tom ! ana now I '11 bet anything I shall be too late ! I wish I had n't gone in ! Th. Well, why don't you move, then ? What are you rummaging after? Fr. Why, after my letter. I 'm sure I put it in this pocket. What in the name of wonder has become of it? Th. Look in t' other pocket. Fr. It isn't there ! nor in my hat ! What shall I do? Th. Why, you can't have lost it, can you ? Fr. I have lost it ; I am as sure as can be I had it in this very pocket just before I met you, and now it 's gone ! Th. May be somebody stole it in the crowd. Fr. That's comfort! There was ever so much money in it, for I heard father talking about it at dinner- time. Th. Oh ! I '11 tell you what 's become of it ? Fr. What? what? Th. Why, I guess the elephant took it out of your pocket ! Fr. You ought to be ashamed to stand there laugh- ing, after you have got me into such a scrape! I have a great mind to go in again and look all round. Th. They won't let you in again, unless you pay. Fr. Oh, Tom ! what will my father say to me ? Where shall I look ? I wish I had never heard of the beasts ; there was no comfort in looking at them, for I was thinking of the cars all the time: and now my letter is lost, and brother Henry's money, and all; and what will father do to me? Th. What 's the use of telling him anything about it ? he '11 never know whether the letter went or not, if you don't say a word. Fr. Yes, he will ; my brother will write to inquire for the money. Th. Well, and can't you say you gave the letter to the gentleman? Fr. No, Tom; I can't do that. I can't tell a lie and, above all, to my father. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 47 Th. The more fool you ! But you needn't look so mad about it. There 's your father coming now ! run and tell him, quick, and get a whipping ! Fr. He will punish me, Tom ; that he will. What shall I do ? Th. Take my advice ; I '11 tell a fib for you, and do you hold to it. Fr. I never told a lie in my life, Tom ! Th. Then it's high time you did; you'll have to tell a great many before you die. Fr. I don't believe that. * Th. Well, here 's your father. Now see how I '11 get you out of the scrape. That 's right ! keep staring up at the hand-bill on the wall. {Enter Father ; Frank stares at the hand-bill.) Father. Why, Frank, you have run yourself out of breath ; I trust that letter will go safely, for your brother wants the money very much. Th. Frank was just in time, sir. The cars were just starting. Fath. Oh ! you went with him, did you ? Th. Yes, sir ; and I saw the gentleman put the let- ter in his pocket-book very carefully. I fancy it will go safe enough. Fath. I fancy it will. What is in that hand-bill, Frank, that interests you so much? Fr. I don't know, sir. Fath. What 's the matter, my boy? Fr. I can't stand it, father ! I can't stand it ! I had rather take ten whippings, Tom, any day, than — than — Fath. Ho, ho ! what is all this ? Th. You are a fool, Frank. Fr. I know I am a fool ; but I can't tell a lie. I lost the letter, father ; I went to see the wild beasts with Tom, and lost the letter! Fath. And this precious fellow wanted you to de- ceive me about it, did he? Th. Why, I thought Fath. Frank ! I would willingly lose a dozen let- ters, with ten times as much money in them, for the 48 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. pleasure of finding you resist the temptation ! Come here, my boy, and leave off crying. I found the letter, and carried it myself to the depot in time for the cars ; I can forgive your folly, — since it has not ended in wick- edciess ; but remember one thing ; I shall not forgive you, if, henceforward, you associate with this unprincipled boy! {To Thomas.} Begone, sir! I am glad to see shame on your face. Had my boy taken your advice, he, too, would have been at this moment a detected, con- science-smitten, despised liar ; but he is holding up his head, and his heart is light in his bosom. You are the very boy, Thomas, whom I was requested to take into my employment ; but I will have nothing to do with you. Never come near my son again ! DIALOGUE XX. THE BEER TRIAL. William. I saw you this morning, James, go into a shop where Albany cream ale was advertised, and buy a glass. I did not expect you would do that, as you belong to the Temperance Society. James. I'm none of your teetotalers, I tell you, Wil- liam. I signed the ardent spirit pledge, and I'll stick to that, up to any of you. But I like good cider and ale. Mother says it purifies the blood, and then it braces me up, and makes me feel so nice and strong here, [placing his hand on his stomach.^ Wm. You think it purifies the blood, do you ? Have you ever read the famous beer trial, and do you know how your precious Albany cream ale is made? If you have not, I can lend it to you ; the reading of it may make you think that there is something gets into the blood which might as well be kept out. James. Beer trial, what is that? I never heard of it. Wm. Why, the trial of Mr. Delavan, who was sued by the Albany brewers, who brew your favorite cream ale, for saying that they made it out of such filthy water that no dog nor horse would drink it. Water SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 49 that was as thick as cream — the reason, I suppose, it is called cream ale. James. None of your talking so. I don't believe a word on it. I asked why they called it cream ale. and tney said it was because the foam looked yellow, like ream. Wm. I should think it would look green instead of yellow, for the top of the pond was green ; but there was enough in the pond under the green cover to give the yellow tinge. James. Now, William, I won't bear it. I say the ale is good ale. None of your nonsense. Wm. Well, James, read for yourself. If you a* pleased to drink beer made out of a pond which is the receptacle of the wash of slaughter-houses and grave- yards, and where are thrown all manner of dead beasts, you may ; I say, " Water, pure water, pure water for me." But every one to his liking ; as my Latin book says, de gustibus 7ion disputandum. James. Well, William, if it is as you say, I'll drink no more cream ale. Let me see the trial. Wm. Here it is. Read it through ; but mind, now, don't take your hand off your stomach, for you will want something to brace you up, better than cream ale. before you get through. DIALOGUE XXI. YANKEEISM. (Mr. Pry and Mr. Sly meet for the first tune, at a public house.) Mr. Pry. How do you do, Mr. ? Mr. Sly. Yes, that's my name, and I'm as well as usual. Mr. Pry. Let me see, — I think we have met before on the road ; I know I have seen you somewhere. Mr. Sly. Very likely, for I often go thera- [A short pause.] 50 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Mr. Pry. Ahem ! I think you travel for Mr. Sly. Noses. Mr. Pry. Moses? Let me see, — he lives in Mr. Sly. I said noses, and not Moses. Mr. Pry. O yes ; you are in the toy trade, are you '• Mr. Sly. By no means, sir. I deal in human noses, the ordinary sneezing noses of every day physiognomy. • Mr. Pry. Very odd traffic that, surely ; may I ask how you conduct your business, for I never before met a nasal merchant. Mr. Sly. Then I shall be most happy to deal with you. I cannot say that your nose is of the first quality ; it turns up rather too much, and belongs to a variety not greatly in demand ; but nevertheless I will buy it of you at a fair price. Mr. Pry. What, my nose ? Mr. Sly. Yes, sir. I am serious in my proposal; J '11 buy your nose. Mr. Pry. To be delivered, — when? Mr. Sly. When you have no longer any use for it. Mr. Pry. That 's fair ; to be paid for. — when ? Mr. Sly. This very moment; I will give you its full value, — say fifty dollars. Mr. Pry. It 's a bargain; I accept your offer. Mr. Sly. There is only this condition, — that we both agree to forfeit one hundred dollars, if either of us should go from the bargain. Mr. Pry. Agreed ! that is, if you allow me all my life to enjoy your property, and do not attempt to inter- fere with it in the performance of its functions. Mr. Sly. All right. You may import or export the merchandise in question, as you please. I will not even require you to get it insured. Mr. Pry. Then I consent to your clause in the agree- ment. Mr. Sly. And I will pay you directly. [ The agreement is draion and signed, and the money yaid ; the purchaser, in the mean time, whispers to the lvaitei\ivho soon returns from the kitchen with a pair of tongs having the extreme ends red hot.] Mr. Sly. Give me the tongs, waiter. [He takes the tongs j and reaches towards the seller J SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 51 Mr, Pry. Why, what's all this mean? [Movmg back, and holding on his nose.] Mr. Sly. Only a pair of red hot tongs, sir ; every time I make a purchase, I mark my merchandise, in order to insure its not being changed. Having bought your nose, I must, of course, put our usual brand upon it. Mr. Pry. But. zounds ! I cannot allow this. Mr. Sly. Then I must remind you of the clause in the agreement, and that you are the first to break the contract. Mr. Pry. But, sir, put yourself in my position. Mr. Sly. That's impossible! I am the buyer, not the seller. I claim one hundred dollars, as the forfeit, and all will admit the justice of my demand. Mr. Pry. Well, if I must, I must ; and here 's the needful, [giving him the money. \ You have caught me by the nose this time, and I must make the best of it. No one knows the value of a nose, until called to part with it. Mr. Sly. I trust we part as friends; certainly we imow each other better than we did when we met. DIALOGUE XXII. THE MONSTER OF MANY NAMES. Charles. I have heard it said, William, that our language is, of all others, the most difficult for foreigners to learn. Can you account for it? William. I cannot, indeed, unless it is because there are so many words which signify the same thing. For instance, when a fellow feels a little out of sorts, and thinks it is because he is dry, he goes to the store and calls for his -'bitters," "black strap," "sling," "four o'clock," &c. ; the liquor-sellers all understand him, — he wants some strong drink. C. You are right ; but the terms you mention are rather out of date, I believe. They have got an entire new list of names for that thing, now-a-days. But this oniy increases the difficulty I referred to. 62 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. W. Yes ; and some of them are very appropriate. C. Some, I think, call it Samson. W. Samson ! 1 suppose that's because it's so strong ; is it not 1 C. Yes; but that is not the only reascn. Samson, you know, deceived the people about his strength, and it was a long while before they found out where it lay. Besides this, Samson was a great man-slayer; but where Samson slew his thousands, strong drink has slain its tens of thousands. W. I have heard of a certain Quaker who called it Pharaoh ; for I perceive, said he, it will not let the people go. C. You remind me of a sailor I saw the other day. Jack was already "half seas over," when he went into Smith's and called for an ounce of old tangle-legs. Thinks I, — What is that? So I kept my eye on the scales ; but Smith understood him ; so he gave him a glass, you see, and off he ent. But, dear me, I guess it was tangle-legs ! First he went this way, and then that, zigzag, like a Virginia fence, till his legs got into a complete tangle, and down he went. W. You see old Pharaoh had got hold of him, and by tangling his legs he would n't let him go. But that's not the worst of it; go home with that fellow, if he's got any, and you '11 find everything else in a tangle. I guess you don't catch me in that snarl. C. They say the travelling community call it oats. Is that true 1 W. Oats ! what, for men 7 I guess they wet them, then. C. Why, I know of a store that 's got no other sign but " Oats for horses." But mind you, they don't mean four-legged horses ; for everybody knows that they are not very partial to oats from the wine measure. TV. Ah, I know what store you mean. I was down there the other day, and saw this all acted out. A young sort of a buck came driving up, all of a lather, jumped out of his gig, and said he must have some oats to help him over the hill. The old mare — she called, too. But he replied, " Hold your tongue, there; there 's SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 53 nothing here for you ; it is my turn, now." So I watched him ; and, thinks I, I guess you '11 not go any faster for such oats as these. But I was mistaken. Crack went the whip, and away new the poor creature, over hill and dale, like a sheet of lightning. C. Well, William, so much for the oats ; now. did you ever hear this thing called pig. W. Pig! pig ! I have heard of the striped pig affair, out there at old Dedham. But I guess they little thought, when they made choice of that word, how ap- propriate it was ; for this liquor business, you know, is rather a swinish concern throughout. C. I ask your pardon. Who ever heard of a drunken hog ? I am inclined to believe it a base imposition on the pig community. What do you think 1 W. Well, I guess they think something so, for, when uncle Jim went out to feed his hogs last night, he under- took to clean the trough a little, you know ; but he lost his balance, (his legs being a little tangled about this time of day,) and over he went, without ceremony, into madam Piggy's dining-room. To excuse his rude- ness, he exclaimed, " Don't you be concerned; I am as good as the best of you." To which the whole family replied, " Doubted ! doubted ! " and away they scam- pered. C. To conclude, William, did you ever hear this thing called hard- ware? W. Hard-ware ! Yes ; and true enough it is hard, all hard, and nothing but hard. It is hard for the con- sumer, hard for the vender, hard for the neighborhood, town, county and state. And he that can deal in such kind of hard-ware as this must be a hard, hard cus- tomer. And if I am not mistaken, he gives every worthy person occasion to think hard of him ; more especially the poor drunkard's household, where nothing is so plenty as hard looks, hard words, hard knocks, and hard, hard times 5* 54 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XXIII. DOING BECAUSE OTHERS DO. Henry. Well, Charles, I don't think that sounded very well. Charles. What do you mean, Henry? Hen. O, you need not make strange of it. I heard yon plainly enough. Char. Heard me? What did you hear? Hen. Why, I heard you calling poor Jemmy Club- foot names. That was rather mean business, Charles. Char. May you not mistake, now? Are you sure you heard me ? Hen. Very sure, Charles, very sure. Don't you suppose I know your shrill voice? Why, I could tell it among all the voices of all the boys in town. Char. Well, — suppose you did, then, — for there's no use in denying it. But what of all that ? Hen. What of it? Why, as I just said, it is mean enough for any boy ; and I am ashamed of it in you. What harm has Jemmy ever done you? and why do yon wish to ridicule him on account of his deformity and lack of brightness? Supposing you were in his sit- uation? Would such treatment from boys suit you? Char. You are very grave about it, 1 should think. I have no desire to abuse old Jemmy ; and why should you think I have? Hen. If you did not intend to insult him, why did you assail him with such language? Just tell us that? Char. Why, I heard John Warner calling after him, and so I joined in. Hen. Aha ! You joined in with John, then ; and why did John do it? Char. Well, you can ask him ; here he comes, and he may speak for himself. Enter John. John. What now, boys ? What 's going on ? Who called my name ? Hen. Char es and I. We were speaking of Jemmy Clubfoot, as he is called ; and of the insult offered him SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 55 oy the boys. I had been asking Charles w ly he sung out after him in the streets ; and what do you suppose his answer was ? John. Really, I couldn't tell; except that he liked the sport of it? Hen. No ; he denies that. He says he did so because you did ! a great reason, to be sure ! Now, will you be so condescending as to tell me why you did it? John. You seem to be very inquisitive. Why do you take the matter np so seriously? Do you think there is any harm in having a little fun with old Jemmy? Hen. John, if you were old Jemmy, should you like such salutations ? Come, now, I have touched your benevolence, I know ; so now " own up," and be hon- est. John. O, I shan't dodge that question. I spoke about Charley's liking the sport of it ; but I did n't mean so. I should n't have thought about calling after Jemmy, if William Simpson hadn't put me up to it. Hen. Indeed ! so here is another confession. Well, now, I should like to ask William, — and' here he is, coming, fresh from the scene, I suppose, — yes — I '11 ask him who coaxed him to do his screaming. John. Come on here, William, and give us your evi dence ; we have a court here. Enter William. William. A court? Well, don't try me very hard. But what 's your case now? John. Henry wants to ask you a question. Wm. What 's that, pray ? Hen. O, a very simple one, William. We were speaking of the insults offered by the boys to poor Jem- my Clubfoot. I was asking Charles here, why he sung out after him. He says it was because John did it. I asked John his reason, and he says your example in- duced him. Now, will you tell me your object in assail- ing this poor fellow? Wm. O, I've no particular reason to give. The other b>ys sing out after him, and so do I, now and then. Hen. There ! now we have the weighty reason of 56 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. the whole matter. You do it because others do it ; not stopping to ask whether it is right, whatever others may think or do. Is n't that it? Wm. Yes, I suppose so. But why do you speak as though it were of so much importance ? Do you suppose I wish to injure old Jemmy ? Hen. No, no, William; I don't think that; but you don't believe that such salutations to the unfortunate are really right, do you ? Wm. No, I do not. Hen. Well, now let us see if we cannot learn a les- son here. I remember what our schoolmaster said to Henry Stacker, the other day, when he threw stones, and Henry told him he did so because Joseph White did. " Supposing Joseph White should tell you to jump over- board, would you do it'?" I thought this a good hit. But this is not all. We shall find that many of our or- dinary evils are kept in being in this way. One upholds them because another does. A silly fashion comes up. One is foolish enough to run into it because another does. One swears because another does. One drinks, one gambles, one lies, one defrauds and steals, because an- other does. You remember what the temperance lec- turer said, the other evening, about the rumseller, who said if he didn't sell liquor to get folks drunk, somebody else would. So because others sinned, he must. Why this is a wicked pretence; and we ought to know it and feel it. We should learn to do a deed because it is right, or not to do it because it is wrong ; no matter what others do, or what they do not. What say you, William ; is n't this right? Wm. I think so. John and Charles. {Both.) And so do I. Hen. Well, just to be winding up our talk, I will recite to you a few verses from CoAvper. They present the matter, I think, in a ludicrous light. {All three.) Let 's hear. " A youngster at school, more sedate than the rest Had once his integrity put to the test ; His comrades had plotted an orchard to rob, And asked him to go and assist in the job. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 57 ' He was shocked much indeed, and he answered, 'Ono! What! rob our good neighbor ! I pray you don't go; Besides, the man's poor, and his orchard 's his bread ; Then think of his children, for they must be fed.' " ' You speak very fine, and you look very grave, But apples we want, and apples we '11 have; If you will go with us, you shall have a share ; If not, you shall have neither apple nor pear.' " They spoke, and Tom pondered — ' I see they will go ; Poor man ! what a pity to injure him so ! Poor man ! I would save him his fruit if I could, But staying behind here will do him no good. " ' If the matter depended alone upon me, His apples might hang till they drop from the tree ; But since they will take them, I think I '11 go too ; He will lose none by me, though I get a few.' " His scruples thus silenced, Tom felt more at ease, And went, with his comrades, the apples to seize ; He blamed and protested, but joined in the plan — He shared in the plunder, but pitied the man ! " Wm. That 's a good hit, as you said of your school- master. I shall think more of this matter, in time to come. Hen. I trust you will ; and that Charles, and John, and all of us, will be wise enough, in the future, just to ask ourselves, when we are prompted to do anything, of at least a questionable character — not whether others do it — nor whether it is a custom, or the fashion — nor whether the many or the few approve it ; but whether it is really in itself just and right. When I hear of any better course than this, I will try to inform you of it; and when you do, just send me word. Wm. I certainy will, Henry; and I hope we shall all receive good from this interview 68 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XXIV. THE INDIAN DOCTOR. Part I. {Doctor Hartshorn is seen at his table, on which are bottles^ bundles of herbs, and pill-boxes. Wakefield and Plumb enter on another part of the stage.) Wakefield. Good-evening, Capt. Plumb; what's the news to-day? Anything from Mexico? Plumb. Not a word, neighbor Wakefield; — dull times for news. W. Have you heard of the famous Indian doctor who has just come to town ? P. No ; and don't want to. I am no friend to such quacks. All they want is to get away our money. W. If what they say of Dr. Hartshorn is true, he is very different from the quacks you speak of. He gives his advice and his drags without any fee, from rich or poor, and then he professes to heal moral and not physical maladies. P. He must be a comical fellow, to work for nothing and "find himself." I should like to see him ; but the old scamp shan't get any of my money. Where shall we find him, Mr. Wakefield ? W. He has a kind of stall down in Fourth-street. Will you go with me and see him ? P. With pleasure, for I should really like to see a man who works for nothing. {Exeunt.) Doctor. {Alone.) Well ! here I am in this famous town of A. The place looks thrifty, and the people are said to be shrewd and industrious. They have many tine churches, and good schoolhouses ; and so far, it is well. But I have had only two patients since I came here One was a miser, who wanted contentment, and the other was a spendthrift, who expected to be cured by having more money. Still I am not discouraged, and hope to do some good before I leave the place. Enter Wakefield and Plumb. Good-evening, gentlemen, — I am happy to see you; please walk up and look at my collection of medicines for mental diseases. Can I be of any service to either SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 59 of you ? Have you any trouble on your mind that you wish to have relieved ? W. I have troubles, doctor, but they are beyond the reach of your skill. My character is suffering from slan- der, and the treachery of professed friends. I am troubled and fretted, and my loudest complaints are unheeded ; and I fail in all my efforts to avenge myself upon my accusers. Doct. Your cure is not so hard as you imagine. Here is an herb called Patience lily ; it is an humble plant, but has great medicinal virtues. Steep it in the syrup of Contentment, and take it every morning. You must give up all thoughts of revenge on your enemies, and you will live down their slanders. {Exit Wakefield.) ( To Plumb.) Well, my friend, what can I do for you? P. If you don't ask me to pay you anything for your advice, I will tell you my troubles, and follow your di- rections. Doct. I never take pay from any one ; my reward is found in the good I may do to my afflicted' fellow beings. P. Well, then, to tell you the truth, I have got a little property, and every one is trying to get it away from me. I am constantly perplexed lest I should lose it by the knavery of others. Then, there are the subscription papers, and the minister tax, and the town and county taxes, and the school tax, so that I find, although my own children are all grown up and out of the way, I am obliged to pay for educating other people's children, and supporting, in the alms-house, poor people that have no business to be poor. The thoughts of these things worry me night and day, and I have no rest. O dear ! Doct. For how much are you taxed ? P. Ten thousand dollars ! It is abominable ! Doct. And how much property have you? P. What's that to you? That 's my business, and not yours. Doct., Well, if you cannot confide in your physician, you must endure your maladies, for I cannot prescribe for you unless I know the extent of your disease. P. If you will promise secrecy, doctor, I will tell 60 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. you, but I w Duld 'nt let the assessors kno w for anything. Let me see, [counting on his fingers,] stocks, notes, mortgages, — I '11 call it thirty thousand dollars. Doct. Is that all ? P. Why no, not exactly ; there 's the real estate, about twenty thousand dollars more. Doct. Fifty thousand dollars ! And you complain because you are taxed for ten thousand ! You certainly have no just cause for complaint. P. That 's not it, doctor; but I want to be used right. There's my neighbor Thompson is worth as much as I am, and he gets off for eight thousand ; and what is worse than all, my money goes for schooling other people's children. Doct. If you will follow my directions you can easily be cured. You have only to take half an ounce of these pills of Philanthropy, weighed in the scales of Justice. It may be hard for one of your constitution to take the pills, but they will have a tendency to increase your benevolence, and cause you to love your neighbors as yourself. Your rest will then be sweet and pleasant {Exit Plumb.) Enter Patrick O'Brien and Jack Buntlin. Patrick. Bless your good soul, docther, and can you help poor Patrick O'Brien, and Peggy, and the nine small chiltren that has n't had a drop of mate or a dish of tay to ate since last Friday was a wake ? And the poor little chiltren starving for the want of it ! O dear, docther, I lay awake all night draming about it, and wake up in the morning to hear 'em crying for murphies, the darlints ! Doct. Your difficulties relate rather to the body than to the mind, and I must help you by operating upon the hearts of others. You will take frequent doses of the lily of Patience, with the balm of Forgetfulness, and relief will shortly come to you. Jack Buntlin. {To Patrick.) Holloa, shipmate; here 's three dollars for you. Two good hard Spanish Millers, and one Mexican. [Rings them on the fioor.] There 's good silver. Take them. They are the last I SCHOOL DIALOGUES. M have left of two hundred and thirty when I was paid off from the sloop of war Marion, — fine ship that ! Now go home and get food for your young cabin boys, and tell them when Jack Buntlin comes here again he "11 call and see how they come on. {Exit Patrick.) {To the doctor.') Now, old fellow, I want you to cure me. Doct. You must first tell me your complaint. Jack. You see, cap'n, I'm apt to get rather taut, and carry too much sail ; then, you know, a smart breeze from the norre'd and east'rd comes up, and I ship the cable and go ashore under bare poles ; so the craft lays on her beam ends. You understand me, cap'n? Doct. I can't say that I do — please be more explicit. Jack. Well, cap'n, you see I 'm apt to make more lee-way than head-way when I get ashore, and after I 'm at home three weeks there aint a shot in the locker. Doct. You mean, Jack, thai you can't keep your money. Jack. {Clapping his hands.) That's it, old boy. When I come ashore, there are so many sea gulls and land pirates that I 'm apt to get on the breakers. Then there are so many poor and distressed fellow sailors, it makes Jack feel so all-overish just here, [puts his hand on his heart,] that he can't help clapping his hand in his fob, and giving to the poor fellows ; but then I feel doubly paid by the thanks I get. Doct. Your infirmity is a very amiable one. It is much oftener that I have to treat cases of an opposite kind. It is only necessary for you to take some of mis Temperance cordial, a few grains of these Prudence powders, and some drops of this essence of Tranquillity, and your infirmity will be cured. Jack. Here 's good luck and a sailor's blessing on you, cap'n. [Drinking from the bottle of cordial] So good-by till next vy ; ge. {Exit Jack.) Doct. {Solus.) Well, so it is. The world is full of strange characters. There was Plumb, who would have thought more, of giving three cents from his forty- five or fifty thousand than this poor, honest, kind-hearted tar does of giving all he has. Alas ! almost every one 6 62 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. is diseased, but tow few are Avilling to take the proper medicine, forsooth., because it chances to be bitter ! They think themselves wise, but die fools ! But here comes another patient — a mere boy — surely he cannot want my advice. Enter Frank Careless. Frank. My name is Frank Careless, and they tell me that you get folks out of trouble, just as easy as other doctors cure the toothache. Doct. Yes, my child, I profess to eradicate diseases of the mind, as the physician does the tooth ; but my patients are not always willing to bear the pain. But what is your complaint, my lad? Frank. I don't want to study so hard. Here I have been to the Primary School, reading, and spelling, and studying geography and history ; and now I have got into another school, they give me bigger books and more studies, and there is no end to it. Doct. Don 't you like your studies ? Frank. Yes, I think I like them well enough, so far; but the trouble is, there is so much more to do. I like the school first rate — I can answer every question in Colburn's First Lessons, and that 's more than father can do. Doct. I see what you need; — take this little root, which is called Application, chew a little piece of it every time you have a lesson to get, and I will be bound to say that you will never again complain of hard studies. Frank. Thank you, sir. {Exit Frank.) {Doctor alone.) I have spent more time here than I expected when I came, but I flatter myself that I have done some good in my efforts to bestow happiness upon the people. I will now leave this village, and go to another place. I have, however, been so well pleased and interested in my patients here, that I shall certainly visit them at the end of the year, when I hope to find that my skill has been rewarded with success. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 63 THE INDIAN DOCTOR. Part II. [Interval of a year supposed to have passed J {Doctor at his table.) Here I find myself, after a year's absence, in the good old witch-hating, money-loving town of A ; celebrated for its industry, its shoes and leather, its great men and good men ; and last, though not least, for its fine ladies. I hope it will, in future, be celebrated for its high moral and intellectual position. Here comes one of my old customers. Enter Frank. Frank. O doctor, how glad I am to see you ! 1 want some more of your root of Application. You don't know how easy I have got my lessons since I saw you. Where does this famous root grow ? Doctor. It flourishes in a hard soil, and is found in the vale of Industry. It is a capital plant for scholars. F. I find it so, and mean to go to that vale of Industry and dig some. With the help of this root, I got the Mul- tiplication Table in almost no time, and I can say it all by heart, from "twice two" to "twelve times twelve." If I have a long lesson to get, or a hard sum to do, I just take a good lot of this Application root, and then I get along first rate. {Exit Frank.) Doct. What a bright little fellow ! I am glad some good has been effected by my last visit. But here comes Patrick, honest Jack, and Mr. Plumb. Enter Patrick O'Brien, Jack Buntlin, and Mr. Plum}. Doct Well, Pat, how have you got along since I saw you last ? Are Peggy and the children well ? Pat. All well, yer honor, and many thanks to you, and these good folks besides. There has n't been a day since Jack gave me the three dollars, that Patrick O'Brien has not had something to eat for all the chil- tren, and a bit for the pig. Doct. You keep a pig, then i Pat. That I do, docther, and the natist little hani- 64 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. mal you ever set your eyes upon. 'T would do yer heart good to see his hintelligint countenance when he lays down slaping with the chiltren ; and then he talks like a book, yer honor; but he don't talk English, he uses his own tongue, docther. How Peggy and the little chil- tren will cry when the young janetleman goes into the pork barrel ! Doct. How came you by this remarkable pig? Pat. (Pointing to Mr. Plwnb.) Here 's the blessed man tha.t gave poor Patrick the pig, all gratis and for nothing, bless his ginerous sowl ; and that is not all he has given us, by a great dale, besides finding me work to do. Doct. (To Mr. Plumb.) Then you have also de- rived benefit from my prescriptions. Plumb. Most truly I have, and I now come to express to you my gratitude for your kindness and skill in effect- ing a cure on a patient like myself. Your waters of Justice have eased me of a vast many troubles and twinges of conscience ; and the pills of Philanthropy have changed my disposition from selfish and niggardly habits, to liberal and generous feelings towards all around me. Nothing now does me so much good as to see the poor made happier by the wealth Providence has put in my hands ; and my rest at night is sweet and pleasant. (Plumb and Patrick go out.) Jack. Now, it 's my turn. I say, cap'n, I want you to take care of this little blue book for me till I get home from the next vy'ge. It 's the Savings Bank book, and shows that I have got a hundred and fifty dollars in their locker; besides that, I have got a little chink left in my pocket, [rattling his money,] to help Patrick O'Brien, and give to a poor distressed shipmate. So much for your cordial of Temperance, and the essences of Pru- dence and Frugality. I must have a new supply, to keep the ship in trim for the next vy'ge. Good- by, old fel- low, for I'm in a hurry. Enter Wakefield. Doct. Well, what effect has the decoction from the lily of Patience had on your complaints, friend Wakefield 1 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 65 Wakefield. Most excellent ! By the calmness and quiet it has afforded me, I have been able to live down all the falsehoods and calumnies which before so much annoyed me. I am on good terms with all mankind, and nobody seems to wish me ill. I shall always remember with gratitude your share in my cure, and hope many others, who are in the same situation, will apply the same remedy. Doct. 1 am always glad to witness the gratitude of my patients, as that is my only reward. Wake. You seem to make every article of medicine a text for a sermon, by which you give good advice to your hearers. Doct. Yes, Mr. Wakefield ; but like other preachers, I sometimes find that the members of my congregation are very willing to take home the text, while they forget all about the sermon. This is the second time I have visited your flourishing town of A, and I am so much encouraged by my success, that I intend, another year, to make you another visit ; but my engagements now oblige me to shut up shop. Farewell ! {Exeunt^\ DIALOGUE XXV. THE NEWS DEALER. Mrs. Fidget. 'Tis no such thing, Mr. Timothy; give, me leave to know the private concerns of a family that I have lived with before you were born. Timothy. If that's the case, they have no private concerns by this time ; they are pretty public now. Mrs. F. Jackanapes ! does it follow, that because 1 sometimes indulge you with my communications, I tell them to all the world ? T. No, it does not follow ; it generally goes before. You retail your knowledge every week-day in small paragraphs, and on Sunday you rush forth yourself, fresh from the press, a walking journal of weekly communi- cation. Mrs. F. . Well, am I not right there, monkey ? It is the moral drty of a Christian to instruct the ignorant and open thj minds of the uninformed. 6* 66 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. T. Yes. but you are not content with opening then minds, but open their mouths, too, and set them a prat- ing for a week to come. Mrs. F. It requires but little pains, however, to set you a prating. Such a tongue ! mercy on me ! gibble, gabble, prittle, prattle, forever and ever. T. There 's a plumper for you ! When I came to live in this house, I never opened my lips for the first quarter. The thing was impossible; your eternal clat- ter almost starved as well as stunned me ; I could put nothing either in or out of my mouth ; I was compelled to eat my victuals at midnight, for until you were as fast as a church, I was forced to be silent as a grave. Mrs. F. Why, sirrah, jackanapes, monkey ! his hon- or has suffered your impertinent freedoms till you are become quite master of the house, and now I suppose you want to be mistress too. T. So do you ; and therefore we quarrel. Two of a trade, you know Mrs. F. But your master shall know of your inso- lence. T. Let him, — he likes it ; he says himself I am an odd fish, a thornback, I suppose, or I should not be able to deal with an old maid. Mrs. F. Old maid, impudence ! have I lived to this day to be called an old maid at last ? Pretty well, in- deed ! It is my own fault that I have no husband. T. If you had one, he 'd be the most envied mortal in England. Mrs. F. Why, fellow, why? T. Because there is not such another woman in the kingdom. Mrs. F. Silence, fellow ! You have certainly mis- taken my character. If I know anything of myself, I never talk more than is necessary; and as for curiosity, nobody has less, or interferes in her neighbor's affairs so seldom as I do. T. No one has accused you of curiosity; but now we are on the subject, I suppose you have heard the report that is about the country. Mrs F. Report of what, pray ? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 67 T. I am sorry for poor Miss Twist. Mrs. F. Miss Twist ! what of her ? T. Upon my word, I ought not to have mentioned her name. Pray don't say a word about Miss Twist- only I thought it might concern her. Mrs. F. What might concern her? T. The report. Mrs. F. What report? T. Why, that Robert is going to marry Miss Man- deville. Mrs F. Miss Mandeville ! Miss Mandeville ! T. Why yes, Miss Mandevilie. But pray don't tell the Twists. Mrs. F. • Not I ; I would not tell them for the world. T. No, pray don't tell them; I quite dread their hear- ing it ; it would be cruel and unkind to acquaint them with it at all abruptly, for I am confident they expected him to marry Miss Twist. Mrs. F. Indeed, they were sure of it. No, indeed, I would not have them told of it for the world. {Putting on her bonnet.) T. But pray remember not to say a word about it to the Twists. Mrs. F. O, not for the world ! Good-morning, Mr. Timothy. {Exit.) ( T. alone.) So, with all her want of curiosity, she has packed off to the Twists to tell them the news, not a word of which is true. So much for gossiping, so much for curiosity, so much for ever interfering in the affairs of her neighbors ! DIALOGUE XXVI. NOBILITY. Caroline. What a pity it is that we are born under a republican government ! Horace. Upon my word, that is a patriotic observa- tion for an American. C. O, I know that, it is not a popular one ; we must all join in the cry )f liberty and equality, and bless our 68 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. stars that we have neither kings nor emperors to rule over us, and that our first audible tones were republican. If we don't join in the shout, and hang our hats on hickory trees or liberty poles, we are considered unnat- ural monsters. For my part, I am tired of it, and I am determined to say what I think. I hate republicanism ; I hate liberty and equality; and I don't hesitate to declare, that I am for a monarchy. You may laugh, but I would say it at the stake. H. Bravo ! why, sister, you deserve to be prime minister to the king. C. I have no wish to mingle in political broils, not even if I could be as renowned as Pitt or Fox ; but I do think our equality is odious. Why, this ve^y day, the new chamber-maid put her head into my room and said, " Caroline ! your marm wants you." H. Good ; I suppose if ours were a monarchical government, she would have bent one knee to the ground, or saluted your little foot with a kiss, before she spoke. C. Why, Horace, I am ashamed of you ! You know that such forms exist only in the papal dominions. I believe his holiness the Pope requires such a ceremony. H. Perhaps you would like to be a Pope. C. No, I am sure I would not. H. May I ask your highness what you would like to be? C. I should like to be a countess. H. You are quite moderate, dear sister; a countess, now-a-days, is the fag end of nobility. C. O, but it sounds so delightfully, — "The young Countess Caroline ! " H. If sound is all, you shall be gratified ; we will call you "The young Countess Caroline." C. But that would be mere burlesque, Horace, and make me appear ridiculous. H. Really, I think nothing is so absurd as for us to be aiming at titles. C. Yes, but it would be different if they were hered- itary. If we had been born to them, if they came to us through belted knights, and high-born dames, then we might be proud to wear them. I never cease to regret that I was not born under a monarchy. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 69 H. But you seem to forget that all are not lords and ladies in the royal dominions. Suppose you had been born among the plebeians, and that it had been your lot to crouch and bend, or be trodden under foot by some titled personage, whom in your heart you despised; what then ? C. You may easily suppose that I did not mean to take those chances. No ; I meant to be born among the higher ranks. H. Your own reason must tell you that all cannot be born among the higher ranks, for then the lower ones would be wanting to constitute the comparison. Now, Caroline, we come to the very point. Is it not better to be born under a government in which there is the extreme neither of high nor low ; where one man cannot be raised permanently and preeminently over another ; and where true nobility consists of talent and virtue. C. That sounds very patriotic, brother ; but I am inclined to think that wealth constitutes our nobility, and the right of abusing each other, our liberty. H. You are quite fond of aphorisms, sister-; but they are not always true. C. Well, is it not true that our rich men, who ride in their own carriages, who own fine houses, and who count by millions, are our great men ? II They have all the greatness that money can buy, but that is very limited. C. In my opinion, money is power. H. There you err. Money may buy a temporary power, but talent is power itself; and, when united to virtue, a God-like power, one before which the mere man of millions quails. No, give me talents, health and unwavering principle, and I will not ask for wealth, but I will carve my own way ; and, depend upon it, wealth will be honorably mine. C. Well, I am sure I heartily wish you the posses- sion of all together — talent, principle and wealth. Really, without flattery, the two first you have, and the last, according to your doctrine, will come when you beckon to it. Now, I assure you, that I feel as determined as you do to carve my own way. You may smile ; but, 70 s;hool dialogues. depend upon it, the time is not distant when you shall see me in possession of all that rank which any one can obtain in our plebeian country. DIALOGUE XXVII. FORTUNE TELLING. Mrs. Credulous. Are you the fortune-teller, sir, that knows everything ? Fortune Teller. I sometimes consult futurity, madam : but I make no pretensions to any supernatural knowl- edge. Mrs. C. Ay, so you say ; but everybody else says you know everything ; and I have come all the way from Boston to consult you, for you must know I have met with a dreadful loss. F. T. We are liable to losses, in this world, madam. Mrs. C. Yes, and I have had my share of them, though I shall be only fifty, come Thanksgiving. F. T. You must have learned to bear misfortunes with fortitude, by this time. Mrs. C. I don't know how that is, though my dear husband, rest his soul ! used to say, " Molly, you are as patient as Job, though you never had any children to lose, as he had." F. T. Job was a model of patience, madam, and few could lose their all with so much resignation. Mrs. C. Ah, sir, that is too true ; for even the small loss I have suffered overwhelms me. F. T. The loss of property, madam, comes home to the bosom of the best of us. Mrs. C. Yes, sir ; and when the thing lost cannot be replaced, it is doubly distressing. When my poor, good man, on our wedding-day, gave me the ring, "Keep it, Molly," said he, " till you die, for my sake." And now, that I should have lost it, after keeping it thirty years, and locking it up so carefully all the time, as 1 did — F. T. We cannot be too careful, in this world madam ; our best friends often deceive us. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 71 Mrs. C. True, sir, true — but who would have thought that the child I took, as it were, out of the street, and brought up as my own, could have been guilty of such ingratitude? She never would have touched what was not her own, if her vagabond lovei had not put her up to it. F. T. Ah, madam, ingratitude is the basest of all crimes ! Mrs. C. Yes, but to think that the impudent crea- ture should deny she took it, when I saw it in the pos- session of that wretch myself. F. T. Impudence, madam, usually accompanies crime. But my time is precious, and the star that rules your destiny will set, and your fate be involved in dark- ness, unless I proceed to business immediately. The stars inform me, madam, that you are a widow. Mrs. C. La! sir, was you acquainted with my deceased husband ? F. T. No, madam ; we do not receive our knowledge by such means. Thy name is Mary, and thy dwelling- place is Boston. Mrs. C. Some spirit must have told you this, for certain. F. T. This is not all, madam. You were married at the age of twenty years, and were the sole heir of your deceased husband. Mrs. C. I perceive, sir, you know everything. F. T. Madam, I cannot help knowing what I do know ; I must therefore inform you that your adopted daughter, in the dead of night Mrs. C. No, sir ; it was in the day-time. F. T. Do not interrupt me, madam. In the dead of night, your adopted daughter planned the robbery which deprived you of your wedding-ring. Mrs. C. No earthly being could have told you this, for I never let my right hand know that I possessed itj lest some evil should happen to it. F. T. Hear me, madam ; you have come all this distance to consult the fates, and find your ring. Mrs. C. You have guessed my intention exactly, sn. 72 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. F. T. Guessed ! madam. I know this is your object; and I know, moreover, that your ungrateful daughter has incurred your displeasure, by receiving the addresses of a worthless man. Mrs. C. Every word is gospel truth. F. T. This man has persuaded your daughter Mrs. C. I knew he did ; I told her so. But, good sir, :an you tell me who has the ring? F. T. This young man has it. Mrs. C. But he denies it, sir. F. T. No matter, madam ; he has it. Mrs. C. But how shall I obtain it again ? F. T. The law points out the way, madam ; it is my business to point out the rogue — you must catch him. Mrs. C. You are right, sir; and if there is a law to be had, I will spend every cent I own, but I will have" it. I knew he was the robber, and I thank you for the information. (Going.) F. T. But thanks, madam, will not pay for all my nightly vigils, consultations, and calculations. Mrs. C. O, right, sir. I forgot to pay you. For how much am I indebted to you ? F. T. Only five dollars, madam. Mrs. C. {Handing him the money.') There it is, sir. I would have paid twenty rather than not have found the ring. F. T. I never take but five. Farewell, madam; your friend is at the door with your chaise: (He leaves the ?*oom.) Enter Friend. Friend. Well, Mary, what does the fortune-teller say? Mrs. C. O, he told me I was a widow, and lived in Boston, and had an adopted daughter — and Friend. But you knew all this before, did you not 3 Mrs. C. Yes ; but how should he know it ? He told me, too, that I had lost a ring, Friend, Did he tell you where to find it ? Mrs. C. O yes ! he says that fellow has it, and I SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 73 must go to 'aw and get it, if he will not give it up. What do you think of that ? Friend. It is precisely what any fool could have told you. But how much did you pay for this precious in- formation? Mrs. C. Only five dollars. Friend. How much was the ring worth? Mrs. C. Why, two dollars, at least. Friend. Then you have paid ten dollars for a chaise to bring you here, five dollars for the information that you had already, and all this to gain possession of a ring not worth one quarter of the expense ! Mrs. C. O, the rascal ! how he has cheated me ! I will go to the world's end but I will be revenged ! Friend. You had better go home, and say nothing about it, for every effort to recover your money will only expose your folly. DIALOGUE XXVIII. children's wishes. Susan. I wish I was a little bird, Among the leaves to dwell ; To scale the sky in gladness, Or seek the lonely dell. My matin song should celebrate The glory of the earth ; And my vesper hymn ring gladly, With the thrill of careless mirth. Emily. I wish I were a floweret, To blossom in the grove ; I 'd spread my opening leaflets Among the plants I love ; — No hand should roughly cull me* And bid my odors fly ; I silently would ope to life, And quietly would die. 7 74 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Jane. I wish I was a gold-fish, To seek the sunny wave, To part the gentle ripple, And 'mid its coolness lave , I 'd glide through day delighted, Beneath the azure sky, And when night came on in softness Seek the star-light's milder eye. Mother. Hush, hush, romantic prattlers ! You know not what you say, When soul, the crown of mortals, You would lightly throw away : What is the songster's warble, And the floweret's blush refined, To the noble thought of Deity, Within your opening mind ? DIALOGUE XXIX. CHO/CE OF COUNTRIES. Father. I would cross the wide Atlantic, And the cliffs of England hail, For there my country's fathers First set their western sail. I would view its domes and palaces, And tread each learned hall, And on the soil where Newton trod My foot should proudly fall. I would gaze upon its landscapes, The dell and sunny glade, And tread, with awe, the cloistered aisle Where Addison is laid. John. I wouid seek the Indian Ocean, Where the sea-shell loves to grow, Where the tints upon its bosom In gorgeous beauty glow. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 75 I would chase the parting billow Foi treasures new and rare, And with wreaths of blushing coral Entwine my waving hair. Amos. I would be a ship's commander, And find the northern pole, While o'er untravelled oceans My venturous bark should roll : Or, I 'd seek untrodden islands, Amid Antarctic seas, And the standard of my country Plant first before the breeze. Eliza. Oh, give to me my birth-place, My dear, my native home ! From its fair and sheltering borders I ask not e'er to roam. My schoolmates here are playing, My parents dear I see ; Oh, give to me my birth-place, — It is fair enough for me ! Mother. The whole broad earth is beautiful To minds attuned aright, And wheresoe'er my feet have turned, A smile has met my sight. The city, with its bustling walk, Its splendor, wealth, and power, — A ramble by the river side, — A passing summer flower ; The meadow green, the ocean's swell, The forest waving free, Are gifts of God, and speak in tones Of kindliness to me. And oh ! where'er my lot is cast, Where'er my footsteps roam, If those I love are near to me, I feel that spot my home. r A 76 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XXX. WHY ALEXANDER WAS CALLED GREAT. Son. How big was Alexander, Pa, That people call him great ? Was he, like old Goliath, tall — His spear an hundred weight? Was he so large that he could stand Like some tall steeple high ; And while his feet were on the ground, His hands could touch the sky ? Father. no, my son ; about as large As I or uncle James. 'Twas not his stature made him great, But greatness of his name. Son. His name so great? I know 'tis long. But easy quite to spell — And more than half a year ago I knew it very well. Father. 1 mean, my child, his actions were So great, he got a name That everybody speaks with praise, * That tells about his fame. Son. Well, what great actions did he do ? I want to know it all. Father. Why, he it was that conquered Tyre, And levelled down her wall, And thousands of her people slew; And then to Persia went, And fire and sword, on every side, Through miny a region sent; SCHOOL DIALOGUES. A hundred conquered cities shone "With midnight burnings red, And, strewed o'er many a battle ground, A thousand soldiers bled. Son. Did killing people make him great ? Then why was Abdel Young, Who killed his neighbor, training day Put into jail and hung ? I never heard them call him great ! Father. Why, no — 'twas not in war — And him that kills a single man His neighbors all abhor. Son. Well, then, if I should kill a man, I 'd kill a hundred more ; I should be great, and not get hun$ Like Abdel Young before. Father. Not so, my son, 'twill never do : — The gospel bids be kind. Son. Then they that kill, and they that praise The gospel do not mind. Father. You know, my child, the Bible says That you must always do To other people, as you wish To have them do to you. Son. But. Pa, did Alexander wish That some strong man would come And burn his house, and kill him too, And do as he had done ? 7* 77 78 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. And everybody calls him great For killing people so ! Well, now, what right he had to kill, I should be glad to know. If one should burn the buildings here, And kill the folks within, Would anybody call him great, For such a wicked thing- ? DIALOGUE XXXI. HOME. Father. Dost thou love wandering? Whither would'st thou go? Dream 'st thou, sweet daughter, of a land more fair ? Dost thou not love these aye-blue streams that flow ? These spicy forests, and this golden air ? Daughter. 0, yes, I love the woods and streams so gay ; And more than all, O father, I love thee; Yet would I fain be wandering — far away, Where such things never were, nor e'er shall be. Father. Speak, mine own daughter with the sun-bright locks ! To what pale, banished region would'st thou roam? Daughter. father, let us find our frozen rocks ! Let's seek that country of all countries, — Home ! Father. Seest thou these orange flowers ? this palm that rears Its head up towards heaven's blue and cloudless dome ? Daughter. 1 dream, I dream ; mine eyes are hid in tears : My heart is wandering round our ancient home. SCHOOL DIALOGUES, 79 Father. Why, then, we '11 go. Farewell, ye tender skies, Who sheltered us, when we were forced to roam ! Daughter. On, on Let 's pass the swallow as he flies ! Farewell, kind land ! Now, father, now, — for Home ! DIALOGUE XXXII. CHOICE OF HOURS. Father. i love to walk at twilight, When sunset nobly dies, And see the parting splendor That lightens up the skies, And call up old remembrances, Deep, dim as evening gloom, Or look to heaven's promises, Like star-light on a tomb. Laura. I love the hour of darkness, When I give myself to sleep, And I think that holy angels Their watch around me keep. My dreams are light and happy, As I innocently lie, For my mother's kiss is on my cheek, And my father's step is nigh. Mary. I love the social afternoon, When lessons all are said, Geography is laid aside, And grammar put to bed ; Then a walk upon the Battery, With a friend, is very sweet, And some money for an ice-cream, To give that friend a treat. 80 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Mother. I love the Sabbath evening, When my loved ones sit around, And tell of all their feelings, By hope and fancy crowned ; And though some plants are missing, In that sweetly thoughtful hour, I will not call them back again To earth's decaying bower. DIALOGUE XXXIII. WOMAN — ACCOUNT CURRENT. First Speaker. Oh ! the woe that woman brings ! Source of sorrow, grief, and pain ! All our evils have their springs In the first of female train. Second Speaker. Oh ! what joys from woman spring, Source of bliss and purest peace ! Eden could not comfort bring, Till fair woman showed her face. First Speaker. Eve, by eating, led poor Adam Out of Eden and astray; Look for sorrow still, where madam, Pert and proud, directs the way. Second Speaker. When she came, good, honest Adam Clasped the gift with open arms ; He left Eden for his madam, So our parent prized her charms. First Speaker. Courtship is a slavish pleasure, Soothing a coquettish train ; Wedded, — what's the mighty treasure?- Doomed to drag a golden chain. SCHOOL DIALOG v ES. 81 Second Speaker. Courtship thrills the soul with pleasure ; Virtue's blush on beauty's cheek : Happy prelude to a treasure Kings have left their thrones to seek ! First Speaker. Noisy clack and constant brawling, Discord and domestic strife ; Empty cupboard, children bawling, Scolding woman made a wife. Second Speaker. Lovely looks and constant courting, Sweetening all the toils of life ; Cheerful children, harmless sporting, Lovely woman made a wife ! First Speaker. Gaudy dress and haughty carriage, Love's fond balance fled and gone ; These the bitter fruits of marriage ! He that 's wise will live alone ! Second Speaker. Modest dress and gentle carriage, Love tridmphant on his throne ; These the blissful fruits of marriage, — ■■ None but fools would live alone. DIALOGUE XXXIV. THE SEASONS' Jane. I love the Spring, when slumbering tuds Are wakened into birth ; When joy and gladness seem to run So freely o'er the earth. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Charles. love the Summer, when the flowers Look beautiful and bright ; When I can spend the leisure hours With hoop, and ball, and kite. George. I love the Autumn, when the trees With fruit are bending low ; When I can reach the luscious plums That hang upon the bough. Frank. I love to have the Winter come, When I can skate and slide, And hear the noise of merry sleighs That swiftly by us glide. Anna. I love the seasons in their round ; Each has delights for me ; Wisdom and love in all are found : God's hand in each I see. Mother. You. 're right, my child ; remember Him, • As seasons pass away ; And each revolving year will bring You nearer heavenly day. DIALOGUE XXXV. THE FOUR WISHES. Charles. I ask for power, — that 'neath my sway Nations might tremble and obey ; Over the sea to stretch my hand, And sway my sceptre o'er the land ; That the proudest monarch should lay down, At will of mine, his jewelled crown; SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 88 That rich and poor should bend the knee, And pay due homage unto me ; That the sun's eye should never shine On kingdoms that I called not mine ; Thus, seated on my lofty throne, The whole wide world my sway should own. Mother. Thirst not for power ! for, rightly used, 'Twill make some foes ; but, if abused, Nations will rise and curses shed — Long, loud, deep curses — on thy head! Thirst not for power ! thy life will be A life of splendid misery ; And thou wilt be the slave of all, Though at thy feet the world should fall. Thirst not for power ! for, though to-day Nations thy slightest will obey, Perchance to-morrow thou 'It lay down, Before the king of death, thy crown ! Albert. 1 ask for riches ; wealth untold ; For coffers filled with glittering gold ; For pearls which in the ocean shine, And gems that sparkle in the mine ; Upon the treasures of each zone 1 'd lay my hand, and call my own. I would each star that decks the sky A diamond at my feet might lie ; That every leaf, on every tree, Would fall in precious stones for me. Yes, wealth into my coffers pour, Till mortal could not wish for more. Mother. Oh, ask not gold ! 'twill melt away, Like dew-drops in the early day ; Oh, ask not gold ! for it will fling A fetter o'er the spirit's wing, And bind it when it fain would rise To seek true riches in the skies. 84 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Oh, ask not gold ! for it will prove A snare, and cause thy feet to rove Far from that straight and narrow way ; Which leads to realms of endless day ! Mary. I ask for beauty ; for an eye Bright as the stars in yonder sky ; For tresses on the air to fling, And put to shame the raven's wing , Cheeks where the lily and the rose Are blended in a sweet repose , For pearly teeth, and coral lip, Tempting the honey-bee to sip ; And for a fairy foot as light As is the young gazelle's in flight. And then a small, white, tapering hand,- I 'd reign a beauty in the land. Mother. Sigh not for beauty ! 4ike the flower, That opes its petals for an hour, And droops beneath the noontide ray, So will thy beauty fade away. The brightest eye at last must close, And on the cheek where blooms the rose The hand of death will set his seal, O'er it the canker worm will steal. Those tresses, rich and glossy now, Clustering around the snowy brow, Will turn to dust ; yes, beauty's bloom Must wither in the silent tomb. Eliza, I ask the poet's gift ; the lyre, With skilful hand to sweep each wire I 'd pour my burning thoughts in song In lays deep, passionate, and strong, Till hearts should thrill at every word, As mine is thrilled at song of bird. Oh ! I would die, and leave some trace That earth has been my dwelling-place v SCHOO. DIALOGUES. 85 Would live in hearts forevermore, When my frail, fitful life is o'er. Oh! for the gifted poet's power, — This is my wish, be this my dower ! Mother. A glorious gift ! yet it will be A source of sorrow unto thee, In this cold, selfish world of ours, Where piercing thorns grow 'mid the flowers. 'T will nil that gentle breast of thine With thirst for something too divine ; And, like a young, caged bird, whose eye Looks out upon the free, blue sky, Thy spirit's wing will long to soar To seek some far-off, peaceful shore. It may not be a happy lot : Then, gentle maiden, ask it not. All. What shall we ask ? If power will shed So many curses on the head ; And if the gift of wealth will fling A fetter o'er the spirit's wing : If beauty blooms but for a day, Then like the spring-flower fades away ; And if the poet's thrilling lyre Will waken such a restless fire Within the soul, and make it pine With thirst for something too divine ; — What shall we ask ? Fain would we know To make us happy while below. Mother. Oh ! ask for things of nobler worth Than the poor, cankering gifts of earth : \sk for the treasures of the mind, L heart all generous, true, and kind ; \.sk virtue a green wreath to twine, To deck these young, fair brows of thine, — A wreath of fadeless buds and flowers, Destined to bloom in heaven's own bovvers ; 86 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Ask for religion ; it will be "Worth beauty, fame, and power, to thee , And, when this fleeting life is o'er, 'T will give thee life forevermore ! DIALOGUE XXXVI. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. Q, Flowers, wherefore do you bloom ? A. We strew thy pathway to the tomb. Q. Stars, wherefore do ye rise ? A. To light thy spirit to the skies. Q. Fair moon, why dost thou wane ? A. That I may wax again. Q. sun, what makes thy beams so bright? A. The Word that said — " Let there be light." Q. Time, whither dost thou flee ? A. I travel to eternity. Q. Eternity, what art thou, say? A. I was, am, will be evermore, to-day. Q. Nature, whence sprang thy glorious frame ? A. My Maker called me, and I came. Q. Winds, whence and whither do ye blow ? A. Thou must be " born again" to know. Q. Ocean, what rules thy swell and fall ? A. The might of Him who ruleth all. Q. Planets, what guides you in your course ? A. Unseen, unfelt, unfailing force. Q. O life, what is thy breath? A. A vapor, vanishing in death. Q. death, where ends thy strife ? A. In everlasting life. Q. grave, where is thy victory? A. Ask him who rase again for me. SCHOOL DIAL0GL3S. 87 DIALOGUE XXXVII. CHOICE OF OCCUPATIONS. John. I mean to be a soldier, With uniform quite new, — I wish they 'd let me have a drum, And be a captain too : I would go amid the battle, With my broad-sword in my hand, And hear the cannon rattle, And the music all so grand. Mother. My son, my son ! what if that sword Should strike a noble heart, And bid some loving father From his little ones depart ? What comfort would your waving plumes And brilliant dress bestow, When you thought upon his widow's tears. And her orphans' cry of woe ? - William. I mean to be a president, rule each rising state, Id my levees once a week, U the gay and great; king, except a crown, — fc they won't allow ; E ii find out what the Tariff is, That puzzles me so now. Mother. My son, my son ! the cares of state Are thorns upon the breast, That ever pierce the good man's heart, And rob him of his rest ; The great and gay to him appear As trifling as the dust, For he knows how little they are worth, — ; How faithless in their trust. 88 SCHOOL DIALOGUES- Louisa. I mean to be a cottage girl, And sit behind a rill, And morn and eve my pitcher tilts** With purest water fill ; And I '11 train a lovely woodbine Around my cottage door, And welcome to my winter hearth The wandering and the pocr. Mother. Louisa, dear, an humble mind 'Tis beautiful to see, And you shall never hear a word To check that mind from me ; But ah ! remember, pride may dwell Beneath the woodbine's shade ; And discontent, a sullen guest, The cottage hearth invade. Caroline. I will be gay and courtly, And dance away the hours ; Music, and sport, and joy, shall dwell Beneath my fairy bowers ; No heart shall ache with sadness Within my laughing hall, But the note of love and gladness Reecho to my call. Mother. Oh, children ! sad it makes my soul To hear your playful strain ; I cannot bear to chill your youth With images of pain. Yet humbly take what God bestows, And, like his own fair flowers, Look up in sunshine with a smile, And gently bend in showers. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. , 89 DIALOGUE XXXVIII. WHAT WE LOVE. Mary, Ellen, Charles, and Alfred. Mary. I love the spring, the gentle spring ; I love its balmy air, — I love its showers, that ever bring To us the flow'rets fair. All Come, let us sing, we love the spring,— We love the summer too, — While autumn's fruit each one will suit, To winter give his due. Ellen. I love the summer's sky so bright; I love the fragrant flowers ; I love the long, long days of light : But more the shady bowers. All. Come, let us sing, we love the spring, &c, Charles. I love the autumn's clust'ring fruit, That in the orchard lies ; I love its ever-changing suit, Its trees of brilliant dyes. All. Come, let us sing, we love the spring, &c Alfred. I love stern winter's ice and snow ; I love his blazing fire ; — I love his winds that freshly blow, — Yes, winter I desire. All. Come, let us sing, we love the spring, &c. 8* 90 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Mary. I love the merry birds, that sing, So sweet, their morning song,— I love to see them on the wing Speed gracefully along. All. Yes, we will love the gentle dove,— The birds that sing so sweet, The fishes all, and insects small, The beasts we daily meet. Ellen. I love beneath the limpid wave To see the fishes glide ; T love to watch them as they lave So gayly in the tide. All. Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &c. Charles. I love each prancing, noble steed ; I love the dog, so true ; I love the gentle cow ; indeed, Without, what could we do ? All. Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &c Alfred. I love the little busy bee ; I love the patient ant : For they this lesson teach to me,- — " We need not ever want." All. Yes, we will love the gentle dove, &c. Mary. I love the blue and far-off sky ; I love the beaming sun ; The moon and stars, that, up on high, Shine bright when day is done. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 91 All. We love, on high, to see the sky; We love the broad, blue sea ; We love the earth, that gave us birth ; We love the air so free. Ellen. I love the very air we breathe ; I love, when flow'rets bloom, At early morn, or dewy eve, To inhale the sweet perfume. All We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. Charles. I love the ocean, vast and grand; I love to hear its roar, — I love its waves that kiss the sand, And those that proudly soar. All. We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. Alfred. I love the broad and fruitful earth. I love each hill and dale ; I love the spot that gave me birth, — My own dear native vale ! All. We love, on high, to see the sky, &c. Mary. I love my father, ever kind ; I love to meet his smile, — I love to see him pleasure find In watching me the while. All. Our friends are dear, that we have herfe. But, better far than all. There 's one we love, who dwells above, And on His name we call. 92 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Ellen. I love full well my mother dear ; I love her cheering voice, — Her gentle words I wait to hear, — They make my heart rejoice ! All. Our friends are dear, that we have here &c. Charles. I love my little brother sweet ; I love his words of glee, — I love his playful glance to meet, His beaming smile to see. All. Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. Alfred. I love my little sister fair ; I love her rosy cheek, — I love with her each joy to share, Her happiness to seek. All. Our friends are dear, that we have here, &c. DIALOGUE XXXIX. THE HOMES OF EARTH. Maria. My home is in the country, By a little mountain stream, That wakes me every morning With its murmur and its gleam There are graceful trees around my noir And a wild vine trailing o'er : And the roses and the columbines Grow close beside the door. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 93 There 's a pleasant hill beside my home, And a green and sunny bank, Beyond which lieth the meadow fair, Where the water-weeds grow dank. And down by the water-side we go. With the tiny fish to play ; It is there we gather the strawb'ries wild, In the sunny autumn day. Clara. My home is not like thy home ; — 'T is by the glorious sea ; And the dashing of its mighty waves Is melody to me. I love its gleaming billows, 1 1'ove its silver foam ; And dearer than earth's quiet vales Is that wild sea-side home. Beside my home there riseth A mountain dark and grand, And all around, on every side, The solemn fir-trees stand ; While the branches, with their moaning. And their tossing to and fro, Give forth their dirge-like music To the dashing waves below. Isabel. My home is not like thy home ; 'T is in the city gay, WTiere the sound of busy human life May greet me every day. The mighty crowd goes to and fro, Like the rocking of the sea , And the pleasant voices of my race • Are melody to me. My home is very beautiful, With its marble columns fair ; And all that wealth and taste can give Of luxury are there. 94 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. There 's a stately church beside it, With its soft-toned Sabbath bell ; — Oh ! pleasant is ray city home, And I love — I love it well ! Mary. My home is not like thy home , Nor is it fair to see ; But those I love abide therein, And it is dear to me. 'T is in a narrow alley, Where very few pass by, And tall, dark houses stand so near, I scarce can see the sky. But my father, and my mother, And my little bird, are there ; And, oh ! within our little yard My grape-vine groweth fair. And it is near to Sabbath school, Where I can come to hear That, lowly as our home may be, We still to God are dear. All. The homes of earth are very fair; — By the graceful mountain stream, Or where, upon the wild sea-shore, The mighty waters gleam. Fair are they in the city street; Where wealth and fashion dwell ; And fair within its alleys small, If we but love them well. Oh ! ne er alike may be our homes, While we on earth abide ; But we will learn of Christ our Lord And in this faith abide : — That unto all, both rich and poor, The same bright home is given, Where we shall ever dwell in joy , - Our home — its name is Heaven. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 95 DIALOGUE XL. THE SEASONS. Sarah. Winter is gone ! Alas ! its dear delights, — The gay amusements of its days and nights, Its merry sleigh-rides, and its brilliant balls, And all the splendor of its lighted halls, — Have given place to spring-time's stupid air, To balmy winds, and skies forever fair, That make one feel like yawning all day long Despite the twattle of the poet's song. Mary. Nay, Sarah, there is not, in all the year, A season half so beautiful as spring ; When all the new, bright things of life appear, And birds, and brooks, in every valley sing; How can you call it stupid ? Sure, to me, This season has more life than all the other three Lucy. Oh, no ! not more than summer, Mary, When the trees are filled with flowers ; When the bees and beetles, Mary, Hum within the fragrant bowers Life is then on every twig, And life in all the air ; And sure, of all the brilliant year, The summer is most fair. Alice. Most fair it may be, Lucy, But autumn is most bright, When all the woods and shrubby dells In rainbow robes are dight ; When hills are clothed in yellow Beneath the sunset's rays, And the harvest moon shines mellow Through twilight's purple haze. 96 SCHOOL DIALOG ofLi. Sarah. You speak of natural beauties ! well, even here, Winter will shine the jewel of the year; Such nights ! such stars ! through all the cold void gleam- ing— The wild Aurora up the concave streaming — The glittering snow-crust in the moonbeams lymg, And light with darkness, stars with moonlight, vieing. Surely the winter has its natural charms — And if it lack the summer's softening balms, Its pure, fresh breezes nerve the frame with health, And aid the mind to lay up stores of wealth. Then the dear fireside joys — the household mirth, Around the cheerful and familiar hearth ; The sister sewing in some warm, snug nook, While brother reads aloud the favorite book; — Indeed, indeed, dear girls, is it so strange That I dislike this season's sudden change ? Mary. 'T is true, dear Sarah, winter has its joys, But spring is beautiful, and full of love ; i!t calls to life what winter's cold destroys, And tints the earth beneath, the heaven above. Winter is full of comfort, full of bliss — But surely, of all seasons, I choose this. Lucy. I do not blame you, Mary, For the spring is full of hope ; But then the summer, Mary, And the bright-green flowery slope ; The woodland beauties, too, And the glorious summer air,- — I do insist, of all the year, The summer is most fair. Alice. Well, Sarah, Mary, Lucy, — Since we have each a choice, We should be grateful that in each We can in turn rejoice. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 97 Then let us lift our hearts Unitedly in song, And praise that wise and loving God, To whom all times belong. Hymn. — ( Sung by the four.) Oh God of spring and autumn, Of all the rolling year ! We come to praise thy goodness, With meekness and with fear. We praise Thee for the glory That summer spreads o'er earth, We bless Thee for the comforts Of winter's cheerful hearth. Do thou, oh gracious Father, Alike, in all thy ways, Lead us to trace thy goodness With gratitude and praise ! If storms beat o'er our pathways, We '11 still press firmly on, Until we reach that kingdom Where Thou wilt be our Sun. DIALOGUE XLI. WHAT IS MOST BEAUTIFUL? [A Dialogue for Eight Little Girls,] Susan. The stars that gem the brow of night Are very beautiful and bright ; They look upon us, from the skies, With such serene and holy eyes, That I have fondly deemed them worlds Where joy her banner never furls. What marvel, then, that I should love The stars that shine so bright above ? Ellen. The moon that sails serenely through The skies of evening, deeply blue, 98 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Perhaps half hidden from the eye By some dark cloud that wanders by, Yet shines with mellow light and pale Like some fair face beneath a veil, Appears more beautiful to me Than all the stars I nightly see. Mary. The golden sun, that rises bright, And dissipates the gloom of night, Is beautiful, and brighter far Than is the largest evening star ; Its light at morning or at noon Exceeds the brightness of the moon. The world indeed were very sad Without its beams so warm and glad. Hannah. The merry birds upon the wing, That all day long so sweetly sing, And when the stilly evening comes, Are sleeping in their leafy homes, With plumage yellow, red, and gold, Are very pretty to behold. I love to listen to their airs ; They drive away my gloomy cares ! Maria. The brooks that through the meadows gOg And sing with voices sweet and low, Are beautiful to look upon, As gladly on their ways they run ; The tiny fishes gayly swim Their bosoms fair and clear within, And flowers that on their margins grow Look down to see themselves below. Ann. The flowers that blossom everywhere, And with their fragrance scent the air, Are fairer than the birds or brooks, With their serene and modest looks ; SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 99 And though they have no voices sweet, Like birds and brooks, our call to greet, Yet in their silence they reveal Such lessons as the heart can feel ! Sarah. But there is something brighter far Than sun, or moon, or twinkling star; And fairer than a bird or brook, Or floweret with its pleasant look : It is a simple little child, Where heart is pure and undefiled, And they who love their parents well In loveliness all things excel ! Martha. The sun, the moon, the stars of night, And birds, and brooks, and blossoms bright, With richest charms are ever full, — With us they are the beautiful ; But little children, who are good, Whose tender feet have never stood In pathways by the sinful trod, — They are the beautiful with God ! DIALOGUE XLII. THE TEMPERANCE PLEDGE. Samuel. Thomas, from what I 've heard of late, There 's not much fear for you to-day, As you 've become so temperate, You 've signed the temperance pledge, they bay. Thomas. Well, Samuel, though not always true, Poor old Miss Gossip's sheet of news Yet you 've heard true — I 'm right glad too, And sure you '11 not your name refuse ; Come, Samuel, see my papers here, — 'T is what I call my scroll of Fame ; Look, what a great long list ! O dear ! Come, come, make haste, and add your name. L.ofC 100 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Samuel. Give you my name ? — wait; — not so soon,— • Keep cool, — first tell me what you mean. My name ? — before you get that boon, Your " scroll of fame" must first be seen. Well, Thomas, I cannot but say, As far as names — yes, every name The merits of a cause can sway, — These do not your pretensions shame. But pray, dear Thomas, let me know What Fame with this can have to do ? Or how she '11 her approval show, In such a scheme, to me or you ? Thomas. Why, Samuel, that I '11 do with ease . Now just put on your sober thought, And think a moment, if you please, What this great mighty scheme has wrought For I 've heard older people say, That vice, in its most hideous mien, That stalks our land, and spreads dismay, Is often with intemperance seen. They go, 't is said, clasped side by side, Seldom, if ever, known to part; Oh yes ! I 've heard they lurking hide, And aim at youthful ones their dart ; And oft, on such a day as this, While Freedom's sons with joy look up, She hands her draught of poisoned bliss; — They sip, and find death in the cup. Well, Samuel, now you see 'tis here, This pledge vows death to such a foe, And though we 're small, yet it is clear That every little helps, you know. Samuel. But, Thomas, how do you think we Could be of use in such a scheme ? Suppose all here, as well as me, Should plelge, and all our pledge redeem* SCHOOL DIALOGUES 101 Thomas. What use ? Why, Samuel, only think, We 'd raise a temperance army here — Don't you believe the foe would shrink Before us, in some coming year ? You know, we 're told that early age Is just the time to form the mind ! And now suppose we all engage, — A youthful temperance host combine, — To wage a war against the foe ; Oh ! oh how glad I then should be ! 'T would swell my list of members so, And be a great, great Fourth to me ! Samuel. Well, Thomas, you may take my name, And I will help you, all I can, To swell your great long scroll of Fame ; If, when you grow to be a man, You '11 let me see it ! — dearest me ! If you try as you 've tried to-day, Why, what a wondrous list 't would be ! I 'd like to know what it would say ! DIALOGUE XLHL THE LITTLE PHILOSOPHER. Mr. L. {Looking at the boy, and admiring his ruddy, cheerful countenance.) I thank yon, my good lad ! yon have caught my horse very cleverly. What shall I give you for your trouble ? {Putting his hand into his pocket.) Boy. I want nothing, sir. Mr. L. Don't you ? so much the better for you. Few men can say as much. But pray what were you doing in the field 'I B. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep that are feeding on the turnips, and keeping the crows from he corn. Mr L. And do you like this employment? 9* 102 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. B. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather. * Mr. L. But had yon not rather play ? B. This is not hard work; it is almost as good as play. Mr. L. Who sent you to work? B. My father, sir. Mr. L. Where does he live? B. Just by, among the trees, there, sir. Mr. L. What is his name ? B. Thomas Hurdle, sir. Mr. L. And what is yours ? B. Peter, sir. Mr. L. How old are you ? B. I shall be eight at Michaelmas. Mr. L. How long have you been out in this field? B. Ever since six in the morning, sir. Mr. L. And are you not hungry? B. Yes, sir ; I shall go to my dinner soon. Mr. L. If you had sixpence now, what would you do with it ? B. I don't know ; I never had so much in my life. Mr. L. Have you no playthings ? B. Playthings! what are they? Mr. L. Such as balls, ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses. B. No, sir ; but our Tom makes footballs to kick in cold weather, and we set traps for birds ; and then I have a jumping-pole, and a pair of stilts to walk through the dirt with ; and I had a hoop, but it is broken. Mr. L. And do you want nothing else ? B. No, sir ; I have hardly time for those ; for I always ride the horses to the field, and bring up the cows, and run to the town on errands: and these are as good as play, you know. Mr. L. Well, but you could buy apples or ginger- bread at the town, I suppose, if you had money. B. Oh! — I can get apples at home; and as for gin- gerbread, I don't mind it much, for my mother gives me a piece of pie, now and then, and that is as good. Mr. L. Would you not like a knife to cut sticks? B. I have one — here it is — brother Tom gave it me. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 103 Mr. L. Your shoes are full of holes — don't you want a better pair ? B. I have a better pair for Sundays. Mr. L. But these let in water. B. I don't care for that ; they let it out again. Mr. L. Your hat is all torn, too. B. I have a better hat at home; but I had as lief nave none at all, for it hurts my head. Mr. L. What do you do when it rains? B. If it rains very hard, I get under the hedge till it is over. Mr. L. What do you do, when you are hungry be- fore it is time to go home ? B. I sometimes eat a raw turnip. Mr. L. But if there are none * B. Then I do as well as I can ; I work on, and never think of it. Mr. L. Are you not dry, sometimes, this hot weather? B. Yes, sir ; but there is water enough. Mr. L. Why, my little fellow, you are quite a philos- opher ! B. Sir? Mr. L. I say you are a philosopher ; but I am sure you do not know what that means. B. No, sir — no harm, I hope. Mr. L. No, no ! Well, my boy, you seem to want nothing at all ; so I shall not give you money, to make you want anything. But were you ever at school ? B. No, sir ; but father says I shall go, after harvest. Mr. L. You will want books then. B. Yes, sir ; the boys have all a spelling-book, and a Testament. Mr. L. Well, then, I will give you them — tell your father so, and that it is because I thought you a very good, contented boy. — So now go to your sheep again. B. I will, sir. — Thank you. Mr. L. Good-by, Peter. B. Good-by, sir. 104 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE XLIV. HOW TO TELL BAD NEWS. Mr. G. Ha ! steward, how are you, my old boy 1 how do things go on at home ? Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead. Mr. G. Poor Mag ! so he 's gone. How came he to die? Steward. Over-ate himself, sir. Mr. G. Did he, indeed? — a greedy dog! Why, what did he get that he liked so well ? Steward. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse- flesh. Mr. G. How came he to get so much horse-flesh ? Steward. All your father's horses, sir. Mr. G. What! are they dead, too? Steward. Ay, sir ; they died of over- work. Mr. G. And why were they over- worked, pray ? Steivard. To carry water, sir. Mr. G. To carry water ! and what were they carry- ing water for ? Steward. Sure, sir, to put out the fire. Mr. G. Fire! what fire? Steward. Oh ! sir, your father's house is burned down to the ground. Mr. G. My father's house burned down ! and how came it on fire ? Steward. I think, sir, it must have been the torches. Mr. G. Torches! what torches?. Steivard. At your mother's funeral. Mr. G. My mother dead ! Steivard. Ah ! poor lady, she never looked up after it. Mr. G. After what? Steivard. The loss of your father. Mr. G. My father gone, too? Steward. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as soon as he heard of it. Mr. G. Heard of what? Steward. The bad news, sir, an' please your honor. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 105 Mr. G. What! more miseries ! more bad news? Steward. Yes, sir; your bank has failed, and your credit is lost; and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir, to come to wait on you about it j for I thought you would like to hear the news ! DIALOGUE XLV. METAPHYSICS. Professor. What is a salt-box? Student. It is a box made to contain salt. Prof. How is it divided? Stud. Into a salt-box, and a box of salt. Prof. Very well ; show the distinction. Stud. A salt-box may be where there is no salt, but salt is absolutely necessary to the existence of a box of salt. Prof Are not salt-boxes otherwise divided'* Stud. Yes, by a partition. Prof. What is the use of this division ? Stud. To separate the coarse salt from the fine. Prof. How ? think a little. Stud. To separate the fine salt from the coarse. Prof To be sure ; to separate the fine from the coarse ; but are not salt-boxes otherwise distinguished ? Stud. Yes, into possible, positive, and probable. Prof. Define these several kinds of salt-boxes. Stud. A possible salt-box is a salt-box yet unsold, in the joiner's hands. Prof Why so? Stud. Because it hath not yet become a salt-box, hav- ing never had any salt in it : and it may possibly be applied to some other use. Prof. Very true ; for a salt-box which never had, hath not now, and perhaps never may have, any salt in it, can only be termed a possible salt-box. What is a probable salt-box ? Stud. It is a salt-box in the hand of one going to a shop to Duy salt, and who hath two cents in his pocket 106 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. to pay the shop-keeper ; and a positive salt-box is one which hath, actually and bona fide, got salt in it. Prof. Very good; what other division of salt-boxes do you recollect ? Stud. They are divided into substantive and pendent. A substantive salt-box is that which stands by itself on the table or dresser, and the pendent salt-box is that which hangs by a nail against the wall. Prof. What is the idea of a salt-box 1 Stud. It is that image which the mind conceives of a salt-box when no salt is present. Prof What is the abstract idea of a salt-box ? Stud. It is the idea of a salt-box abstracted from a box of salt, or a salt-box. Prof. Very right ; by this means you acquire a most perfect knowledge of a salt-box ; but tell me, is the idea of a salt-box a salt idea ? Stud. Not unless the ideal box hath the idea of salt contained in it. Prof. True ; and therefore an abstract idea cannot be either salt or fresh, round or square, long or short; and this shows the difference between a salt idea, and an idea of salt. Is an aptitude to hold salt an essential or an accidental property of a salt-box 1 Stud. It is an essential, but if there should be a crac/C in the bottom of the box, the aptitude to spill salt would be termed an accidental property of that salt-box. Prof Very well, very well indeed. What is the salt called with respect to the box ? Stud. It is called its contents. Prof. And why so? Stud. Because the cook is content to find plenty of salt in the box. Prof Very satisfactory indeed ; that will suffice for the present. Your answers have certainly indicated a very discriminating mind. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 107 DIALOGUE XLV1. fortune's frolic. [Robin Roughkead, alone.) Robin. Ah ! work, work, work ! all day long, and no such thing as stopping a moment to rest ; for there 's old Snacks, the steward, always upon the look-out; and if he sees one, slap he has it down in his book, and then there 's a sixpence gone plump. (Comes forward.} I do hate that old chap, and that 's the truth on 't. Now, if I was lord of this place, I'd make one rule — there should be no such thing as work ; it should be one long holiday all the year round. Your great folks have strange whims in their heads, that's for sartin. I don't know what to make of 'um, not I. Now, there 's all yon great park there, kept for his lordship to look at, and his lordship has not seen it these twelve years, Ah ! if it was mine, I 'd let all the villagers turn their cows in there, and it should not cost 'em a farthing ; then, as the parson said last Sunday, I should be as rich as any in the land, for I should have the blessings of the poor. Dang it ! here comes Snacks. Now I shall get a fine jobation, I suppose. {Enter S?iacks, bowing very obsequiously — Robin takes his cap off, and stands staring at him.) Rob. I be main tired, Master Snacks ; so I stopt to rest myself a little. I hope you '11 excuse it. Snacks. Excuse it ! I hope your lordship's infinite goodness and condescension will excuse your lordship's most obsequious, devoted, and very humble servant, Timothy Snacks, who is come into the presence of your lordship, for the purpose of informing your lord- ship Rob. Lordship ! ha, ha, ha ! Wall ! I never knew as I had a hump before ! Why, Master Snacks, you grow funny in your old age. Snacks. No, my lord, I know my duty better; I should never think of being funny with a lord. 108 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Rob. What lord ? Oh, you mean the Lot! Harry, I suppose. No, no, you must not be too funny with him. or he '11 be after playing the very deuce with you. Snacks. I say, I should never think of jesting with i person of your lordship's dignified character. Rob. Dig — dig — what? Why, now I look at you I see how it is; you are mad. I wonder what quartei the moon 's in. Dickens ! how your eyes do roll ! 1 never saw you so before. How came they to let you ont alone? Snacks. Your lordship is most graciously pleased to be facetious. Rob. Why, what gammon are you at? Don't come near me, for you 've been bit by a mad dog; I 'm sure v*ou have. Snacks. If your lordship would be so kind as to read, /his letter, it would convince your lordship. Will your lordship condescend ? Rob. Why, I would condescend, but for a few rea- sons ; and one of 'em is, that I can't read. Snacks. I think your lordship is perfectly right; for these pursuits are too low for one of your lordship's nobility. Rob. Lordship, and lordship again ! I '11 tell you what, Master Snacks — let's have no more of your fun; for I won't stand it any longer, for all you be steward here. My name's Robin Roughhead, and if you don't choose to call me by that name, I shan't answer you; that 's flat. Snacks. Why, then, Master Robin, be so kind as to attend, whilst I read this letter. (Reads.) "Sir, — This is to inform you, that my Lord Lack wit died this morning, after a very short illness; during which he declared that he had been married, and had an heir to his estate : the woman he married was commonly called, or known, by the name of Roughhead : she was poor and illiterate, and, through motives of false shame, his lordship never acknowledged her as his wife. She has been dead several years, and left behind her a son, called Robin Roughhead. Now this said Robin is the legal heir to the estate. I have therefore sent you the SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 109 necessary writings to put him into immediate posses- sion, according to his lordship's last will and testament. Yonrs to command, li Kit Codicil, Att'y at LawP Rob. What ! — What, all mine? the houses, the trees, the fields, the hedges, the ditches, the gates, the horses, the dogs, the cats, and the hens, and the cows, and the pigs, and the — what! are they, are they all mine? and 1, Robin Roughhead, am the rightful lord of all this estate ? Don't keep me a minute, now, but tell me, is it so? Make haste, tell me — quick, quick! Snacks. I repeat it, — the whole estate is yours. • Rob. Hurra ! Hurra ! Set the bells a ringing ; set the ale a running; set — go get my hat full of guineas to make a scramble with ; call all the tenants together. I '11 lower their rents — I '11 Snacks. I hope your lordship will do me the favor to Rob. Why, that may be as it happens ; 1 can't tell. Snacks. Will your lordship dine at the castle to-day ? Rob. Yes. Snacks. What would your lordship choose for din- ner? Rob. Beef-steaks and onions, and plenty of 'em. Snacks. {Aside.) Beef-steaks and onions ! What a dish for a lord ! Rob. What are you at there, Snacks? Go, get me the guineas — make haste; I '11 have the scramble, and then I '11 go to Dolly, and tell her the news. Snacks. Dolly! Pray, my lord, who's Dolly? Rob. Why, Dolly is to be my lady, and your mis- tress, if I find you honest enough to keep you in my employ. Snacks. Why, I have a beauteous daughter, who is allowed to be the very pink of perfection. Rob. Hang your daughter ! I have got something else to think of: don't talk to me of your daughter : stir your stumps, and get the money ! S?iacks. I am your lordship's most obsequious. {Aside.) Zounds ! what a peer of the realm ! {Exit.) Rob. Ha ! ha! ha ! What work I will make in the village ! Work ? no. there shall be no sucr thing as 10 110 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. work : it shal. be all play. Where shall I go? I'll go to — no, I won't go there ! I'll go to Farmer Hedge- stakes, and tell him — no, I '11 not go there ; I '11 go — I '11 go nowhere; yes, I will; I'll go everywhere; I'll be neither here nor there, nor anywhere else. How pleased Dolly will be when she hears {Enter villagers, shouting.) Dick, Tom, Jack, how are you, my lads? Here 's news for you ! Come, stand round, make a ring, and I '11 make a bit of a speech to you. {They all get round him.) First of all, I suppose Snacks has told you that I'm your landlord? Villagers. We are all glad of it. Rob. So am I ; and I '11 make you all happy ; I 'U lower all your rents. All. Hurra ! long live Lord Robin ! Rob. You shan't pay no rent at all ! All. Hurra ! hurra ! long live Lord Robin ! Rob. I'll have no poor people in the parish, for I'll make 'em all rich; I'll have no widows, for I'll marry 'em all. {All shout.) I '11 have no orphan children, for I'll father 'em all myself; and if that's not doing as a lord should do, then I say I know nothing about the matter — that's all. All. Hurra! hurra! {Enter Snacks, with pieces of tin or paper.) Snacks. I have brought your lordship the money. ( Aside.) He means to make 'em fly ; so I have taken care the guineas shall be all light. Rob. Now, then, young and old, great and small, little and tall, merry men all, here 's for you. ( Throws the pieces, and they scramble.) Now you've filled your pockets, come to the castle, and I '11 fill all your mouths for you. All. Hurra ! hurra ! {Exeunt.) SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Ill DIALOGUE XLVII. THE SERVANT BECOME MASTER. (A table, with decanters and glasses.) Robin. Well, Snacks, this is very good stuff; I don't know as ever I drank any before; what do you call this, Snacks ? Snacks. Red port wine, an' it please your lordship. Rob. Yes, red port wine pleases his lordship. — I won- der where this comes from. — Oh ! from the Red Sea, I suppose. Snacks. No, my lord ; there 's plenty of spirits there, but not wine, I believe. Rob Well, one more thing full ; only one, because, you know, now 1 am a lord, I must not make a beast of myself; — that's not like a nobleman, you know. Snacks. Your lordship must do as your lordship pleases. Rob. Must 1 ? then give us t' other sup. Snacks. {Aside.) I think his lordship is getting rather forward. (Enter servant.) Serv. {To Snacks.) Please you, Master Snactfs, nere 's John the carter says he 's so lame he can't walk, and he hopes you '11 let him have the pony to-morrow, to ride by the wagon. Snacks. Can't walk, can't he? — lame, is he? Serv. Yes, sir. Snacks. And what does he mean by being lame at this busy time? — tell him he must walk; it's my will. Rob. {Aside to servant.) You, sir, bring me John's whip, will you? — {Exit servant.) — That's right. Snacks ; the lazy fellow ! what business has he to be lame ! Snacks. Oh, please your lordship, it 's as much as I can do to keep these fellows in order. Rob. Oh, they are sad dogs; — can't walk, indeed ! I never heard of such impudence. 112 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Snacks. Oh, shameful, shameful ! if I were behind him, I 'd make him walk. [Enter servant with a whip, which he gives to Robin.) Rob. Come, Snacks ; dance me a hornpipe. Snacks. What? Rob. A hornpipe. Snacks. A hornpipe ! — I can't dance, my lord ; never danced in my life. Rob. Come, none of your nonsense ! I know you can dance ; why, you was made for dancing. — Come, begin ! Snacks. There 's no music. Rob. Isn't there? then I'll soon make some. — {Takes the whip.) Look ye, here's my fiddlestick, how d'ye like it? — Come, Snacks, you must dance, it 's my wilh Snacks. Indeed, I 'm not able. Rob. Not able ! Oh, shameful, shameful ! Come, come; you must dance ; it's my will. ( Whips him.) Snacks. Must I? — Then here goes. {Hops about.) Rob. What, do you call that dancing fit for a lord ? Come, quicker, quicker. — {Whips Snacks round the stage, who roars out.) — There, that will do; now go and order the pony for John the carter — will you? Snacks. {Aside.) What a cunning dog he is ! — he 's up to me now, but I think I shall be down upon him by and by. {Exit.) Rob. {Alone.) Ha, ha, ha ! how he hopped about and hallooed! — but I'll work him a little more yet. {Re-enter S?iacks.) Well, Snacks, what d' ye think of your dancing-master? Snacks. I hope your lordship won't give me any more lessons at present ; for, to say the truth, I don't much like the accompaniment. Rob. You must have a lesson every day, or you'll forget the step. Snacks. No; — your lordship has taken care that I shan't forget it for some time. Rob. I can't think where Dolly is ; I told her to come to me. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 113 Snacks. My daughter 's very beautiful. Rob. Why, you talk a great deal about your daugh- ter, and I '11 have a peep at her. I wish Dolly would come. Snacks. Oh, don't think of her. Rob. Not think of her ! why, pray ? Snacks. Oh. she 's too low for your lordship. Rob. Take care, Snacks, or I shall make you dance another hornpipe. Too low ! why, what was I just now? If I thought riches would make me such a ras- cal as to use the poor girl ill, — a fig for 'em all! I'd give 'em up, and be plain Robin, honest Robin Rough- head, again. DIALOGUE XLVIII. UNCHARITABLENESS. Caroline. How proud Ellen Stanton is ! She thinks, I suppose, that she is a great deal better than other folks. Mary. You seem to be rather out of humor, Caroline. What makes you think Ellen is proud? C. What makes me think she is proud ? Why, she scarcely speaks to me when she meets me ; and I ob- served that she said but little last evening, at the party, except to the Merton girls, and that Mr. Carlton. She could talk fast enough with them. The rest of us were not quite refined enough, I suppose, for the very intel- lectual Miss Ellen ! M. You are very severe in your remarks, and very unjust, too, I think. C. I may be severe, but I don't believe I am unjust. Several of the girls have told me they thought her proud. Susan and Maria both think as I do about it. M. They all think she is proud, do they ? C. Yes. M. Well, they all came to that conclusion in the same way, I presume, that you did ; but you all judge her wrongly I know her better than you do. C. And do you pretend to say she is not proud ? 10* 114 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. M. I do pretend to say she is not proud in the way you mean. You don't understand her feelings. She is no more proud than you are 5 and, begging your pardon, I think not quite so much so. C. Why don't she speak to me, and talk more with me and others? I don't believe but that she is proud M. Did it ever occur to you that she might think the same of you? You hardly speak to her. It is your duty to make the first advances. Ellen came among us a stranger, and has not had time to get acquainted. It is that diffidence and shrinking delicacy which always characterize a noble soul, and not pride, that makes her so reserved. When you get better acquainted with her, you will not call her proud. C. Well, perhaps I may be wrong; but I always thought she was proud, and have therefore always held my head pretty high when in her company. M. Yes, you own now that you have been guilty of the very thing you complain of in Ellen. C. That 's the way you always turn what I say against me ! but I don't like Ellen, after all ; and there are several other girls of our acquaintance whom I don't like. I almost hate Julia Barton ! She is so deceitful. She pretends to be so good and kind, and is so very po- lite ! I know it is all sham ! M. I am sorry you are so uncharitable. I never saw anything bad about Julia. I like her. C. Well, I don't. I don't believe she is what she pretends to be, — so very good. M. I never thought she pretended to be very good. I think she is a good girl, and that you have judged her harshly and unjustly. I am sorry that you have got this habit of judging so harshly every one who does not happen to suit your fancy on first acquaintance. Both Ellen and Julia would feel hurt by your remarks, should they ever come to their ears. C. I don't wish to hurt the feelings of any one ; but I 'm sure there < an be no harm in telling you what I think of a person You will not tell them what I say. M. No ; but do you not say the same things to oth- ers? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 115 C. Pel haps I do, to some others. M. Well, did it never occur to you that by talking in the way you have done about them, you may make others think ill of them? Many an innocent person has become the object of general dislike, and even of hatred, by being thus talked about. You would not like to have others talk about you, as you have talked about Ellen and Julia. C. No ; I should not. But 1 warrant others do talk about me, though. M. Well, if they do, that is no reason why you should talk about them. We should do as we would be done by. Do you recollect a passage in our Sunday school lesson of last week that will apply to the subject about which we are talking? C. No, I do not. M. I am sorry you have so soon forgotten it. It is this : " Judge not, that ye be not judged." C. O, yes ; I recollect it now, and what our teacher said about it. He said that, as God alone can see the heart, and know the motives of human conduct, he alone can always judge correctly ; and that we ought to refrain from passing judgment upon our neighbors. I feel that I am guilty in this matter, and 1 thank you for remind- ing me of my duty. M. Let us both, for the future, be more careful what we say about our companions, remembering that even those whom we feel disposed to judge most 1 arshly may, after all, be better than ourselves. DIALOGUE XLLX. ABOUT LAUGHTER. Ann. About what did our pastor promise to write us a dialogue ? Bert/ia. About laughing. Clara. Why, what nade him promise that ? B. Because, I asked him to have something lively, funny, or witty, to make folks laugh. 116 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Delia. Well, then, you think it is better to make folks laugh than cry — don't you ? B. Yes, I 'm sure I do. C. But is there any need of making folks laugh, in order to keep them from crying? A. I shouldn't think there was; for people can be just as happy when they are cheerful, as when they ire laughing. B. True enough ; but yet you love a real good hearty .augh — don't you? A. To be sure I do ; because I think it does one good to laugh sometimes. C. Yes, sometimes; but not to be giggling all the time. D. We are not talking about giggling, but about laughing ; and I think there is a great difference between them. C. Please explain — will you ? D. O yes: I call that giggling, when persons seem to have no command over their risibles, and are all the time ready to chuckle, as though they had thought of something very funny. C. Well, 1 'm sure I don't lijp that; for to be all the time ready to gee-hee, as it may be called, will make the company nervous. B. That 's all true ; but a genuine good laugh is first- rate exercise, I declare. A. No one will dispute that ; and I think many need such exercise. B. Indeed they do ; for I have seen a company sit as grave as judges in court, till some witty soul came in, and made some good laugh go round the room, and made all lively and social. C. Then you think there is no harm in laughing ? B. I'm sure I don't; for how can I help laughing sometimes, when I see very funny things ? D. I don't suppose anybody thinks it is wrong to laugh sometimes; for even Solomon said, " There is a time to laugh." C. But that was a good while ago. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 117 D. True en nigh; but I guess there are as many .aughable things in the world now as then. C. That may be — but don't you think a religious girl ought to be very serious ? D. That depends upon what you mean by being serious. B. That 's just what I was going to say. A. And so was I ; because when a person now begins to think, as every one ought to, about religion, it is said, "She is becoming serious." C. So it is ; but I think that such an one should be grave and thoughtful. D. And I 'm sure I do. C. Do you ? Well, then, just remember what the poet has said — " The loud laugh bespeaks the vacant mind." B. I don't believe it. A. Why don't you? ' B. Because empty clouds don't thunder. D. True enough ; but you don't notice that the poet speaks of the "loud laugh," by which I suppose he alludes to rude and boisierous laughter. B. Well, I don't like that kind; I won't advocate it; but I do declare that all those who laugh heartily, with a good, sound, real laugh, are not persons of a vacant mind. A. I guess, then, you think just as the man did who said he never knew a real bad man to laugh heartily. B. I do, — for a clear sound never comes from a cracked mug. D. But how shall we know what kind of laughter is just? C. Well, I think that we can decide very easily. D. Do tell us, then, that we may have some rule. B. Well, that's laughable enough — to ask for a rule to laugh by D. I'm oure some folks need one, for they laugh against all rules of propriety — in the street just as freely as they do in the house, and, sometimes, in the church, rudely. 118 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. A. Well, let s have the rule. C. O dear ! I didn't think of laying down rules, but only said we could easily decide when laughter was just. A. Please, then, let us know your easy way of de- ciding. C. I will, most cheerfully ; and that way is, never to laugh at the infirmities of others, or at their misfortunes, or in any way or at any time to give pain to others. D. That is an easy rule ; for many times what is comic to us is tragic to others. B. Yes, as the frogs in the fable said to the boys that were pelting them, — "It may be sport to you, but it is death to us." A. According to that, then, I think we have made a very good use of our talk about laughing. C. So do I ; for there are many persons who will jest others hard enough, but will not bear anything them- selves. D. Such shouldn't jest; for we should be willing to receive back the coin we pay out. B. Just so ; and let us be sure that all our coin be the gold and silver of good humor, stamped by goodness and truth. DIALOGUE L. FASHION. Mary. Good-evening, cousin Elizabeth ; I am heart- ily glad to see you this evening, for my poor brain needs relief: and I know of no one with whom I can converse with more pleasure than yourself. Elizabeth. You know, cousin Mary, I am always on hand, or at least I like to be, in a good cause ; and now pray let me know what it is which so much affects your brain at this time, and renders you so loquacious. M. Why, coz, I have been conversing for some time to-day with our friend, Isabella Morton, who, you know, is, in the main, a good girl, only her ideas of fashion are so extravagant, that I can never enter into conversation SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 119 with her upon that subject, without having my patience really tried. E. Well, what is the matter with poor Isabella now 1 I saw her this morning, and concluded that something went wrong, for she hardly noticed me, and looked as it she was deep in meditation. M. I guess she was deep in meditation; but it did not partake much of "Hervey's Meditation," I'll assure you. You know she was not at church or Sabbath school last Sunday, and the only reason she could give was, that she could not tip her bonnet quite enough for the present style, and that her dress, which she had made last winter, was quite too far "a one side" of the fash- ion to suit her taste. E. Is it possible that she stayed from meeting, and even from the Sabbath school, when she knew our les- son was so interesting, merely because her dress was not altogether in the style of the present fashion? Fashion ! fashion ! 0, what a heartless word! Cousin Mary, I am heartily sick of it. If our young friends, and even some older ones, would think as much of cultivating the mind as they do of studying the fash- ion, I think they would be the gainers by it. M. I agree with you, Elizabeth ; and so I told Isa- bella to-day. But she only laughed at me for my " mor- alizing," as she called it, and said, that she held to the old saying, that one might as well be out of the world as out of the fashion. And, for her part, she should not go to meeting unless she could look as she wanted to. The poor girl really seemed to think that her dress would be regarded as much as the famous spots which were once thought to appear on the sun. E. Well, Mary,- such persons are more to be pitied than condemned ; for they certainly have the worst of it ; and at the same time they are thinking of enjoying themselves, they are mere slaves. Yes, slaves, I say, and under a cruel master, too. For fashion is a master which I should not wish to follow, and one to whose tyranny I should not wish to submit. I do not say that I wish to be entirely different from other people, but I 120 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. choose to be independen t, and conform to fashion just sc far as may suit my feelings and convenience. M. Well, well, coz, you have struck my mind ex- actly. I do not wish, as you say, to be a slave in any sense whatever. I do love independence, and I like to see people conform to fashion just so far as their own feelings and circumstances will allow. But to see peo- ple stay from the house of God, and neglect his worship, because they cannot appear in the style of a modern belle, is carrying fashion quite far. E. Well, cousin, now we have both of us spoken of our love for independence ; and suppose that we start the plan of getting up, among our young friends, an anti- fashion society. Not to prohibit a consistent attention to fashion, but to pledge ourselves not to become slaves to fashion, and particularly that we will not, on account of dress, absent ourselves from church or the Sabbath school. What say you to this, Mary? M. I approve the plan, most surely, and I recom- mend that we propose Isabella Morton for president of our society. That would be a fine way to enlist her influence in our favor ; and I am sure she would be well qualified to give us a lecture, now and then, upon the subject. E. That is well thought of; and since my conversa- tion with you has so much brought me to my natural feelings, I will give myself to the work of drawing up a sort of constitution, and a set of resolutions, and I doubt not we shall obtain to our list a very respectable num- ber of names. I am willing that my name should head the paper, and I presume you will consent to let yours follow? M. O, yes; anything to promote good. I am willing to add my name, and use my influence to obtain more. And we will call together on Isabella, and we shall, no doubt, form a strong trio, who will be able, by the bless- ing of heaven, to carry forward a good enterprise. E. Well, cousin, we have really worked ourselves into considerable business. And now, as I feel quite in the mood of singing, — and we usually enjoy a little bit SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 121 of that pleasure when together,— let us close our even- ing's confab in this pleasant way. Tune — Auld Lang Syne. How pleasant 't is for friends to meet, And join in social talk ; And in the road to happiness In peace together walk. As sweet as Hermon's dews distil, So friendship's sacred voice Lights up the mind of kindred hearts, And makes the soul rejoice. In friendship's sacred voice, may we Be bound in union sweet, And in that love which heaven approves, Each other's faces greet. And when our friendship here on earth Shall end, may we rise, In holier friendship, then, to join "With God above the skies. DIALOGUE LI. THE MAGIC LAMP. Sarah. I wish I could be as happy as Jane Seymour always is ! Harriet. Well, you might be, if you could get the charm which she carries with her. & And pray do you beieve in charms ? H. Yes, in such charms as she has ; for it is the gift of no wizard or witch. S. Well, do tell me what the charm is, and where she got it ? H. O, she did n't go a great way for it, though she had to labor hard. & Labor hard for it? Why, I thought charms came to persons, like fairy gifts, and not that they had to work for them. U 122 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. H. No ; if you will look again into your fairy books, you will find that those lucky beings which obtained fairy favors wrought a good while before they obtained the gifts. /S*. Well, I do remember some stories, where some poor little girls worked hard for their parents, and were real good, and then received from the fairies some strange charm to keep them ever happy. H. I guess the charm was not very strange; but like Jane Seymour's magic lamp. S. Magic lamp ! Is that her charm of happiness? B. It is. & Pray, what is it ? H. Why, it is a magic lamp, that no wind can blow out, and no damp can make burn less brightly. It is always beautiful, and as pleasant as the sunshine. S. Well, that is singular, indeed ; for the lamp must have magic in it, if no wind can blow it out, no damp can make it dim. H. Then it surely is a magic lamp ; but you can get it if you will work hard enough. S. I am sure I am willing to work for it ; for would n't it be funny enough to carry it to school, and let the scholars see it burn brightly in the old well ? They 'd think I was a witch. H. Well, if you had it, you would have much witch- ery over others. S. Do tell me, then, what is this magic lamp? H. Why, it is nothing more nor less than good tem- per. S. O dear me ! I guess that charm is n't to be got without working for it ; and a beautiful lamp it cer- tainly is. H. Yes ; and it will well pay for any effort made in obtaining it; for what can dampen the cheerful spirits^ or put out the happy light, of a good temper ? S. Nothing ! nothing ! and that is the reason, after all, why Jane is always so pleasant; come what will; she is never cross ; and you know, when she is coming, we always say, "Here comes sunshine." H. Yes ; and would it not be well for those who envy SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 123 her her happiness, to seek more to make their disposi- tions like hers 1 S. I think so ; and let us all strive thus to get the magic lamp. DIALOGUE LII. STORY READING. Mary. What book have you there, Julia ? You seem deeply interested in it. Julia. Is it you, Mary 1 I did not observe you, I was so deeply engaged in reading this little book. It is " Ellen Clifford, or the Genius of Reform," and it is so good that I can hardly lay it aside until I have read it through. Mary. Oh ! a book from the Sunday school library ! I have read it. Julia. Is it not a good one 1 Mary. Yes, it is indeed ; and I love to read stories, above all things; don't you, Julia? Julia. Yes ; but my teacher says that we must not read a book for the story alone. She says that all sto- ries are to teach us some useful lesson ; that every story has a moral to it, which we ought to regard, and from which we should try to profit. Mary. Well, I suppose we may learn many useful lessons from the stories we read. From the story of Ellen Clifford we may learn that women, and even little girls, can do good, and aid in making men better and happier, if they will. Julia. Yes ; and Clara says that it shows that love and gentle treatment will do more than anything else in making people forsake their evil ways, and that we should persevere, and never give up till we have accom- plished our object. Mary. Yes, I suppose it is so, and that if Ellen Clif- ford had been cross and ill-natured to her father, and had left him to go on in his evil ways, he would \ ave died i l the alms-house, or have come to some worse end. 124 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Julia. Yes ; and then people would not have loved her so, and have "been so ready to help and encourage her. Mary. No, indeed, they would not; and I see now that we may, if we will, learn many useful lessons from the books which we read. Julia. I think it is a very pleasant way of learning things, too. Mary. It surely is, and particularly when a story is as interesting, and has as good a moral as that of Ellen Clifford has. DIALOGUE LIIL * ALL FOR GOOD ORDER. characters. Schoolmaster, Esq. Snyder, Isaac, (a school-boy,) Jonas, (his son,) Mr. Fosdick, Saunders, (drunken,) Bill, (his son,) Jabez, (his son,) Mrs. O'Clary, (Irish,) Some half dozen school-boys Patrick, (her son,) Master. {Setting copies, alone.) Well, so here I am again, after another night's sleep. But, sleep or no sleep, I feel about as much fatigued in the morning as I do at night. It is impossible to get the cares and anxieties of my profession out of my mind. It does seem to me that the parents of some of my pupils are very unfeeling; — for I know I have done my very best to keep a good school, — and however I may have failed in some in- stances, I have the satisfaction of feeling, in my con- science, that my best endeavors have been devoted to my work. — A merry lot of copies here, to be set before school-time. {Looking at his watch.) But "a diligent hand will accomplish much:" — by the way, that will will do for a copy for Jonas Snyder — little culprit ! he was very idle yesterday. — ( Thinking and busy.) — What can that story mean, which Mr. Truetell told me this morning? Five or six ! — who could they be? — five or six of the parents of my scholars dreadfully offended ! Let me see; what have I done? Nothing, very lately, that I recolect Let's see; — yesterday? no, there was SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 125 nothing yesterday, except that I detained the class in geography till they got their lessons. t)h, yes: Jonas Snyder was punished for idleness. But I spoke to him four or five times, and he would do nothing but whisper, and whittle his bench ;_ and when at last he half eat up an apple, and threw the rest at Jacob Readslow, I thought he deserved it. Let's see; I gave him six claps — three on each hand; — well, he did not get more than his de- seits. — (Enter one of the scholars, with his books under his arm, walking slowly, and eyeing the master, to his seat. Master, still busy, and thinking, by and by says :) — Isaac, you may come to me. (He walks along, and says :) Sir ! Master. Do you remember (placing his pen over his ear, and turning earnestly and portentously round) whether I punished any scholars yesterday? Isaac. Yes, sir ; you ferruled Jone Snyder, for playing md laughing. Master. Did I punish any one else 1 Isaac. Not as I recollect. Master. Think, Isaac ; think carefully. Isaac. You kept a lot of us after school, for not say- rag our lessons Master. ( Quickly.) You mean, Isaac, rather, I kept V T ou to get your lessons, which you had neglected? Isaac. Yes, sir; and you made Patrick O'Clary stop and sweep, because he stayed out too late after recess. Master. Oh, yes! I remember that. Isaac. He was as mad as a hop about it ; he said he meant to tell his mother that you made him sweep for nothing. Master. Hush! hush! You shouldn't tell tales! Do you remember any other punishments ? Isaac. No, sir; not yesterday. You hit Jabe Saun- ders a clip across the knuckles, with the cowskin, day before yesterday; — don't you remember? — just as he stretched out his hand to hook that old rag upon Tom Willis' collar, you came along behind him, and clip went the old whip, right across his fingers, and down went the old rag. • There, I never was more glad to see any- thing in my life! Little dirty, mean fellow! — he's 11* 126 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. always sticking things upon fellows; — I saw him once pin an old dirty rag upon a man's coat, just as he was putting a letter into the post-office; — I never saw such a fellow ! (The other boys coming in gradually, the master rings his little bell, anal says :) Boys, come to order, and take your books. Now, boys, I wish to see if we can't have a good school to-day. Let's see; are we all here? Boys. No sir ! No sir ! Master. Who is absent ? Boys. Jone Snyder ! Jabe Saunders ! Patrick O'Cla- :y ! and Master. Speak one at a time, my boys. Don't make confusion, to begin with; — and, {looking around them,,) — oh ! Bill Fosdick, — only four ! One of the boys. Pat O' Clary is late. I saw him lown in Baker-street, poking along! — he always comes ate Master. Did he say he was coming ? Same boy. I asked him if he was coming to school, and he shook his head, and muttered out something about his mother, and I ran along and left him. Master. Well, boys; now let us try to have a still school and close study to-day, and see if it is not more pleasant to learn than to play. (Rises and walks to and fro on the stage.) Take the geography lesson, James and Samuel, first thing this morning; and Isaac, I don't wish to detain you again to-day. (Loud knock at the door.) (Enter Bill Fosdick, walking importantly and conse- quentially up to the master and says ;) Here ! father wants to see you at the door ! (Master turns to go to the door, followed by Bill, who toishes to hear all that : s said, and Mr. Fosdick, looking quite savage, steps right inside, — the master politely bowing, with a " good-morning.^) Fosdick. Here, sir; I want to see you about my boy! I don't like to have you keep him after school every day ; I want him at home, — and I should like to have you dismiss him when school is done. If he wants lickin', lick him — that's all; but don't you keep him SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 127 nere an hour or two every day after school, — I don't send him here for that ! Master. But, my good sir, I have not often detained him; not more than twice within a fort Fos. Well, don't you do it again, — that's all! Master. But, sir, I have only detained him to learn the lessons which he might learn in school ; and surely, if Fos. Well, well, sir! don't you do it again! — that's all I have to say ! If he behaves bad, you lick him, — only do it in reason; — but when school is done, I want him dismissed ! Master. Sir, I do what I conceive to be my duty; and I serve all my scholars alike ; and while I would be willing to accommodate you, I shall do what I think is my duty. {Gathering spirit and gravity, and ad- vancing.') Sir, do I understand you wish me to whip your son for not getting his lesson? Fos. Yes — no — yes — in reason; I don't want my children's bones broke ! Master. {Taking from the desk a cowhide.) Do you prefer your son should be whipped to being detained? Fos. I don't think not getting his lessons is such a dreadful crime. I never used to get my lessons, and old Master Peppermint never used to lick me, and I am sure he never kept me after school ; but we used to have schools good for sumfin in them days. — Bill, go to your seat, and behave yourself! and when school is done, you come home ! That 's all I have to say ! Master. But stop, my boy ! {Speaking to Bill, de- cidedly.) There happen to be two sides to this ques- tion ! There is something further to be said, before you go to your seat in this school. Fos. What ! you dorr t mean to turn him out of school, du ye? {Somebody knocks.) {A boy steps to the door, and in steps Mrs. O' Clary, who, approaching Fosdick, says :) Is it you that 's the schoolmaster, sure? It's I that's after spaking to the schoolmaster. ( Curtseying. ) Fos. No; I'm no schoolmaster. Master What is your wish, madam? 128 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Mrs. rt of dovetail exactness. Mr. F. Sir, a man of large views will be on the watch for great occasions to prove his benevolence. Mr. G. Yes. sir; but if they are so distant that he cannot reach them, or so vast that he cannot grasp them ; he may let a thousand little, snug, kind, good actions slip through his fingers in the mean while : and so, be- tween the great things that he cannot do, and the little ones that he will not do, life passes, and nothing will be done. DIALOGUE LVII. SCENE BETWEEN CAPTAIN TACKLE AND JACK BOWLIN. Jack. Good-day to your honor. Captai?i. Good-day, honest Jack. Jack. To-day is my captain's birth-day. Capt. I know it. Jack. I am heartily glad on the occasion. Capt. I know that, too. Jack. Yesterday your honor broke your sea-foam pipe. Capt. Well, sir booby ! and why must I be put in mind of it ? It was stupid enough, to be sure ; but hark ye, Jack ; all men at times do stupid actions, but I never met with one who liked to be reminded of them. Jack. I meant no harm, your honor. It was only a kind of introduction to what I was going to say. I have been buying this pipe-head and ebony tube, and if the thing is not too bad, and my captain will take such a present on his birth-day, for the sake of poor old Jack ■ Capt. Is that what you would be at? — Come, let's see. Jack. To be sure, it is not sea-foam ; but my captain must think, when he looks at it, that the love of old Jack was not mere foam neither. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 147 Capt. Give it here, my honest fellow. Jack. You will take it? Capt. To be sure, I will. Jack. And will smoke it? Capt. That I will. {Feeling in his pocket.} Jack. And will not think of giving me anything in return ? Capt. ( Withdr aiding his hand from his pocket.) No, no you are right. Jack. Huzza ! now let mother Grimkin bake her al- mond cakes out of her daily pilferings, and be hanged ! Capi. Fie, Jack! what's that you say? Jack. The truth. I have just come from the kitchen, where she is making a great palaver about "her cake," and "her cake," and yet this morning she must be put in mind that it was her master's birth-day. Hang me ! I have thought of nothing else this month. Capt. And because you have a better memory, you must blame the poor woman. Shame on you ! Jack. Please your honor, she is an old Capt. Avast ! Jack. Yesterday she made your wine cordial of sour beer, — so to-day she makes you an almond cake of Capt. Hold your tongue, sir ! Jack. A'nt you obliged to beg the necessaries of life, as if she were a pope or admiral ? and last year, when you were bled, though she had laid up chest upon chest full of linen, and all yours, if the truth was known, yet no bandage was found till I tore the spare canvass from my Sunday shirt to rig your honor's arm. Capt. You are a scandalous fellow ! (Throws the pipe back to him.) Away with you and your pipe ! Jack. (Looking attentively at his master and the pipe.) I am a scandalous fellow ? Capt. Yes! Jack. Your honor will not have the pipe? Capt. No : I will take nothing from him who would raise his own character at the expense of another old servant. (Jack takes up the pipe, and throws it out of the windoio.) What are you doing? Jack. Throwing the pipe out of the window. 148 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Capt. Are you mad ? Jack. Why, what should I do with it ? You will not have it, and it is impossible for me to use it, for as often as I should puff away the smoke, I should think, " Old Jack Bowlin, what a pitiful scamp you must be ! a man whom yon have served honestly and truly these thirty years, and who must know you from stem to stern, says you are a scandalous fellow;" and the thought, would make me weep like a child. But when the pipe is gone, I shall try to forget the whole business, and say to myself, "My poor old captain is sick, and does not mean what he said." Capt. Jack, come here. {Takes his hand.) I did not mean what I said. Jack. {Shakes his hand heartily.') I knew it ; I knew it. I have you and your honor at heart, and when I see such an old, hypocritical bell-wether cheating you out of your hard-earned wages, it makes my blood boil Capt. Are you at it again ? Shame on you ! You have opened your heart to-day, and given me a peep into its lowest hold. Jack. So much the better ! for you will then see that my ballast is love and truth to my master. But hark ye, master, it is certainly worth your while to inquire into the business. Capt. And hark ye, fellow, if I find you have told me a lie, I '11 have no mercy on you. I '11 turn you out of doors, to starve in the street ! Jack. No, captain, you won't do that. Capt. But I tell you I will, though. I will do it; and if you say another word, I '11 do it now ! Jack. Well, then away goes Jack to the hospital. Capt. What's that you say? Hospital! hospital! you rascal ! What will you do there ? Jack. Die. Capt. And so you will go and die in a hospital, will you? Why — why — you lubber ! do you think I can't take care of you after I have turned you out of doors, hey? Jack. Yes, I dare say you would be willing to pay SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 149 my board, and take care that I did not want in my old days ; but I would sooner beg, than pick up money so thrown at me. Capt. Rather beg? — there 's a proud rascal ! Jack. He that don't love me, must not give me money. Capt. Do you hear that ? Is not this enough to give a sound man the gout % You sulky fellow ! do you rec- ollect twenty years ago, when we fell into the clutches of the Algerines 1 The pirates stripped me of my last jacket ; but you, you lubber ! who was it hid two pieces of gold in his hair? and who was it that, half a year afterwards, when we were ransomed, and turned naked on the world, shared his money and clothes with me? Hey, fellow ! — and now you would die in a hospital ! Jack. Nay, but captain Capt. And when my ship's crew mutinied, at the risk of his life, he disclosed the plot. * Have you forgot- ten it, you lubber? Jack. Well, and didn't you build my old mother a house for it ? Capt. And when we had boarded the French priva- teer, and the captain's hanger hung over my head, didn't you strike off the arm that was going to split my skull ? Have you forgot that, too ? Have I built you a house for that? Will you die in a hospital, now? — you un- grateful dog ! hey ? Jack. My good old master ! Capt. Would you have it set on my tomb-stone, " Here lies an unthankful hound, who let his preserver and mess-mate die in a hospital," would you? Tell me, this minute, you will live and die by me, you lub- ber ! Come here, and give me your hand. > yJack. ( Going towards hi?n.) My noble, noble master ! uapt. Avast! Stand off! take care of my lame leg! yet I had rather you should hurt that than my heart, my old boy. {Shakes his hand heartily.) Now go and bring me the pipe. Stop ! let me lean on you, and I will go down and get it myself, and use it on my birth-day. You would die in a hospital, would you? you unfeeling lubber ! 13* 150 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE LVII1. PRINCE HENRY AND FALSTAFF. Prince Henry. Welcome, Jack ! Where hast thou been ? Falstaff. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a ven- geance too, marry and amen ! Give me a cup of sack, boy: — ere I lead this life long, I'll sew nether socks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cow- ards ! give me a cup of sack, rogue ! Is there no virtue extant? [He drinks.] You rogue ! here's lime in this sack, too. There 's nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man ; yet a coward is worse than a cup of sack with lime in it. A villanous coward! — Go thy ways, old Jack ! die when thou wilt ; if manhood, good manhood, he not forgot upon the face of the earth, then am I a shotten herring ! There live not three good men unhanged in England, and one of them is fat and grows old, — Heaven help the while! A bad world! I say. — A plague of all cowards ! I say, still. P. Henry. How now, Woolsack ! what mutter you ? Pal. A king's son ! if I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of lath, and drive all thy sub- jects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I '11 never wear hair on my face more ! You Prince of Wales ! P. Henry. Why, what's the matter? Fat. Are you not a coward ? Answer me that ! P. Henry. An' ye call me coward, I '11 stab thee ! Fat. I call thee coward ! I '11 see thee hanged ere I ; 11 call thee coward ; but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as thou canst. You 're straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees your back. Call you that backing of friends ? A plague upon such backing! Give me them that will face me ! — Give me a cup of sack ! I am a rogue if I 've drank to-day ! P. Henry. O, villain ! thy lips are scarce wiped since thou drankest last ! Fal. All 's one for that. [He foinks.] A plague of all cowards ! still, say I. P. Henry. What's the matter? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 151 Fal. What ; s the matter ! Here be four of us have ta'en a thousand pound this morning. P. Henry. Where is it, Jack 1 Where is it 1 Fal. Where is it ! Taken from us, it is : a hundred upon four of us. P.Henry. What! a hundred, man? Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword with a dozen of them two hours together ! 1 have escaped by miracle. I am eight times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose, my buckler cut through and through, my sword hacked like a handsaw! — I never dealt better since I was a man : all would not do. A plague of all cowards ! P. Henry. What, fought you with them all 1 Fal. All ! I know not what ye call all ; but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish ! if there were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then I am no two-legged creature ! P. Henry. Pray Heaven, you have not murdered some of them ! Fal. Nay, that 's past praying for ! I have peppered two of them ; two, I am sure, I have paid ; two rogues in buckram suits ! I tell thee what, Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face ! call me a horse ! Thou knowest my old ward : here I lay, and thus I bore my point ; four rogues in buckram let drive at me ! P. Henry. What ! four 1 Thou saidst but two, even now. Fal. Four, Hal; I told thee four; — these four came all afront, and mainly thrust at me : I made no more ado, but took all their seven points in my target, thus. P. Henry. Seven ! why, they were but four, even now. Fal. In buckram ? P. Henry. Ay, four, in buckram suits. Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else! Dost thou hear me, Hal ? P. Henry. Ay, and mark thee, too, Jack. Fal. Do so ; for it is worth the listening to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of P. Henry. So, two more already ? 152 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Fal. Their points being broken, began to give mo ground ; but I followed me close, came in foot and hand, and, with a thought, — seven of the eleven I paid. P. Henry. O, monstrous ! eleven buckram men grown out of two ! Fal. But as Satan would have it, three misbegotten knaves, in Kendal-green, came at my back, and let drive at me ; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand ! P. Henry. These lies are like the father that begets them ; gross as a mountain, open, palpable! Why, thou clay-brained heap ! thou knotty-pated fool Fal. What ! art thou mad ? art thou mad ? is not the truth the truth ? P. Henry. Why, how couldst thou know these men in Kendal-green, when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell us your reason : what sayest thou to this? Come, your reason, Jack, — your reason. Fal. What! upon compulsion? — No: were I at the strappado, or all the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion ! Give you a reason on compulsion ! If reasons were as plenty as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion! P. Henry. I '11 be no longer guilty of this sin. This sanguine coward ! this horse-back-breaker ! this huge hill of flesh Fal. Away, you starveling ! you elf-skin ! you dry'd neat's tongue ! you stock-fish ! O, for breath to utter ! what is like thee? P. Henry. Well, breathe a while, and then to't again; and when thou hast tired thyself in base com- parisons, hear me speak but this: — Poins and I saw you four set on four ; you bound them, and were mas- ters of their wealth : mark now, how a plain tale shall put you down ! Then did we two set on you four, and with a word outfaced you from your prize, and have it ; yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Fal- staft, you carried yourself away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roared for mercy, and still ran and roared, as ever I heard a calf. What a slave art thou ! to hack thy sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 153 fight ! What trick, what device, what starting-hole canst thou now find out, to hide thee from this open and apparent shame? Fat Ha! ha! ha! — D'ye think I did not know you ? I knew you as well as he that made you. Why, hear ye, my master ; was it for me to kill the heir-ap- parent? should I turn upon the true prince? Why, thou knowest, I am as valiant as Hercules ; but beware nstinct ! the lion will not touch the true prince ! instinct is a great matter. I was a coward on instinct, I grant you : and I shall think the better of myself and thee during my life ; I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But I am glad you have the money. Let us clap to the doors ; watch to-night, pray to-morrow. What, shall we be merry? shall we have a play extem- pore ? P. Henry. Content ! — and the argument shall be, thy running away. Fat. Ah ! no more of that, Hal, an' thou lovest me. DIALOGUE LIX. LEARNING TO WRITE. Edward. Ah, John ! is that you ? How do you do ? John. Pretty well, I thank you. Where are you going, all so fast? E. I am going to the writing-school. /. Writing-school! what's that? Any fun going on there? E. I don't think there is anything very funny about it, for I am learning to write. J. What do they give you a day ? E. Give me? nothing, to be sure! Why, don't you know that the teacher must be paid, as in other schools? J. Well the old proverb is, "A fool and his money- are soon parted," and I should like to know what you want to spend yours in that way for ? E. I always think it money well spent, when by it I learn anything; and I guess you would think I had im- 154 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. proved considerably in my writing, if you could see my book ! J. Well, I '11 tell you what it is : I can't get as much money as I want to spend in other ways, without throw- ing it away in a writing-school. I have earned consid- erable this season, doing little jobs for folks, such as car- rying billets, and wedding-cards, and many other things, too numerous to mention; — good business that, by the way, in our days, — yet, somehow or other, I can't save a single cent. E. Why, what do you do with it all? /. O, I buy candy and sugar-plums; and then 1 go to the Museum very often. There you can see all sorts of curiosities; and then, there are concerts — the Ethio- pian Serenaders, and Virginia, Guinea, Congo, and Dia- mond Minstrels, and lots of families besides, — such as the Hutchinson, the Baker, and Rainer families; — but I like the minstrels better than the families, because thev are so funny. E. I should think they were black, by the names. J. Oh, no ; they are only blacked up to look like nig gers. The "gemmen ob color" are in better business, — but that makes it all the funnier. They have all kinds of queer instruments, and sing the queerest songs you ever heard. E. I suppose you have a very intellectual entertain- ment; don't you? /. Oh, yes ; real ! "It will never do to give it up so, Mr. Brown," — that 's one. And there 's " My old massa told me, oh," and "Oh, poor Lucy Neal," " And if I had her by my side, How happy I should feel ! " That 's all I can remember of that. But I should like to know what good the writing-school is going to do you? E. Why, I will tell you. You know, one of these days, when I grow up to be a man, I shall want to go into business ; and then I shall have to write letters, and a great many other things, and I shall want to write plain, too, so that other people can read it. It would be dreadfully mortifying to me, if I should happen to be SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 155 situated as a woul 1-be eminent merchant was once, who wrote so badly, that after it got cold, neither he, his clerk, nor anybody else, could read it. J. Well, I don't expect to go into business; if I do, I shall keep a clerk. All that I shall have to do will be to sign my name, John Smith, his -f- mark, --so. {Mak- ing a cross on paper.) E. But suppose you should want to write a letter to a lady; how would your cross answer then? I knew a /■oung man, who, having occasion to carry on a corre- spondence with a lady, was so ashamed of his own handwriting, that he got another young man to write his fetters for him. It so happened that this young man had a correspondence with an intimate friend of the lady at the same time, and the ladies found out that it was all the same handwriting. Neither of the young men would own that he couldn't write; so the ladies gave them the " mitten," and concluded to wait for somebody else, who could both write and tell the truth. Now, if you and I should ever be so unfortunate as not to be able to write well, it will be rather bad business. J. Well, I don't expect to write letters to' the ladies yet a while. When I do, it will be time enough to worry about it. Neither do I expect to go into a store. To keep an oyster-cellar is the height, or, rather, the depth of my ambition. Plenty of oysters to eat, and plenty of money to spend: for people that can't read or write can eat oysters and spend money. Then, when I want a little fun, there are always plenty of "minstrels," and "Albinos," and "Tom Thumbs," and "giants," and the "circuses," and "caravans." Then I like ice- creams, and candy, and all the "fixens" of the day. That 's the way to spend money ! "A short life and a merry one," is my motto. E. I am very sorry to hear you say that. My father says it is a poor proverb. It would be better to wish for a long life and a useful one. But I can't stop here talk- ing with you all day. I might just as well try to beat reason into granite walls as to try to beat anything into your cranium. I will just tell you a story about a man, whose life was saved by his knowing how to write. 156 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. There was once a war between Russia and Poland, and a gentleman went from America to carry some stand- ards to the poor Poles, and to help them. "When he ar- rived there, the Russians had conquered Poland; and they took him and put him in a dungeon, and would not let anybody know where he was. They searched him, and took away everything he had in his pockets. By accident, he found a little piece of pencil, which had slipped through a hole in the lining of his vest-pocket, and had escaped their notice. He did not know how or where to get a piece of paper; but at last, took a piece of the white lining of his hat. He then wrote a few words to the American consul, which he contrived, in some way, (I do not remember how.) to give through the bars of his dungeon to some one friendly to him, who carried it to the consul, and as soon as he knew that there was an American in prison there, he had him set free. Now, if he had not known how to write, he might have died there ; for the people did not under- stand his language, nor he theirs. J. Well, I suppose there must be some use in it, then, as you say. But why don't all the rest of the boys go? E. Some of them do ; but many of them think and act as you do. J. How often do you have to go ? E. I suppose I ought to go regularly every Monday, Thursday, and Friday, (the regular days for the school,) but I confess I don't go so regularly as I ought. At any rate, I have improved considerably as it is, and the mas- ter says I might have got one of the premiums, if I had gone regularly all the time. J. The premiums ! what are they ? E. Why, the one that makes the best improvement at his school is to have a splendid port-folio, worth seven or eight dollars; the next best, a splendid gold pencil, or a gold pen, or an elegant book, and so on. J. Why didn't you tell me that in the first place? 1 guess I shall try to go myself. I don't care so much about a book, but I do want a jack-knife most awfully ! If you will tell the master to give me one, I will go. for SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 157 I guess my father will pay for me, if I coax him pretty hard. E. Well, I '11 come and call yo'.i at the beginning of the next term; and as you write a pretty bad hand now, I guess you will stand a good chance to get one of the prenuums, if you try hard. J. But I don't know how to write at all. E. That don't make any difference ; for he teaches people who never wrote any ; and the poet says, — " Let those write now, who never wrote before ; And those who always wrote, now write the more." But I must go, or I shall be late to writing-school ; so, good-by. J. Good-by. Now don't forget to call for me : for I mean to try for one of those premiums. DIALOGUE LX. TRUTH-TELLING. (Elizabeth and Adelaide, in a school-room.) Elizabeth. Adelaide, I mean to see Anna's new book. I think she is very covetous, to keep it all to herself as she does, and let no one look at it. Adelaide. I dare say she will have no objections to your looking at it, when she has finished reading it her- self, for she is not a covetous girl. Eliz. I do not know what you would call covetous, if she is not. Why, I asked her yesterday to show it to me, and she wrapped it up in her apron as quickly as she could, just as if she thought I should hurt it by even looking at the covers, and seemed as proud as if it had been made of gold. Ade. Well, dear Elizabeth, we ought to excuse her, if she does appear a little proud of her book just now ; for you know she received it as a prize for her good scholarship. Eliz. I know it: but that is no excuse for her being 14 158 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. so miserly and important. I shouldn't have hurt her book any more than she would herself. Ade. I dare say not, Elizabeth ; and I have no doubt Anna will be perfectly willing to lend it to you, as soon as she has read it herself. Eliz. I do not believe but that she has read it already, )nly she does not like to oblige me. I am sure if it had been my book, it would have been read long ago. Ade. I presume it would; but then you know that Anna always studies her lessons, and makes sure that they are perfect, before she reads or plays, which, you know, is not always the case with you. Eliz. I can't help it if she does ; she might have read it before this time, and learned her lessons too. Ade. Why, Elizabeth, you know she has a right to be as long as she pleases in reading it, and no one is en- titled to find fault, even if she is a month. Eliz. Well, all I have to say about it is, I mean to see the book, whether she is willing or not. So I shall go and get it now. Ade. Why, Elizabeth, you surely will not take it without her permission, will you ? Eliz. I most surely will, Miss Preacher ! and I do not expect that you will be such a tell-tale as to tell her of it, either. Ade. Il she should inquire of me whether I know anything about it, you would not have me tell her a falsehood, would you ? If you would, I cannot. Eliz. No ; I do not wish any one to tell a falsehood for me ; but you can keep out of her way, so that she will not ask you. Ade. I am not so very sure but that would be the very way to make her ask me. If I were to go skulk- ing around like a thief, she would suspect me at once. Eliz. La ! Who has said anything about skulking ? I have n't, I 'm sure ! I only ask you to go out at one door, when she comes in at another. Ade. A fine piece of business, truly ! I tell you plainly, Elizabeth, if you take that book, you must manage the matter yourself. I shall not betray you unless I am inquired of; neither shall I put myself tc SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 159 the least inconvenience to avoid inquiries. 1 give you fair warning ! Eliz. Thank you, Miss Preacher ! Much obliged for all your advice, and your kindness ; but I think, on the whole, that as I am not a baby, I can go without lead- ing-strings. So here comes the book, and now for a feast ! (She takes the book from Anna's desk.) Ade. I fear, Elizabeth, that you will not find it a feast, after all. I think your conscience will trouble you some. Eliz. I will risk it ; so don't distress yourself with any more fears on my account. I will take care of my- self. Ade. Well, Elizabeth, I hope you will not get your- self into any difficulty, that 's all. But I must go now to my dinner, for it will soon be school-time. And I advise you to put that book back, and go too. Eliz. Good-by, Miss Preacher ! When I am ready, I will go to my dinner. And when I have read the book through, I will put it back ! (Adelaide goes out, and Elizabeth sits down to read, when Anna and Mary come in, talking together, and Elizabeth starts up, in some confusion, and thrusts the book behind something in Iter desk, and begins to put on her hat and shawl.) Anna. Come, Mary, there will be plenty of time be- fore school to show you my new book. I want you to see it. (She goes to her desk to look for her book, and discovers that it is gone. Looks much surprised.) My book is gone . Somebody has got my book ! Mary. Oh, I hope not, Anna! It must be behind something. Anna. No, it isn't! No, it isn't! It is gone! Somebody has taken it, I know. Elizabeth, have you seen my book? or do you know anything about it? Eliz. I ! What should 1 know about your book ? Do you suppose I have nothing else to do but look after your book? Anna. No, indeed, Elizabeth ; but I did not know but you might have seen some person go to my desk while I was gone. 160 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Eliz. Well,— I didn't. Anna. And you have not touched it yourself, have you? Eliz. No ; I never touched your book in my life ; and I shan't stay here to be questioned any longer. (She goes out?) Mary. Don't worry, Anna; I am sure you will find it again. Anna. Where can it be ? I am afraid it has been stolen ! Mary. Oh, Anna, not stolen ! May be one of the girls has taken it to read a little while, and will bring it back. Anna. But who could it be? All the girls were gone away when we went, excepting Elizabeth and Adelaide; and I do not believe it was Adelaide ; and you know Elizabeth positively denies knowing anything about it. And she certainly would not be so foolish and wicked as to tell a falsehood. Mary. No, I hope not, Anna ; but did n't you see how confused she looked, when we first saw her ? Anna. Yes, I did observe it; but she might have been a little startled or offended about something. Mary. She might, have been ; if she had not so posi- tively denied it, I should think she had taken the book in order to vex you. But here comes Adelaide. Let us ask her ; she will tell the truth. Adelaide ! Ade. Well, girls, what is wanting ? Anna. I have lost my new book; — when I went home to my dinner, it was here in my desk ; but when I came back, it was gone. Do you know anything about it? (Adelaide looks confused, and does not reply.} Why, Adelaide, what is the matter? You have not taken it, surely ! If you have, you need not be so fright- ened, for you are welcome to use it as long as you please. Only I am sorry that you did not give me the pleasure of lending it to you. Ade. No, Anna; I have never touched your book. You know I never touch what does not belong to me. Anna. I know it, Adelaide ; I am sure of it ; and I am glad you did not take it. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 161 Mary. But I am sure, by her looks, that Adelaide .-mows where it is. Anna. Do you, Adelaide? Ade. Will you both promise to forgive the person, if I should happen to know, and tell you who it is ? Anna. Certainly; — and she may read the book as long as she pleases. Ade. And you will not expose her ? Anna. No; we will not. Ade Well, then, it was Elizabeth. Anna and Mary. Elizabeth ! Why, she denied posi- tively having seen it. Ade. Can it be possible ? It must have been in a joking way, then. Anna. No, indeed ; she was very angry, and declared she never had touched it in her life. Ade. But she certainly took it ; and if you will re- member your promise, not to tell any one about the matter, I will ask her for it as soon as she comes in. Anna. I will not forget that; but I will not wait until she comes ; I will look in her desk now. {She goes to Elizabeth's desk, and, after a moment's search, takes out the book.) Here it is, sure enough ! Oh, how could she tell a falsehood about it? What -shall we do, Mary and Adelaide? Mary. We must let her know privately that we know all about it, and talk with her on the sin of telling false- hoods. Anna. There she comes, now. Now, who shall speak to her first/^I can't. Ade. And I am sure I cannot. Mary. I will, then, although I can hardly bear to do so. (Elizabeth enters, and all stand looking at her.) Eliz. What makes you all look at me so ? Do you .think I have been stealing? Mary. No, indeed, Elizabeth; we do not think of such a thing. But we want to talk to you about Anna's book. Eliz. Anna's book? Haven't you found that yet? If you have not, how do you suppose I can help it ? 14* 162 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Mary. Take care, Elizabeth ! the book is found ! Eliz. [Starting.} Found? Where? Mary. Where you put it ; — in your desk ! Eliz. In my desk ? Well, does it follow that I put it there? Mary. Take care, Elizabeth ! don't deny it anymore. Adelaide has told us how it came there. Eliz. Adelaide? Well, as she knows, I only — only wanted to look at it a little, and then put it back. Anna. Well, Elizabeth, you should not have taken it privately. Had I known you were so anxious to see it, I am sure I would have lent it to you. Eliz. But you know I asked you for it yesterday, and instead of lending it to me, you wrapped it in your apron, and would not let me see it at all. That made me angry. Anna. {Going to Elizabeth, and putting her arm around her waist.) So I did, Elizabeth. I am ashamed to confess it ; and I do not wonder you were angry. I am as much to blame as you are. Eliz. No, you are not, Anna. And if you did not do right, it was no excuse for taking your book, — much less for telling a falsehood. Mary. True, Elizabeth ; there is never an excuse for telling a falsehood. Eliz. But, Mary, I can profit by the shame and re- gret 1 now feel in consequence of it. And I am sure it will be a lesson I shall never forget. Ade. I am sure you will not, Elizabeth. And now tell me that you forgive my telling the truth about you. Eliz. It is much easier for me to forgive you for tell- ing the truth, than for you to forgive my telling a false- hood. Ade. We will all forgive you for that; but there is another, whose forgiveness is of more consequence. Do you think who it is ? Eliz. Yes ; it is our Heavenly Father ; and I shall not forget, in my daily prayers, to ask his forgiveness for the past, and his aid in assisting me always to speak the truth in the future. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 163 Mary. A good resolution, Elizabeth, for you aid for all of us. Anna. So I think. And now let us close this scene by singing a little hymn about speaking the truth. Always Speak the Truth. Dear children, 't is a fearful thing A wicked lie to tell ; No comfort, after such a deed, Can in the bosom dwell ! With shame, and sorrow, and disgrace, It shadows o'er our youth, While peace and happiness are theirs, Who always speak the truth. Oh ! children, if our daily paths Temptation should beset — Should we by falsehood's dangerous wiles At every turn be met — Oh ! let us humbly pray, that God Will sinless keep our youth, And lead us, whatsoe'er our lot, To always speak the truth. Long may we keep our hearts from guile, Our lips from falsehood's stain ; For who, when once we have deceived, Will trust our word again ? I would not, all the world to win, Become a lying youth ; For God in anger looks on him Who does not speak the truth. Oh ! Father, on this little band Of children now look down, And deign, in gentleness and love, To make them all thine own. From grief, from sorrow 7 , and from s'n» Preserve their tender youth ; And oh ! in mercy grant that they May always speak the truth. 164 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE LXI. BE OBLIGING. Sister. Why not go with me, Thomas 7 Brother. Because I can't; that is reason enough. S. I am sure you could go, if you would. Pa said you might go; you are well, the walking is fine, and now, when you say you cannot go, I am inclined to think you mean that you will not. But there is one thing can be done. I can go alone ; but I would rather not. B. It won't hurt you to walk alone in the evening, any more than in the day-time. 5. It may be so ; but you know, Thomas, that I don't think so. You know that I always think it unsafe to walk so far alone, in the night. And whatever you may suppose, or whatever I ought to do, I cannot, at once, get rid of this feeling. But if you are determined not to go, there 's an end of it. We will not spend time in talking about it. I only beg you to consider what you would wish to have me do, in the same circumstances. That is, suppose you were a female, fourteen years of age, and Sarah Collins had sent for you (as she has for me) to come and watch with her. Would you like to go a mile and a half, through the woods, alone, in the night? B. Perhaps not. But Mrs. Collins might have sent somebody to accompany you. aS*. She has nobody — poor woman! — to send. When Sarah is sick, she is without help, except her dog Jow- ler ; and he cannot go of errands. B. But she sent for you, you say. 6. Yes ; but she sent by Mr. Cartwright, who hap- pened to be coming this way. B. I wish to get my lesson to-night. It will take me two hours to study it thoroughly. It is true, it might be done in the morning, before school ; but I had rather attend to it to-night, and then I shall not have it to think of. S. I have told you, already, that we will not spend time in talking about it ; for it is of no use. I see that SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 165 you are determined not to oblige me. It is always so. Neither father nor I have yet been able to reason you out of it. You are always ready with some excuse for staying at home, when I wish you to go anywhere with me. Your excuse, now, is as good an one as you ever have ; and yet you say yourself that you could get your lesson to-morrow morning. Ah ! Thomas, I am afraid you are too selfish. I am afraid that you think very little of making other people happy. Well, Thomas, go on in this course a few years, and you will be a man ; — but what sort of a man, do you think? — A selfish boy always, or almost always, makes a selfish, unsocial, — often a miserly man. But good-night, for I must go. B. Stop, a moment, till I can find my hat. I must go with you, I suppose. S. Go cheerfully, if you go at all. Go, because you think you ought to go, — not because you suppose you must. B. No, no; I go because I am convinced, on the whole, that I should like to have you do the same by me, if I were in the same circumstances. I go, too, be- cause I pity poor Mrs. Collins. Who knows but she may want medicine for Sarah 1 and in that case, per- haps, I could run over to Mr. Smith's, the druggist, and get it for her. DIALOGUE LXII. FIRE. CHARACTERS. Mrs. Ingot, an aspiring person, who has married a man of whose family she is ashamed. Miss Heartless, her sister. Servant. (Mrs. Ingot is seated, and Miss Heartless enters.) Mrs. Ingot. Oh, sister, I am so glad to see you ! Do sit down ! I have settled everything in the most satis- factory manner, relating to the party. Mr. Ingot is in the best possible humor, because I have invited all his 166 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. vulgar relations to the ball ; and he has given me the "largest liberty" as to expense. I am so delighted I hardly know what to do with myself. Miss Heartless. But, my dear sister, how could you invite all those horrid people 1 I am sure I would go without a party to the end of time, sooner than submit to so mortifying an alternative. Mrs. I. To be sure you would, and so would I; but just listen, and you shall hear how admirably I have managed it. Both of Mr. Ingot's brothers have gone to New York for goods, and will not return before the ball ; his sister, Mrs. Stubbs, is in mourning for her father-in- law ; his cousins, the Spicers, are all ill with the scarlet fever, and uncle Jabez has gone down east to spend Thanksgiving. Did you ever know anything happen more fortunately? I declare I feel as if all these things had occurred solely to please me. Miss H. But, sister, you seem to have forgotten the most important and the most detestable of the whole family — your mother-in-law, old Mrs. Ingot, and her frightful daughter, Miss Bee key. I can see them in fancy now, — Miss Beckey supporting her hump upon one of your damask cushions, and the old lady shaking her huge sides, and chattering like a magpie to all around. I '11 bet you as many gloves as you can pay for, that she tells every one who comes near her how her husband made his money. Mrs. I. But you are mistaken, sister. I have not forgotten them. They were my chief uneasiness, and, much as I desired this party, I assure you I would never have given it, if I had had the most distant idea they would come; — the old lady, particularly, who, added to her absurd appearance, never opens her lips but to make herself ridiculous, and expose her ignorance and vulgar- ity. No ; I could not bear it ! Miss Beckey is certainly bad enough; but Mrs. Ingot is perfectly unendurable. However, let me tell you how 'cutely I have managed it. The old lady has the rheumatism so badly, that she cannot rise from her chair ; and the erysipelas in her nose besides. So she is as safe as if she were in the pen- itentiary. Then as for Miss Beckey, I was dreadfully SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 167 afraid that I should have to submit to her coming ; but I have fallen upon an expedient which I am sure will settle her case. Miss H. Indeed, you are sadly mistaken, if you think you have settled her. I met her this morning in a shop, matching her everlasting old brown satin, of which she gave me the history for the hundredth time ; and she said she was going to wear it to your party, with her equally ancient scarlet turban. Oh, that turban ! it looks like a red horse-blanket, and three turkey's feath- ers ! Mrs. I. But don't speak of that turban ! Just listen to me. It was only a short time since that I fell upon this expedient to keep her away. I wrote her a note, telling her that we were going to have tableaux, and I explained them as a sort of theatrical exhibition ; and I feel certain, that the old maid's scruples will not permit her to come. Miss H. {Rising to go.) Well, I hope you are right in your notions ; but I really have my misgivings. She will come if she can ; though she is nothing to the old lady ; and I must say you are in luck as regards her. [Servant enters, with a note.) Mrs. I. Stay, sister ; here is Miss Beckey's reply to my note ; do let me read it to you. ( They sit doivn, and Mrs. Ingot opens the ?wte, and reads as follows :) " My Dear Sister : I received your note this morn- ing, in due time. I am very much concerned, not to say disappointed, at the information it contained, espe- cially as it came so late ; otherwise I should not have cared so much; — but I have been to considerable ex- pense in getting a new body put to my handsome brown satin, (the one, you know, that was so much admired at the Peace ball,) and I have had my flamingo turban got up in an entire new style. However, among relations, these things must not be minded ; and I am much obliged to you for the hint about theatricals. I am sure it will disappoint you not to have me ; but, as you say, 4 it would n't do.' And now, my dear sister, I am going 168 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. to give you an agreeable surprise. Mother has made up her mind to go to your ball; she says the theatricals will be the very thing for her. She can be carried up early in her arm-chair, and can look at her ease; and, above all, the brown satin fits her to a T i The dear flamingo, too, suits her very well ; and as it is so bright a scarlet, I am in hopes the erysipelas in her nose will not show at all !" (Mrs. Ingot drops the note, and both ladies raise their hands, Mrs. I. exclaiming :) Oh, that flamingo turban ! what shall I do? DIALOGUE LXIII JONATHAN AND SIMON. (Jonathan enters, with a cane and pack upon his bade) Simon. Well, well; this is amusing, I declare. I judge, from appearances, you are about setting out for the "far west." You seem to be invested with the mi- gratory panoply, surely. Jonathan. Yes, "far west" is the phrase with me now. The first, and all important thought of a Yankee, on arriving to the years of manhood, you know, is to settle himself in the world ; which is nothing more nor less than to begin to ramble. Yes, Simon, I have mar- ried a buxom young country lass, as dashy as anything you'll find in these parts, I tell you, and provided my- self with this ponderous knapsack you see here, as a sort of carry-all, and we are soon to set out on our journey to a land flowing with — with — {scratching his head) — Indians and honey. S. I must confess, Jonathan, you do not seem to be much concerned as to your success after arriving in the uncultivated regions of the west. You seem to be as confident of the protection of Divine Providence as ever did a patriarch of old, when he journeyed into a strange country of the Gentiles. J. Certainly; it is a very prominent feature in the character of a Yankee, you know, to feel confident of SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 169 success ; for, being determined to prosper, he will take advantage of the ciicumstances in which he is placed, and if he cannot succeed to his mind in one thing, he has the faculty of taking up another ; and as to myself, I intend to go directly into the wilderness, and build a log cabin, and clear away a corn-field, and potato-patch, and ere long you'll find I shall be surrounded by a snug little farm, and a pasture full of sheep and hogs that have sprung up as if by magic. S. Ha ! ha ! how fruitful your imagination is, Jona- than ! How easy it is for you to build "castles in the air.'" If you had said it was more in accordance with the characteristics of the Yankee to be satisfied only with continual change, I think you would have come nearer the true point : for it is universally known they are more noted for that, together with their shrewdness, than anything else. Now my advice to you, Jonathan, is, to remain where you are, rather than to leave your native soil for a country you know nothing of, save by report. I have travelled in the western country, to some extent, and have had an opportunity of seeing some of my old acquaintances settled upon the soil they once believed was so rich in everything that makes a man comfortable; but they have found out their mistake, I assure you. J. Poh ! poh ! Simon. I think if no one ever thought more of enterprise than yourself, we should not have arrived at our present point of advancement. I be- lieve in every man's doing something to help on the great cause of public improvement ; and it Js very evi- dent the vast extent of territory at the west must, ulti- mately, be improved, and peopled : so I am determined to be prompt in doing my share towards it, as far forth as I can — make money. & You seem to use very patriotic language, indeed. Jonathan ; but, unless I am greatly deceived, you think more of your pocket than you do of the good of the ris- ing generation. It is a very easy thing for you to imag- ine success in your peregrinations ; but realities must be contended with, Jonathan ; you may depend upon that. /. I expect, Simon, on my first entry to these western 15 170 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. wilds, to find many obstacles to contend with; and 1 ex- pect to overcome them — I am determined so to do. I know in that country there are bears, catamounts, and all such detestable pests, to fight with ; but, thanks to my genius, I am prepared for them ; for I 've invented a machine for throwing hot water, which will discharge about sixty gallons per minute ; and if I get a chance to level the instrument at a flock of these nuisances, I "guess" they'll think there is a water volcano in the neighborhood. I can imagine my eyes greeted with a view of a big black bear, with one of my fattest pigs in his mouth, about making his escape, and myself about to discharge a volley of the heated fluid upon him, which, when he receives, may impress upon his mind that he has caught a porcupine instead of a pig. S. Jonathan, I perceive that my advice seems to have but little effect in dissuading you from your purpose; — your mind seems to be ready to meet all obstacles which may arise, and with all my heart I wish you success in overcoming them ; but I am somewhat fearful there will be periods in your western career which will cause you to reflect upon the advice I now give you ; and it is my belief you will see the time when you will wish you had given heed to it. J. Well, Simon, perhaps I may ; but the trial is to be made, you know ; for I dislike, very much, to be talked out of a scheme which I have so well matured as this, I assure you. S. I like your firmness, Jonathan ; but one thing, perhaps, you have not thought sufficiently of yet, which is, the expense of getting yourself and chattels there. It costs nearly as much to travel into the western states, as to purchase a small farm when you get there. J. I know that is an important point to be consid- ered; but my household furniture, farming utensils, family, which consists of a wife and cat, together with my own and wife's wardrobe, will be hoisted into a cov- ered wagon which I have, and with the old gray don- key, we shall soon arrive where I can make myself comfortably rich ; so, good-by to you, Simon. Hurrah for the west ! SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 171 & Success to you, Jonathan, success ; and do all you can cut there to keep politics alive. J. To keep Polly who alive, did you say ? aS*. To keep politics alive, 1 said. J. O, yes ; to keep poli-tics alive ! Yes, yes ; I '11 look after that ; don't you be alarmed on that point. So, good-by to you. S. Good-by, and good luck to you, Jonathan. DIALOGUE LXIV. THE TWO STUDENTS. Charles. Good-morning, George ! I have interesting information to communicate to you this morning. George. Have you? Well, I shall feel pleased to hear any news that is pleasant to you, I 'm sure. C. We have talked much, you know, of the applica- tion made by my father, a short time since, to obtain an appointment for me as Cadet, at the Military Academy, West Point. G. Certainly, we have talked of it much; and I judge, from your countenance, that you have received agreeable information with regard to it. C. I have, most assuredly. This letter, which I have just taken from the post-office, contains the much-wished- for intelligence ; and my father has now in his posses- sion the appointment, which he received one week ago. He wishes me to leave this school immediately, in order to make special preparations for the examination for ad- mission, which takes place on the 20th of June next. G. Charles, I can but congratulate you upon your success, but still I feel grieved to think we must so soon separate. 1 little thought, while speaking with you yes- terday of my intention of leaving for the south in Au- gust next, we should be obliged to part before that time. But, Charles, do you think you will like the life of a soldier? C. Without a doubt, without a doubt, George ; for it is on the high road to distinction : and with this view in mind, it would be a very desirable situation, even if the 172 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. occupation in itself was not so agreeable as might be wished. G. But are not the regulations of the institution very- rigid? And will you find as much pleasure there, do you think, as you at first anticipated? C. I have thought for a long time I should prefer it to any other employment which could be named : and since there has been an opening in prospect for me at this school, I have taken occasion to make inquiries with regard to their regulations, and although rather strict, they are not more so, I presume, than is for the benefit of those who enter. G. Will you give me some information, Charles, of the proceedings at this seminary ? I should like to know what you will be obliged to submit to. C. The course, of instruction embraces a term of four years, during which time the cadets are allowed to visit home but once, and that at the expiration of two" years from the time they enter. They camp out during a portion of the warm season of the year, and learn, practically, the duties of a soldier. They are instruct- ed thoroughly in the most important of the English branches, and in the French language, and during the last year they remain at the institution they give partic- ular attention to the art of horsemanship, fencing, &c. A class graduate annually, and the five individuals who stand highest receive the appointments of engineers, and the others graduate as lieutenants. The course of in- struction being very thorough at this school, renders it a very desirable situation for a young man. G. I dare say it is a fine school ; but I should not like, after completing my course, to be ordered off to fight an enemy. I would willingly relinquish the honor of an officer, if honor it can be called, rather than ex- pose my body as a mark to be shot at, by a Mexican or any one else. C. There is but a slight probability that many of the cadets will ever be called upon to fight, I presume ; but if an occasion should offer, however, I think I should not decline the honor of my station ; for in battle the officers are much less exposed than the soldiery ; and, SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 173 after participating bravely in an engagement, there is a great degree of satisfaction in knowing that the commu- nity look upon you as one who has rendered important service to his country. G. But honor is not always given to whom it is due. The poor soldier who toils amid the heat and danger of the battle is shot down and forgotten, quietly yielding up the honor he has so dearly bought, to redound to the glory of his commander, who is far less deserving it; but, Charles, I hope you will be successful, and gradu- ate with satisfaction to yourself and friends, and never have an opportunity to apply your knowledge of war in the defence of the United States, for 1 hope we shall be so much at peace with the nations of the earth in com- ing time, as to render all such knowledge unnecessary. C. I thank you, George, for your kind wishes, and agree with you in hoping we may never have an oppor- tunity to apply our knowledge of war ; and every true patriot doubtless would express the same feelings; but it is natural to suppose that in the common course of things we are liable to be called upon to defend our country from invasion, and it becomes us, as a nation, to make such preparations as will enable us' to do so in the most effective manner possible. G. Well, Charles, perhaps it may be so ; you have my best wishes for success in your undertaking, and ] hope you will favor me with communications often, that I may know of your progress from time to time. ] shall, doubtless, be at New Orleans soon after your ar- rival on the Hudson, and shall take great pleasure in hearing from you frequently. C. I shall not fail to write often, for I shall be highly gratified to correspond with such a friend as you have shown yourself to be; but I shall see you again before J leave town, and then we will talk further upon the sub- ject ; — so, good-morning. G. Good-morning, Charles. 15* 174 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. DIALOGUE LXV. THE COLONISTS. (Mr. Barlow and fifteen boys.) Mr. Barlow. Come, boys, I have a new play for you. I will be the founder of a colony; and you shall be the people, of different trades and professions, coming to offer yourselves to go with me. What are you, Albert? Albert. I am a farmer, sir. Mr. B. Very well; farming is the chief thing we have to depend upon, so we cannot have too much of it. But you must be a working farme:, not a gentle- man farmer. Laborers will be scarce among us, and every man must put his own hand to the plough. There will be woods to clear, and a plenty of hard work to do. Albert. I shall be ready to do my part. Mr. B. Well, then, I shall take you willingly, and as many more of your sort as you will bring. You shall have land enough, and tools, and you may fall to work as soon as you please. Who comes next? Samuel. I am a miller, sir. Mr. B. A very useful trade ! Our corn must be ground, or it will do us little good. But what will you do for a mill, my friend? $a?nuel. I suppose we must make one, sir. Mr. B. True; but then we must have a mill-wright. The mill-stones we will take out with us. Now for the next. Charles. I am a carpenter, sir. Mr. B. The most necessary^ man that could offer. We shall find you work enough, never fear. There will be houses to build, and fences to make, and all kinds of wooden furniture, and tools besides. But oui timber is all growing. You will have a deal of hard work to do, in felling trees, and sawing planks, and shaping posts. Charles. I am not afraid of work, sir. Mr. B. Then I engage you, and you had better bring two or three able hands along with you. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 175 David. I am a blacksmith, sir. Mr. B. An excellent companion for the carpenter. We cannot do without either of yon : so you must bring your great bellows and anvil, and we will set up a forge for you as soon as we arrive. But, by-the-by, we shall want a mason for that purpose. Edward. I am one, sir. Mr. B. That 's well. We shall live in log houses at first, but we shall want brick work, or stone work, for chimneys, hearths, and ovens; so there will be employ- ment for a mason. But can you make bricks and burn lime? Edward. I will try what I can do, sir. Mr. B. No man can do more. I engage you. Who is next? Francis. I am a shoemaker, sir. Mr. B. We cannot well go without shoes; but where can we get leather ? Francis. O, I can dress hides, too, sir. Mr. B. Can you 7 Then you are a clever fellow, and I will have you, though I give you double wages. George. I am a tailor, sir. Mr. B. Well ! we must not go naked. But I hope you are not above mending and botching, for we must not mind wearing patched clothes, while we work in the woods. George. I am not, sir. Mr. B. Then I engage you, too. Henry. I am a weaver, sir. Mr. B. Weaving is a very useful art; but I trust our wives and daughters will manufacture all the wool and flax we shall have at present. In a few years we shall be very glad of you. John. I am a silversmith, sir. Mr. B. Then, my friend, you cannot go to a worse place than a new country to set up your trade. You will break us, or we shall starve you ; so for the present you had better remain where you are. Hiram. I am a barber, sir. Mr. B. Alas ! what can we do with you? You will have no ladies and gentlemen to dress for a ball; but if 176 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. you will shave our rough beards once a week, and crop our hair once a quarter, and help the carpenter or follow the plough the rest of your time, you may go, and we will pay V3U accordingly. Lewis. I am a doctor, sir. Mr. B. Then, sir, you are very welcome. Health is the first of blessings ; and if you can give us that, you will be a valuable man indeed. We shall some of us be sick, and we shall be likely enough to get cuts, and bruises, and broken bones occasionally. You will be very useful, and still more so if you understand the nature of plants, and their uses, both in medicine and diet. Lewis. Botany has been a favorite study with me, sir, and I have some knowledge of chemistry, too. Mr. B. Then you will be a treasure to us, sir, and 1 shall make it worth your while to go with us. Rufus. I, sir, am a lawyer. Mr. B. Sir, your most obedient servant. When we are rich enough to go to law, we will let you know. Newton. 1 am a schoolmaster, sir. Mr. B. That is a valuable profession, and we shall be very glad of your services. Though we work, hard, we do not intend to be ignorant. We think every one ought to be taught how to read and write. If you will be willing to keep our accounts, and records, while the children are few, and read sermons to us on the Sab- bath, until we are able to settle a minister, we will en- gage you. Newton. With all my heart, sir. Mr. B. Then you may go. Who comes here, with so bold an air? Philip. I am a soldier, sir ; will you have me 1 Mr. B. I hope we shall have no occasion to fight We mean to live peaceably with all, to be just and fair in our dealings, and treat every one kindly, as William Penn, the Quaker, did, when he settled Pennsylvania. And, besides, I mean that every one shall know how to use arms, so that we can defend ourselves, if we should be attacked, and then we shall have no need of soldiers by trade. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. \77 Robert. I am a gentleman, sir; and I hare a desire to accompany you, because I have heard that game is very plentiful in the new countries. Mr. B. A gentleman ! and what good will you do us, sir? Robert. O, sir, I have no notion of that, at all. I only mean to amuse myself. Mr. B. But do you mean, sir. that we should pay you for your amusement? Robert. O, sir, I expect to kill game enough to eat ; you will give me my bread, and a few garden vegeta- bles ; then I shall want a house a little better than the rest, and the barber shall be my servant. So I shall give you very little trouble. Mr. B. The barber is much obliged to you. But, pray, sir, why should we do all this for you ? Robert. Why, sir, you will have the credit of having one gentleman in your colony. Mr. B. Ha! ha! ha! a fine gentleman, truly. Well, sir, when we are ambitious of having such a gentleman among us, we will let you know ; but, at present, we want no drones ; and I think it might be better times in some other places, if there were not so many characters too proud and lazy to be useful. DIALOGUE LXV1. THE SOFT ANSWER. {Lawyer Trueman and Mr. Singleton.) Mr. Singleton. I '11 give him law to his heart's con- tent, the scoundrel ! Lawyer Trueman. Don't call harsh names, Mr. Sin- gleton. Sing. Every man should be known by his true name. Williams is a scoundrel, and so he ought to be called. True. My young friend, did you ever do a reasona- ble thing in your life when you were angry? Sing 1 can't say that I ever did, Mr. Trueman; but 178 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. now I have good reason for being angry, and the lan- guage I use, in reference to Williams, is but the expres- sion of a sober and rational conviction. True. Did you pronounce him a scoundrel before you received this reply to your last letter ? Sing. No, I did not; but that letter confirmed my previously formed impressions of his character. True. But I cannot find, in that letter, any evidence proving your late partner to be a dishonest man. He will not agree to your proposed mode of settlement, be- cause he does not see it to be the most proper way. Sing. {Excited.) He won't agree to it, because it is an honest and equitable mode of settlement, that is all ! He wants to overreach me, and is determined to do so, if he can ! True. There you are decidedly wrong. You have both allowed yourselves to become angry, and are both unreasonable ; and, if I must speak plainly, I think you are the most unreasonable, in the present case. Two angry men can never settle any business properly. You have unnecessarily increased the difficulties in the way of a speedy settlement, by writing Mr. Williams an angry letter, which he has responded to in the like un- happy temper. Now, if I am to settle this business for you, I must write all letters that pass to Mr. Williams in future. Sing. But how can you properly express my views and feelings? True. That I do not wish to do. if your views and feelings are to remain as they now are — for anything like an adjustment of the difficulties, under such circum- stances, I should consider hopeless. Sing. Well, let me answer this letter, and after that I promise that you shall have your own way. True. No; I shall consent to no such thing. It is the reply to that letter which is to modify the negotia- tion for a settlement in such a way as to bring success or failure ; and I have no idea of allowing you, in the present state of your mind, to write such an one as will most assuredly defeat an amicable adjustment. Sing. {After a long pause, to consider.) Indeed, I SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 179 must write this letter, Mr. Trueman. There are soma things that I want to say to him, which I know you won't write. You don't seem to consider the position in which he has placed me by that letter, nor what is obligatory upon me as a man of honor. I never allow any man to reflect upon me, directly or indirectly, with- out a prompt response. True. There is, in the Bible, a passage that is pecu- liarly applicable in the present case. It is this: — "A soft answer turneth away wrath, but grievous words stir up anger." I have found this precept, in a life that has numbered more than double your years, to be one that may be safely and honorably adopted, in all cases. You blame Mr. Williams for writing you an angry let- ter, and are indignant at certain expressions contained therein. Now, is it any more right for you to write an angry letter, with cutting epithets, than it is for him? Sing. But, Mr. Trueman True. I do assure you, my young friend, that I am acting in this case for your benefit, and not for my own ; and, as your legal adviser, you must submit to my judgment, or I cannot consent to go on. Sing. If I will promise not to use any harsh lan- guage, will you not consent to let me write the letter? True. You and I, in the present state of your mind, could not possibly come at the same conclusion in refer- ence to what is harsh and what is mild ; therefore I cannot consent that you shall write one word of the pro- posed reply — I must write it. Sing. Well. I suppose, then, I shall have to submit. Write, if you please, and let me see what sort of a letter you propose. True. ( Writes a while, and then reads the draft of a letter.*) " Dear Sir, — I regret that my proposition did not meet your approbation. The mode of settlement which I suggested was the result of a careful considera- tion of our mutual interests. Be kind enough to sug- gest to Mr. Trueman, my lawyer, any plan which you think will lead to an early and amicable adjustment of our business. You may rely upon my consent to it, if it meets his approbation." 180 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Sing. {Throwing the paper from him / with con- tempt.) Is it possible, Mr. Trueman, that you expect me to sign such a cringing letter as that ? True. { Very mildly.) Well, sir, what is your objec- tion to it ? Sing. Objection ! How can you ask such a question? Am I to go on my knees to him, and beg him to do me justice ? No ! I '11 sacrifice every cent I 've got in the world first — the scoundrel ! True. {Looking him steadily in the face.) Mr. Sin- gleton, you wish to have your business settled, do you not? Sing. Of course I do — honorably settled. True. Well, what do you mean by an honorable set- tlement ? Sing. Why, I mean, I mean, — {Hesitating.) True. You mean a settlement in which your inter- ests shall be equally considered with those of Mr. Wil- liams? Sing. Yes, certainly; and that True. And that Mr. Williams, in the settlement, shall consider and treat you as a gentleman? Sing. Certainly I do • but this is more than he ever has done. True. Well, never mind. Let what is past go for as much as it is worth. The principal point of action is in the present. Sing. But I'll never send this mean, cringing letter, I can tell you. True. You mistake its whole tenor, I do assure you, Mr. Singleton. You have allowed your angry feelings to blind you. You, doubtless, carefully considered, be- fore you adopted it, the proposed basis of a settlement, did you not? Sing. Of course I did. True. So the letter which I have prepared for you states. Now, as an honest and honorable man, you are, I am sure, willing to grant to him the same privilege which you asked for yourself, viz., that of proposing a plan of settlement. Your proposition does not seem to please him ; now it is b ut fair that he should be invited SCHOOL DIALOGUES. x81 to state how he wishes the settlement to be made • and in giving such an invitation, a gentleman short* J use gentlemanly language. Sing. But he don't deserve to be treated like a gen- tleman. In fact, he has no claim to the title. True. If he has none, as you say, you profess to be a gentleman ; and all gentlemen should prove, by their ac- tions and words, that they are gentlemen. Slug. {Changing his tone.) I can't say that I am convinced by what you say ; but as you seem so bent on having it your own way, why, here, let me copy the thing and sign it. {Sits and writes.) There, now, I suppose he '11 think me a low-spirited fellow, after he gets that; but he 's mistaken. After it's all over, I'll take good care to tell him that it didn't contain my sen- timents. True. (Folding the letter and smiling.) Come to- morrow afternoon, and L think we '11 have things in a pretty fair way. Scene II. The next day. Trueman's office. Enter Singleton. True: Good-afternoon, Mr. Singleton. Sing. Well, sir, have you heard from that milk-and- water letter of yours? I can't call it mine. True. Yes, here is the answer. Take a seat, and I will read it to you. Sing. Well, let 's hear it. True. (Takes out a letter and reads:) "Dear George, — I have your kind and gentlemanly note of yesterday, in reply to my harsh, unreasonable, and un- gentlemanly one of the day before. We have both been playing the fool ; but you are ahead of me in becoming sane. I have examined, since I got your note, more carefully the tenor of your disposition for a settlement, and it meets my views precisely. My foolish anger kept me from seeing it before. Let our mutual friend, Mr. Trueman, arrange the matter, according to the plan mentioned,, and I shall most heartily acquiesce. "Yours, &c., Thomas Williams." 16 182 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Sing. {Rising from his seat.) He never wrote that letter in the world. True. {Handing him the letter.) You know his writing, I presume. Sing. {With emotion.) It's Thomas Williams' own hand, as I live ! My old friend, Thomas Williams, the best-natured fellow in the world ! What a fool I have been ! (E?iter Williams.) Williams. {Advancing, and extending his hand to Singleton.) And what a fool I have been, my friend ! Sing. {Grasping his hand.) God bless you, my dear friend ! Why, what has been the matter with us both? True. {Advancing, and taking both by the hands.) My young friends, I have known you long, and have always esteemed you both. This pleasant meeting and reconciliation, you perceive, is of my arrangement. Now let me give you a precept that will make friends and keep friends. It has been my motto through life, and I don't know that I have an enemy in the world. It is, — "A soft answer turneth away wrath, but griev- ous words stir up anger." DIALOGUE LXVIL IDLENESS AND USEFULNESS. Fanny Gossip, Susan Lazy, and Laura Busy. Susan. Well, Fanny, I was on my way to your house. I thought I never should see your face again. Did you ever know such a long, stupid storm 1 — noth- ing but rain, rain, rain, for three everlasting days ! Fannij. And in vacation-time, too ! — it did seem too bad ! If our house had not been on the street, so that I could see something stirring, I believe I should have had the blues. S. And I did have the blues, outright. I never was so dull in my life, moping about the house. Mother won't let me touch such books as I like to read, and the SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 183 boys went to school all day ; so I had nothing on earth to do but look at the drops of rain racing down the win- dows, and watch the clouds to see if it was going to clear up. I assure you I fretted from morning till night, and mother got out of all patience with me, and said I was a perfect nuisance in the house ; but I am sure it was not my fault. F. Well ! I was a little better off. I sat half the time making fun of all the shabby cloaks and umbrellas that urned out in the rain. There was Mr. Skinflint went jy, every day, with a cotton umbrella ; and Mr. Saveall with an old faded silk one, three of the whalebones started out on one side, as if he wanted to poke people's eyes out, and a great slit to let the rain through ; — both of them misers, I know ! And there was Miss Good- body ! she goes to see sick poor folks in all weathers, and won't take a carriage, though she can afford it, be- cause, she says, that would be ridiculous. I wish you had seen her come paddling through the wet ! — such shoes and such stockings ! — I do think it is unladylike. Then, when everything else failed to amuse me, there were oar neighbors opposite to be speculated-upon. S. Ah ! Laura Busy lives just across the street, I 4 >elie\o. F. Yes, and there she sat, at the window, on pur- pose to be seen, stitching away, and reading, and setting herselt up as a pattern to the whole neighborhood. 8. 1 would not have such a strict mother as she hasj for all tne world. I don't believe she enjoys her vaca- tion at all. F. I dare say it is her mother that keeps her at it so close. I should think she was bringing her up to be a seamstress ; and yet, considering that everybody knows Mr. Busy is not rich, they dress Laura extravagantly. Did you see that beautiful French calico she wore on examination day ? S. Yes, I saw it across the room, and thought I would go over and look at it, but I could n't take the trouble. F. Why, how you do gape, Susan ! & I know it; mother says I have a terrible trick ot gaping. But I do gel; so tired ! 184 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. F. Tired of what ? S. I don't know ; I am tired of the vacation, I believe ; and before the term was over I was wishing so for it ! I was tired to death of school, and dare say I shall be so again in a fortnight. F. Here comes Laura, glad enough to get away from mamma's work-basket. Just see how fast she walks ! — ah ha ! she is going to the circulating library ; look at that novel under her arm. tS. I shall tell my mother of that ; she thinks every- thing right that the Busy family do. (Enter Laura.) F. Well, Laura, poor thing ! you are so glad to get out of the house that I suppose you are running away from it as fast as you can. Laura. I am not quite running, I believe ; but you know I always walk fast. S. I can't think why, I am sure. L. It saves a deal of time, and the exercise does me more good than if I were to go sauntering along. S. Saves time? and in the vacation, too? why, of what consequence is time now, when you have no school-hours to mind ? L. Because if I don't take care I shall not get through what I have planned. Only think how fast the vacation is going ! Next Monday school begins. F. So the studious Miss Laura Busy is sorry the va- cation is almost over ! I thought you told the master, when school broke up, that you wished there was no vacation. L. I did wish so then, for I thought vacation would be a dull time. S. I am sure it has been horrid dull to me, and I should think it must have been worse yet for you. L. Why? S. Because your mother keeps you at work all the time. L. Indeed slv, does not. She sent me out to walk, this very afternoon, and she always makes me put my SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 185 work away at just such hours, for fear I should sit toe close at my needle. JS. Mercy! do you love to sew? — oh, I suppose you are learning fancy work : well, I don't know but I might like that for a little while. L. No, mother says I must not learn fancy work till I can do plain sewing extremely well. I was thinking how I should manage to pass the vacation, and I took it into my head that I would try to make a shirt by a particular time, and that is Saturday, my birthday. I shall be twelve years old next Saturday, and then I shall present my father with a shirt of my own making. & Did you do all the fine stitching yourself? L. To be sure. S. I am sure I would not make myself such a slave ! L. There is no slavery about it; it was my own pleasure ; and you cannot think how fast it has made the time go. I set myself a task every day, and then, you see, trying to get so much done by twelve o'clock made me feel so interested ! F. And the rest of the time you have been reading novels, I see. L. No, indeed ; I never read one in my life. Did you think this library-book was a novel ? F. Let me see it ; "Astoria ; " is not that the name of some heroine? — let me look at it a little. {Turning over the leaves.) L. You can't think how interesting it is. It gives an account of a place away on the western coast of North America ; and of all that the people suffered to get there ; and about the very wildest Indians, and the trappers, and the Rocky Mountains ; and here is a map, you see, Susan. S. Oh, well ! it is a sort of geography-book, I suppose. L. Such books will make your geography pleasanter than ever, I am sure ; do read it. & Not I ; I have hardly touched a book or a needle this vacation, and I have no idea of it. These long summer days are tedious enough without that. L. But I do believe they would be pleasanter if you were only occupied about something or other. 16* 186 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. F. And so, Laura, you have really spent this whole vacation without a bit of amusement? I must say I think there is a little affectation in that. L. Oh, no, indeed! I do not like to sit still from morning till night, any better than you do ; and mother would not let me, if I did. I have taken a long, brisk walk, every day. F What, alone ? I hate walking alone. L. Not alone, very often; sister Helen sometimes walks over the bridge into the country with me, and we get wild flowers, and she explains all about them ; that we call going botanizing, and it makes the walks much more pleasant. It really made me stare when she pulled a common head of clover to pieces, and showed me how curiously it is made up of ever so many florets, as she calls them ; and even the dandelion is very queer. S. And did you go botanizing in the rain, too ? L. No ; of course we could not stir out then. S. Then I rather think you found the last three days as dull as any of us. F. Not she, Susan. No doubt it Avas very pleasant to sit perched up at the window all day, for the passers to admire her industry. L. O, Fanny, how can you be so uncharitable? If you had not been at the window so much yourself, you would not have seen me. F. But I was not making a display of myself, with a book or a needle forever in my hand. L. No, Fanny ; if you had been occupied, however, you would not have been making such unkind remarks about your neighbors, would you ? Did you not observe that my mother sat at the window with me ? The rea- son was, we cannot see to work in any other part of the room, when it is cloudy. You know our little breakfast- room has only one window. S. So, for the last three days you have been reading and poking your needle in and out, from morning till night ? Well ! it would be the death of me. {Gaping.) L. Why, no ; I tell you I do not like sitting still for- ever, any more than you do ; I like to use my feet every day, as well as my hands, and I presume they expect it. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 187 Too much stitching gives me a stitch in my side ; so when rainy weather came I played battledoor and shut- tlecock with father when he came home to dinner, and one day we kept it up to five hund ed and two. Then before tea I used to skip rope along the upper entry some- times; and then there was something else — but I sup- pose Fanny will tell all the girls in school, and make them laugh at me; but I really enjoyed it best of any- thing. F. What was it? tell us, do ! I hate secrets. L. You like to find them out, I am sure ; but it is no mighty secret, after all ; and I don't know why I need be ashamed to tell, for my father and mother made no objection. I went up into the nursery every evening, before the little ones went to bed, and played blind man's buff with them. F. And could you take any pleasure in it ? L. To be sure. F. Then I must say I had no idea you were such a baby. Mr. Teachall's best scholar playing romping games with little children ! I am six months younger than you, Laura, but I hold myself rather too much of a woman for blind man's buff! I gave that up, three years ago ! L. Well ! it seemed to make the children enjoy their fun all the better, and I am sure it did me a deal of good, and did nobody any harm : so I am content to be called a baby. $. I don't see how you could take the trouble ; it tires me just to think of going racing about the room at that rate. I should as soon think of sitting down to study French for amusement. F. I wonder you did not do that too, Miss Busy. J declare, she looks as if she had ! Who would have thought of that ? L. I see no harm. You know how terrible hard those last lessons were before the term ended, and I was afraid I should forget them; so I have been reviewing the last thirty pages with sister Helen, to keep what I had got, as she s?ys, and make the next come easier. 188 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. S. A pretty vacation, to be sure ! How upon earth did you find time for it all 1 L. Why, I don't know. There are no more hours in my day than there are in yours, Susan. But good-by. girls ; I am going to see if aunt Kindly has come to town again. F. Stop a minute, Laura ; I am going shopping, and I want to know where your mother bought that lovely French cambric. I mean to tease my mother for one just like it. L. Mother did not buy it; she would not think of getting me anything so expensive. Aunt Kindly sent it to me. F. Oh ho ! a present, was it ? I never thought of that. I wonder what put it into her head. L. I believe she was pleased because, when mother was fitting out two poor boys to go to sea, I did some plain sewing for them. Your mother helped, too, Susan. S. Why, that was before the vacation, and you never missed school a single day : how could you find time then ? L. I used to go at it before breakfast, and at every odd moment ; sometimes I could sew quarter of an hour while I was waiting for something or somebody, and even that helped on the work. I think that is a great advantage we girls have over boys. Mother says the needle darns up idle minutes, that are like holes in our time. Good-by ; you creep so like snails, I should think you would fall asleep. (Fxit.) S. Well, Laura always looks so lively ! but I would not lead such a life for anything. F. I begin to think I would, Susan ! she really makes me ashamed of myself; and I should think you would be so too, when you know your mother is always griev- ing at your laziness. I have heard her tell my mother twenty times that your indolence makes your life a bur- den to you, and that she is mortified when she thinks what kind of woman you will make. S. It is better to be idle than to be always talking about people, Fanny. {Pouting.) F. You are incurable, I do believe ; but I am not, SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 189 and I am go-ng home, this minute, to find some work, and mind my own affairs. S. Why, I thought we were going shopping. F. But I am not in want of anything ; I was only going to kill time and pick up some news. I will try the experiment, at any rate; I will lead Laura's life a couple of days, and see how I like it. I really think the time will not hang so heavy on my hands, and my tongue will not get me into so many difficulties. Good- by, Susan. S. Good-by. Oh, dear ! I wonder what I shall do with myself now ! DIALOGUE LXVEI. THE TENT SCENE BETWEEN BRUTUS AND CASSIUS. Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear in this ; — You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella, For taking bribes here of the Sardians ; Wherein, my letters (praying on his side, Because I knew the man) were slighted of. Brutus. You wronged yourself, to write in such a case. Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meet That every nice offence should bear its comment. Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemned to have an itching palm : To sell and mart your offices for gold. To undeservers. Cas. I an itching palm ? You know that you are Brutus that speak this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last! Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption; And chastisement doth therefore hide its head. Cas. Chastisement ! Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember ! Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake ? What villain touched his body, that did stab, And not for justice ? What ! shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world 190 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. But for supporting robbers, — shall we now Contaminate our ringers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors, For so much trash as may be grasped thus 1 -• I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon. Than such a Roman. Cas. Brutus, bay not me ; I '11 not endure it. You forget yourself, To hedge me in : I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. Bni. Go to ! you 're not, Cassius. Cas. I am. Bru. I say you are not. Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myselt ; Have mind upon your health, — tempt me no further. Bru. Away, slight man ! Cas. Is 't possible ! Bru. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler ? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares ? Cas. O ye gods ! ye gods ! must I endure all this ? Bru. All this ! ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break : Go, show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you ? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor ? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you ; for, from this day forth, I '11 use you for my mirth ; yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. Cas. Is it come to this ? Bru. You say you are a better soldier ; Let it appear so; make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus ; I said an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say better ? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 191 Bru. If yon did, I care not. Cas. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him. Cas. I durst not ! Bru. No. Cas. What ! durst not tempt him ? Bru. For your life you durst not. Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love. I may do that I shall be sorry for. Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats ; For I am armed so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind, Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me : — I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachms, than to wring From the hard hands of peasants, their vile trash. By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions ; Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius ? Should I have answered Caius Cassius so 1 When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous, To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him in pieces. Cas. I denied you not. Bru. You did. Cas. I did not; he was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. A friend should bear a friend's infirmities ; But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. Bru. 1 do not, till you practise them on me. Cas. You love me not. Bru. I do not like your faults. Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults. Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. 192 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Cas. Come, Antony! and young Octavius, seme! Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius : For Cassias is a- weary of the world : — Hated by one he loves ; braved by his brother ; Checked like a bondman ; all his faults observed, Set in a note-book, learned and conned, by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes ! — There is my dagger, And here my naked breast — within, a heart Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold ; If that thou be's a Roman, take it forth: I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. Strike as thou didst at Caesar ; for I know When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. Bru. Sheath your dagger : Be angry when you will, it shall have scope : Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire ; Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark, And straight is cold again. Cas. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-tempered vexeth him ? Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too. Cas. Do you confess so much 1 Give me your hand. Bru. And my heart, too. Cas. O Brutus ! Bru. What 's the matter ? Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful ? Bru. Yes, Cassius ; and henceforth, When you are over-earnest with your Brutus, He '11 think your mother chides, and leave you so. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 193 DIALOGUE LXIX. THE DECEIVER DETECTED. John Steady and Peter Sly. {John, walking towards the stage, stumbles.) Peter. Ho, John, don't stumble over that log! I don't think it a good plan to study my lessons as I go to school. John. Nor I ; but I am in such a scrape ! Peter. What 's the matter 1 John. Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson. Peter. I guess not. Let me see; where did you begin ] John. Here, at the top of the page ; and I learned over three leaves, down to the end of the chapter. Peter. Well, that 's all right. John. Are you sure ? Peter. Certain, as can be. John. Well, now ! I am half glad and half sorry. Only think ! there is poor George Stevens has been get- ting the wrong lesson. I came by his window, and there he was, fagging away; and, when we came to talk about it, we found we had been studying in differ- ent places. But he was so sure he was right that I thought I must be wrong. Peter. I know it ; I know all about it. John. Why ! did you tell him wrong 7 Peter. No, no ; I never tell a lie, you know. But yes- terday, when the master gave out the lesson George was helping little Timothy Dummy to do a sum ; so he only listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he mis- understood what the master said ; and then he began groaning about such a hard lesson, as we were going home ; I laughing to myself all the time. John. What ! did you find out his blunder, and not set him right ? Peter. Set him right ! Not I. I scolded about the hard lesson, too. John. There, that 's the reason he was so positive* He said you had got the same lesson he had. 17 194 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Peter. But I never told him so ; I only let him think so. John. Ah. Peter, do you think that is right ? Peter. To be sure, it is. Don't you know he is at the head of the class, and I am next, and if I get him down to-day I am sure of the medal 1 A poor chance I should have had, if he had not made such a blunder. John. Lucky for yon, but very unlucky for him ; and I must say, I don't call it fair behavior in you, Peter Sly. Peter. I don't care what you call it, John. It is none of your affair, as I see ; let every fellow look out for him- self, and the sharpest one will be the best off I say. John. Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great end of the horn, now ; for, by one trick or another, you are almost always above the rest of us. But if you don't come out at the little end, and come out pretty small, too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, and I shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter. Peter. That you may, now, as soon as you please. If he can get the right lesson decently in half an hour, he is the eighth wonder of the world. I shall have him down, I am sure of that. (Enter George Stevens.) John. Here, George, stop a minute; here 's bad news for you. George. What 's the matter ? — no school to-day ? John. School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong lesson, after all. George. O, John, John ! don't tell me so ! John. It's true; and that mean fellow who stands there whittling a stick, so mighty easy, knew it yester- day, and would not tell you. George. Oh, Peter ! how could you do so? Peter. Easily enough. I don't see that I was under any obligation to help you to keep at the head of the class, when I am the next. George. But you know you deceived me, Peter. I vhink :t would have been but kind and fair, to have told me of mv mistake, as soon as you found it out ; but, in- SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 195 stead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I was right about the lesson. Peter. But I did not tell you so ; you can't say I told you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie. John. But you will lie ; — you will come to that, yet, if you go on so. Peter. Take care what you say, sir ! George. Come, come, John ; don't quarrel with him. He will get the medal now ; and it is a cruel thing, too ; for I sat up till eleven o'clock, last night, studying ; and he knew that my father was coming home from Wash- ington to-night, and how anxions I was to have the medal. But it can't be helped now. Peter. Poor fellow ! don't cry ! I declare there are great tears in his eyes. Now it is a pity, really. John. For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him ! You are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks so. George. Come, John ; I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. I would rather be at the foot of the class, than take such an advantage of anybody. {Exit George.) Peter. The more fool he ! Now, he will be in such a fluster, that he will be sure to miss in the very first sentence. John. There is the master, coming over the hill : now if I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole story ! Peter. You know better than to do that. You know he never encourages tale-bearers. John. I know that, very well ; and I would almost as soon be a cheat as a tell-tale ; but the master will find you out, yet, without anybody's help ; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the whole school. There is not a fellow in it that don't scorn you, Peter Sly ! Peter. And who cares, so long as the master John. Don't be quite so sure about the master, either ; he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch you up, one of these days, when you little think of it. 196 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. [ wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly f You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly ; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune.) Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class ; but there 's the writing. John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dum- my to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, T should be pretty sure of that, too. (Enter Master, taking out his watch.) Master. It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school. Peter. Yes ; sir. — (Aside.) What now ? he looks ra- ther black. Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars 1 Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir. Master. And why do I wish them to study ? Peter. Why, — to please their parents, I suppose, sir. Master. I wish them to study for the very same rea- son that their parents do; — that they may get knowl- edge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor under a considerable mistake about these matters. You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that piece of silver, hanging round your neck; and your mother takes pleasure in seeing it. Peter. Yes, sir ; she does. Master. And why 1 What does the medal say to her ? Of what is it a sign ? Peter. Why, that I am the best scholar in my class. Master. Is that what it says 1 I think it only shows that you have been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other boy. Peter. Well, sir ; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar. Master. She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you know, Peter Sly, and I know, that a boy who has no sense of h: nor, no generous feelings, SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 197 no strictness of principle, may get to the head of his class, and get medals for a time, without being the best scholar. You know how such a thing can be accom- plished, do you not ? and how the medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home ? {Peter hangs his head in silence.) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done ? By base tricks; by purposely leading others into mistakes ; by taking advantage of every slip of the tongue ; by try- ing to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy who does these things is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to get medals, instead of being sent to gain knowledge to prepare him for active life ; and, under this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead of the thing itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object as to care not by what unjustifia- ble means he obtains it. That shows wickedness, — want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this description 1 Peter. Yes, sir ; but, forgive me. I did not think you ever observed it. Master. The artful are very apt to believe themselves more successful than they really are. So you concluded you had deceived me, as well as wronged your compan- ions ! Your tears are unavailing, if by them you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be publicly disgraced. Peter. What, sir ! when I have not told a lie? Master. You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I have watched you in silence and closely for the last month, and I am satisfied that you have not merely yielded occasionally to a sudden temptation, but that deception is an habitual thing with you ; that, through life, you will endeavor to make your way by low knavery, if I do not root the mean vice out of you, and so save you from the contempt of men, and the an- ger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your heart as that of a liar. Go into school ; and as I am convinced, from reflecting on several circumstances 17* 198 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. which took place, that you had no just claim to the very medal you now wear, take your place at the foot of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall be explained in presence of all the scholars. I use the principle of emulation in my school, to rouse up talent and encourage industry ; but I watch against its abuse. I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and un- wavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feel- ings ; and I am happy to say, that, except yourself, I have no cause to doubt of having succeeded. I know not one of your companions, who would not spurn from his heart the base manoeuvres which you adopt; and, before this day is over, they shall have fresh motives to value fair dealing. You must be made an example of; I will no longer permit you to treat your schoolmates with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in ! DIALOGUE LXX. HUNKS AND BLITHE. Blithe. How now, Mr. Hunks ? have you settled the **m!troversy with Baxter ? Hunks. Yes, to a fraction, upon condition that he would pay me six per cent, upon all his notes and bonds, trom the date until they were discharged. Blithe. Then it seems you have brought him to your own terms '? Hunks. Indeed I have ; I would settle with him upon no other. Men now-a-days think it a dreadful hardship to pay a little inteiest ; and will quibble a thousand ways to fool a body out ot their just property ; but I 've grown too old to be cheated in that manner. I take care to secure the interest, as well as the principal. And to prevent any difficulty, I take new notes every year, and carefully exact interest upon interest, and add it to the principal. Blithe. You don't exact interest upon interest ! That would look, a little like extortion. Hunks. Extortion ! I have already lost more than five hundred pounds, by a number of rascally bank- SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 199 rupts. I won't trust a farthing of my moi ey without interest upon interest! Blithe. {Aside.) I see I must humor his foible ; there 's no other way to deal with him. Hunks. There 's no security in men's obligations, in these times. And if I 've a sum of money in the hands of those we call good chaps, I 'm more plagued to get it than 't is all worth. They would be glad to turn me off with mere rubbish, if they could. I 'd rather keep my money in my own chest than let it out for such small interest as I have for it. Blithe. There 's something, I confess, in your obser- vations. We never know when we are secure, unless we have our property in our chests or in lands. Hunks. That 's true. I 'd rather have my property in lands at three per cent, than in the hands of the best man in this town at six — it is a fact. Lands will grow higher when the wars are over. Blithe. You 're entirely right. I believe if I 'd as much money as you, I should be of the same mind. Hunks. That 's a good disposition. We must all learn to take care of ourselves, these hard times. But I wonder how it happens that your disposition is so differ- ent from your son's ; he 's extremely wild and profuse ; I should think it was not possible for you. with all your prudence and dexterity, to get money as fast as he would spend it. Blithe. Oh, he 's young and airy ; we must make allowances for such things ; we used to do so ourselves when we were young men. Hunks. No, you 're mistaken; I never wore a neck- cloth, nor a pair of shoe-buckles, on a week-day, in my life. But that is now become customary among the lowest rank of people. Blithe. You have been very singular: there are few men in our age that have been so frugal and saving as you have. But Ave must always endeavor to conform ourselves a little to the custom of the times. My son is not more extravagant than other young people of his age. He loves to drink a glass of wine sometimes, with his companions, and to appear pretty gayly dressed ; but 200 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. this is only what is natural and customary for every one. I understand he has formed some connections with your eldest daughter, and I should be fond of the alli- ance, if I could gain your approbation in the matter. Hunks. The customs of the times will undo us all ; there 's no living in this prodigal age. The young peo- ple must have their bottles, their tavern dinners, and dice, while the old ones are made perfect drudges to support their luxury. Blithe. Our families, sir, without doubt, would be very happy in such a connection, if you would grant your consent. Hunks. I lose all patience when I see the young beaux and fops, strutting about the streets in their lace coats and ruffled shirts, and a thousand other extravagant articles of expense. Blithe. Sir, I should be very glad if you would turn your attention to the question I proposed. Hunks. There 's one half of these coxcombical spend- thrifts that can't pay their taxes, and yet they are con- stantly running into debt, and their prodigality must be supported by poor, honest, laboring men. Blithe. (Aside.) This is insufferable ! I 'm vexed at the old fellow's impertinence. Hunks. The world has got to a strange pass, a very strange pass, indeed; there 's no distinguishing a poor man from a rich one, only by his extravagant dress and supercilious behavior. Blithe. I hate to see a man all mouth and no ears. Hunks. All mouth and no ears ! Do you mean to insult me to my face 1 Blithe. I ask your pardon, sir ; but I 've been talking to you this hour, and you have paid me no attention. Hunks. Well, and what is this mighty affair upon which you want my opinion % Blithe. It is something you have paid very little at- tention to, it seems ; I am willing to be heard in my turn, as well as you. I was telling that my son had entered into a treaty of marriage with your eldest daughter, and I desire your consent in the matter. Hunks. A treat/ of marriage! why didn't she ask SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 201 my liberty before she attempted any such thing ? A treaty of marriage ! I won't hear a word of it ! Blithe. The young couple are very fond of each oth- er, and may perhaps be ruined if you cross their incli- nations. Hunks. Then let them be ruined. I '11 have my daughter to know she shall make no treaties without my consent. Blithe. She 's of the same mind. That 's what she wants now. Hunks. But you say the treaty is already made ; how- ever, I '11 make it over again. Blithe. Well, sir; the stronger the better. Hunks. But I mean to make it void. Blithe. I want no trifling in the matter ; the subject is not of a trifling nature. I expect you will give me a direct answer, one way or the other. Hunks. If that 's what you desire, I can tell you at once, I have two very strong objections against the pro- posal ; one is, I dislike your son ; and the other is, I have determined upon another match for my daughter. Blithe. Why do you dislike my son, pray? Hunks. Oh, he 's like the rest of mankind, running on in this extravagant way of living. My estate was earned too hardly to be trifled away in such a manner. Blithe. Extravagant ! I 'm sure he 's very far from deserving that character. 'T is true he appears genteel and fashionable among people; but he 's in good busi- ness, and aboveboard, and that 's sufficient for any man. Hunks. 'T is fashionable, I suppose, to powder and curl at the barber's an hour or two, before he visits his mistress ; to pay six pence or eight pence for brushing his boots ; to drink a glass of wine at every tavern ; to* dine upon fowls dressed in the richest manner. And he must soil two or three ruffled shirts in the journey. This is your genteel, fashionable way, is it? Blithe. Indeed, sir, it is a matter of importance to ap- pear decently at such a time, if ever. Would you have him go, as you used to upon the same business, dressed in a long, ill-shapen coat, a greasy pair of breeches, and a slouched hat ; with your oats in one side of your sad- 202 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. die bags, and your dinner in the other? This would make an odd appearance indeed, in the present age. Hunks. A fig for the appearance, so long as I gained my point, and saved my money, and consquently my credit. The coat you mention is the same I have on now. 'T is not so very long as you would represent it to be. {Measuring the skirts by one leg.) See, it comes but just below the calf. This is the coat that my father was married in, and I after him. It has been in the fashion five times since it was new, and never was altered; and 't is a pretty good coat yet. Blithe. You 've a wonderful faculty of saving your money and credit, and keeping in the fashion at the same time. I suppose you mean by saving your credit, that money and credit are inseparably connected. Hunks. Yes, that they are ; he that has one need not fear the loss of the other. For this reason, I can't con- sent to your son's proposal ; he 's too much of a spend- thrift to merit my approbation. Blithe. If you call him a spendthrift for his generos- ity, I desire he may never merit your approbation. A reputation that 's gained by saving money in the man- ner you have mentioned, is, at best, but a despicable character. Hunks. Do you mean to call my character despica- ble 1 Blithe. We won't quarrel about the name, since you are so well contented with the thing. Hunks. You 're welcome to your opinion; I would not give a fiddle-stick's end for your good will or ill will ; my ideas of reputation are entirely different from yours, or your son's, which are just the same; for I find you justify him in all his conduct. But as I have de- termined upon another match for my daughter, I sha'nt trouble myself about his behavior. Blithe. But perhaps your proposed match will be equally disagreeable. Hunks. No, I 've no apprehension of that. He 's a person of a fine genius, and an excellent character. Blithe. Sir, I desire to know who this person is, that SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 203 has such a genius and character, and is so agreeable to your taste. Hunks. 'T is my young cousin Griffin. He 's heir to a great estate, you know. He discovered a surprising genius almost as soon as he was born. When he was a very child, he made him a box, with one small hole in it, into which he could just crowd his money, and could not get it out again without breaking his box ; by which means he made a continual addition till he filled it, and Blithe. Enough ! enough ! I 've a sufficient idea of his character, without hearing another word. But are you sure you shall obtain this excellent match for youi daughter? Hunks. Oh, I 'm certain on't, I assure you, and my utmost wishes are gratified with the prospect. He has a large patrimony lying between two excellent farms of mine, which are at least worth two thousand pounds. These I 've given to my daughter ; and have ordered her uncle to take the deeds into his own hands, and deliver them to her on the day of her marriage. Blithe. Then it seems you 've almost accomplished the business. But have you got the consent of the young gentleman in the affair. Hunks. His consent! What need I care about his consent, so long as I have his father's? — that 's sufficient for my purpose ! Blithe. Then you intend to force the young couple to marry, if they are unwilling? Hunks. Those two thousand pounds will soon give them a disposition, I '11 warrant you. Blithe. Your schemes, I confess, are artfully concert- ed ; but I must tell you, for your mortification, that the young gentleman is already married. Hunks. What do you say ? already married ! It can't be ! I don't believe a syllable on 't ! Blithe. Every syllable is true ! whether you believe it or not. I received a letter this day from his father;, ii you won't believe me, you may read it. {Gives him the letter.) There 'e the account, in the postscript. {Points to it.) 204 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. {Hunks reads :) u l had almost forgot to tell you, that last Thursday my son was married to Miss Clara Brent- ford, and that all parties are very happy in the connec- tion." Confusion! {Throws down the letter.) What does this mean ? Married to Clara Brentford ! — this is exactly one of cousin Tom's villanous tricks ! He prom- ised me that his son should marry my daughter, upon condition that I would give her those two farms; but I can't imagine from what stupid motives he has altered his mind ! Blithe. Disappointment is the common lot of all men ; even our surest expectations are subject to misfortune. Hunks. Disappointment ! — this comes from a quar- ter from which I least expected one. But there are the deeds. I '11 take care to secure them again ; 't is a good nit that I did not give them to the young rogue before- nand. Blithe. That was well thought of; you keep a good ook out, I see, though you can't avoid some disappoint- ments. I see nothing in the way now, to hinder my $on's proceeding; you will easily grant your consent, now you 're cut off from your former expectations. Hunks. I can't see into this crooked affair — I'm heartily vexed at it. What could induce that old villain to deceive me in this manner ? I fear this was some scheme of my daughter's, to prevent the effect of my lesign. If this is her plan, if she sets so lightly of two thousand pounds, she shall soon know what 'tis to want it, I '11 promise her. Blithe. If you had bestowed your gift without cross- ing her inclination, she would have accepted it very thankfully. Hunks. O, I don't doubt it in the least ; that would have been a pretty story indeed ! But since she insists upon gratifying a foolish fancy, she may follow her own inclination, and take the consequences of it; I'll keep the favors I meant to bestow on her, for those that know how to prize them, and that merit them by a becoming gratitude. Blithe. But you won't reject her, destitute of a patri- mony, and a father's blessing? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 205 Hunks. Not one farthing shall she ever receive from my hand. Your son may take her, but her person is barely all that I '11 give him ; he has induced her to dis- obey her father, and he shall feel the effects of it. Blithe. You 're somewhat ruffled, I perceive ; but I hope you '11 recall these rash resolutions m your cooler moments. Hunks. No, never, I give you my word, and that 's as fixed as the laws of the Medes and Persians. Blithe. But look ye, sir; here 's another circumstance to be attended to ; my son has the deeds already in his own hands. Hunks. Deeds ! what deeds 1 Those I gave to my brother ? Blithe. Yes, the very same. Hunks. What a composition of villany and witchcraft is here ! What ! my deeds given up to your son ? Blithe. Yes ; your brother thought that my son had an undoubted title to them now, since his cousin was married, and so he gave them up the next day. Hunks. This is intolerable ! I could tear the scalp from my old brainless skull ; why had not I more wit than to trust them with him? I 'm cheated everyway ! I can't trust a farthing with the best friend I have on earth ! Blithe. That is very true; 'tis no wonder you can't trust your best friend. The truth of the case is, you have no friend, nor can you expect any, so long as you make an idol of yourself, and feast your sordid, avari- cious appetite upon the misfortunes of mankind. You take every possible advantage, by the present calamities, to gratify your own selfish disposition. So long as this is the case, depend upon it, you will be an object of uni- versal detestation. There is no one on earth who would not rejoice to see how you 're taken in. Your daugh- ter now has got a good inheritance, and an agreeable partner, which you were in duty bound to grant her ; but, instead of that, you have been doing your utmost to deprive her of every enjoyment in life. {Hunks puts his hand to his breast.} I don't wonder your conscience 18 206 SCHDOL DIALOGUES. smites you for your villany, Don't you see how justly you have been cheated into your duty ? Hunks. I '11 go this moment to an attorney, and get a warrant; I '11 put the villain to jail before an hour is at an end ! Oh, my deeds ! my farms ! — what shall I do for my farms ! Blithe. Give yourself no further trouble about them ; there ? s no evidence in the case ; you must be sensible, therefore, an action can't lie. I would advise you to rest contented, and learn from disappointments, not to place such an exorbitant value upon wealth. In the mean time, I should be very glad of your company at the wedding. My son and his wife would be very happy to see you. Hunks. The dragon fly ! away with you, and your son, and your son's wife ! Oh, my farms ! what shall I do for my farms ! DIALOGUE LXXI. OR, AVERSION SUBDUED. Belford. Pray who is the present possessor of the Brookby estate ! Arbury. A man of the name of Goodwin. Bel. Is he a good neighbor to you? Arb. Par from it ; and I wish he had settled a hun- dred miles off, rather than come here, to spoil our neigh- borhood. Bel. I am sorry to hear that ; but what is your objec- tion to him ? Arb. O, there is nothing in which we agree. In the first place, he is quite of the other side in politics ; and that, you know, is enough to prevent all intimacy. Bel. I am n^t entirely of that opinion; but what else ? Arb. He is 10 sportsman, and refuses to join in our association for protecting the game. Neither does he choose to be a member of any of our clubs. Bel. Has he been asked ? Arb. I do not know that he has, directly; but he might easily propose himself, if he liked it. But he is SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 207 of a close, unsociable temper, and, I believe, very nig- gardly. Bel. How has he shown it ? Arb. His style of living is not equal to his fortune; and I have heard of several instances of his attention to petty economy. Bel. Perhaps he spends his money in charity. Arb. Not he, I dare say. It was but last week, that a poor fellow, who had lost his all, by a fire, went to him with a subscription paper, in which were the names of all the gentlemen in the neighborhood ; and the only answer he received was, that he would consider of it. Bel. And did he consider ? Arb. I do not know, but I suppose it was only an excuse. Then his predecessor had a park well stocked with deer, and used to make liberal presents of venison to all his neighbors. But this frugal gentleman has sold them all off, and keeps a flock of sheep, instead of them. Bel. I do not see much harm in that, now mutton is so dear. Arb. To be sure, he has a right to do as he pleases with his park, but that is not the way to be beloved, you know. As to myself, I have reason to think he bears me particular ill-will. Bel. Then he is much in the wrong, for I presume you are as free from ill-will to others as any man living. But how has he shown it, pray 1 Arb. In twenty instances. He had a horse upon sale, the other day, to which I took a liking, and bid money for it. As soon as he found I wanted it, he sent it off to a fair, in another part of the country. My wife, you know, is passionately fond of cultivating flowers. Rid- ing, lately, by his grounds, she observed something new, and took a great longing for a root or cutting of it. My gardener mentioned her wish to his, (contrary, I own, to my inclination,) and he told his master; but, instead of obliging her, he charged the gardener, on no account, to touch the plant. A little while ago, I turned off a man, for saucy behavior ; but, as he had lived many years with me, and was a very useful servant, I meant to take him again, upon his submission, which I did not doubt 208 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. would soon happen. Instead of that, he goes and offers himself to my civil neighbor, who, without deigning to apply to me, even for a character, engages him immedi- ately. In short, he has not the least of a gentleman about him, and I would give anything to oe well rid oi him. Bel. Nothing, to be sure, can be more unpleasant in the country, than a bad neighbor ; and I am coticemed, it is your lot to have one. But there is a man who seems as if he wanted to speak with you. [A countryman approaches.) Arb. Ah ! it is the poor fellow that was burnt out. Well, Richard, how do you succeed ? what has the sub- scription produced you ? Rlc/iard. Thank your honor, my losses are nearly all made up. Arb. I am very glad of that ; but when I saw the paper last, it did not reach half way. Rich. It did not, sir ; but you may remember asking me what Mr. Goodwin had done for me, and I told you he took time to consider of it. Well, sir ; I found that, the very next day, he had been at our town, and had made very particular inquiry about me and my losses, among my neighbors. When I called upon him, a few days after, he told me he was very glad to find that I bore such a good character, and that the gentlemen round had so kindly taken up my case; and he would prevent the necessity of my going any further for relief. Upon which he gave me — God bless him! — a draft upon his banker for two hundred dollars. Arb. Two hundred dollars ! Rich. Yes, sir. It has made me quite my own man again; and I am now going to purchase a new cart and team of horses. Arb. A noble gift, indeed! I could never have thought it. Well, Richard, I rejoice at your good fortune. I am sure you are much obliged to Mr. Goodwin. Rich. Indeed I am, sir, and to all my good friends God bless you, sir! (Exit.) Bel. Niggardliness, at least, is not this man's foible. SCHOOV DIALOGUES. 209 Arb. No. I was mistaken in that point. 1 wronged him, and I am sorry for it. But what a pity it is, that men of real generosity should not be amiable in their manners, and as ready to oblige in trifles as in matters of consequence. Bel. True; it is a pity, when that is really the case. Arb. How much less an exertion it would have been, to have shown some civility about a horse, or a flower- root ! Bel. Speaking of flowers, there is your gardener com- ing, with a large one in a pot. [Enter Gardener.) Arb. Now, James, what have you there ? Gardener. A flower, sir, for madam, from Mr. Good- win's. Arb. How did you come by it ? Gard. His gardener, sir, sent me word to come for it. We should have had it before, but Mr. Goodwin thought it could not be moved safely. Arb. I hope he has more of them. Gard. He has only a seedling plant or two, sir ; but, hearing that madam took a liking to this, he was re- solved to send it to her, — and a choice thing it is ! I have a note for madam in my pocket. Arb. Well, take it home. (Exit Gardener.') Bel. Methinks this does not look like deficiency in civility. Arb. No ; it is a very polite action ; I cannot deny it, and I am obliged to him for it. Perhaps, indeed, he may feel he owes me a little amends. Bel. Possibly. It shows he can feel, most certainly. Arb. It does. Ha ! there is Yorkshire Tom coming from the fair. I will step up, and speak to him. Well, Tom, how have horses gone, at Market-hill ? Tom. Dear enough, your honor. Arb. How much more did you get for Mr. Goodwin's mare than I offered him ? Tom. Ah, sir ! that was not an animal for your riding, and Mr. Goodwin well knew it. You never saw such a vicious creature. She liked to have killed the groom, 18* 210 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. two or three times. So I was ordered to offer her to the mail-coach people, and get what I cor Id from them. I might have sold her to better advantage, if Mr. Good- win would have let me, for she was as fine a creature to look at as need be, and quite sound. Arb. And was that the true reason, Tom, why the mare was not sold to me ? Tom. It was, indeed, sir. Arb. Then I am highly obliged to Mr. Goodwin. ( Tom goes.) This was handsome behavior, indeed ! Bel. Yes, I think it was somewhat more than polite- ness ; it was real goodness of heart. Arb. It was. I find I must alter my opinion of him, and I do it with pleasure. But, after all, his conduct with respect to my servant is somewhat unaccountable. Bel. I see reason to think so well of him, in relation to most transactions, that I am inclined to hope he will be acquitted in this matter, too. Arb. There comes Ned, now ; I wonder that he has my old livery on yet. (Ned approaches, pulling off his hat.) Ned. Sir, I was coming to your honor to Arb. What can you have to say to me now, Ned 1 Ned. To ask pardon, sir, for my misbehavior, and beg you to take me again. Arb. What ! have you so soon parted with your new master ? Ned. Mr. Goodwin never was my master, sir. He only kept me in his house till I could make up with you again ; for he said he was sure you were too honorable a gentleman to turn off an old servant, without good reason, and he hoped you would admit my excuses, after your anger was over. Arb. Did he say all that ? Ned. Yes, sir ; and he advised me not to delay any 'onger asking your pardon. Arb. Well ; go to my house, and I will talk with you on my return. Bel. Now, my friend, what think you of this 1 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 211 Arb. I think more than I can well express. It will be a lesson to me never to make hasty judgments again. Bel. Why, indeed, to have concluded that such a man had nothing of the gentleman about him, must ha^e been rather hasty. Arb. I acknowledge it. But it is the misfortune of these reserved characters, that they are so long in mak- ing themselves known ; though, when they are known, they often prove the most truly estimable. I am afraid, even now, that I must be content with esteeming him at a distance. Bel. Why so ? Arb. You know I am of an open, sociable disposition. Bel. Perhaps he is so, too. Arb. If he was, surely we should have been bettei acquainted before this time. Bel, It may have been prejudice, rather than temper, that has kept you asunder. Arb. Possibly so. That vile spirit of party has such a sway in the country, that men of the most liberal dis- positions can hardly free themselves from its influence. It poisons all the kindness of society ; and yonder comes an instance of its pernicious effects. Bel. Who is he? Arb. A poor schoolmaster, with a large family, in the next market-town, who has lost all his scholars by his activity on our side in the last election. I heartily wish it was in my power to do something for him ; for he is a very honest man, though perhaps rather too ardent. ( The schoolmaster comes up.) Arb. Well, Mr. Penman, how go things with you'? Penman. I thank you, sir. they have gone poorly enough, but I hope they are in the way to mend. Arb. I am glad to hear it ; but how ? Pen. Why, sir, the free school of Stoke is vacant, and I believe I am likely to get it. Arb. Ah ! I wonder at that. I thought it was in the hands of the other party. Pen. It is sir ; but Mr. Goodwin has been so kind as 212 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. to give me a recommendation, and his interest is suffi- cient to carry it. Arb. Mr. Goodwin! you surprise me. Pen. I was much surprised, too, sir. He sent for me, of his own accord, (for I should never have thought of asking a favor from him,) and told me he was sorry a man should be injured in his profession on account of party; and as I could not live comfortably where I was, he would try to settle me in a better place. So he men- tioned the vacancy of Stoke, and offered me letters to the trustees. I was never so affected in my life, sir. I could hardly speak, to return him thanks. He kept me to dinner, and treated me with the greatest respect. In- deed, I believe there is not a kinder man breathing than Mr. Goodwin. Arb. You have the best reason in the world for say- ing so, Mr. Penman. What ! did he converse familiarly with you? Pen. Quite so, sir. We talked a great deal about party affairs in this neighborhood; and he lamented much that differences of this kind should keep worthy men at a distance from each other. I took the liberty, sir, of mentioning your name. He said he had not the honor of being acquainted with you ; but that he had. a sincere esteem for your character, and should be glad of any occasion to cultivate a friendship with you. For my part, I confess, to my shame, I did not think there could have been such a man on that side. Arb. Well, good-morning. Pen. Your most obedient, sir. {He goes.) Arb. (after some silence.) Come, my friend; let us go. Bel. Whither? Arb. Can you doubt? To Mr. Goodwin's, to be sure. After all that I have heard, can I exist a moment with- out acknowledging the injustice I have done him, and soliciting his friendship ? Bel. I shall be happy, I am sure, to accompany you on that errand. But who is to introduce us ? Arb. What is form and ceremony, in a case like this ? Come, come! Bel. Most willingly. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 213 DIALOGUE LXXII. SCENE FROM SHAKSPEARE. Quince, Bottom, Flute, Starveling, and Snug. Quince. Is all our company here ? Bottom. You had best call them, conjunctly and sev- erally, generally and specially — that is whereof to call them man by man, according to the scrip. Quin. Here is the scroll of every man's name in this town that is fit to be seen upon the stage before the duke and duchess. Bot. Good Peter Quince, go to work in a method. Begin at the top, and go on to the bottom — that is whereof, as a man may say, first tell us what the play treats of, then read the names of the actors ; and so your business will stand by itself, as regular as a building set upon the very pinnacle of its foundation. Quin. Why, then, the play is the most delectable and lamentable comedy entitled and called the cruel tragedy of the death of Pyramus and Thisby. Bot. A very moving play, I warrant it. A very deep tragedy, I know by the sound of the title of it. Pyra- mus and Thisby ! I suppose they are to have their throats cut from ear to ear. Well, now, good Peter, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread your- selves out into a clump, every man conjunctly by him- self. Quin. Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, weaver. Bot. Ready ; name my part, and proceed. Quin. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. Bot. I am to play Pyramus. Well, and who is Pyr- amus ? A gentleman, or a simple-man ? Quin. Pyramus is a lovyer, and Thisby is his sweet- heart. Pyramus kills himself for grief because a lion got hold of Thisby' s cloak and tore it, which makes Pyr- amus conclude as how he had torn her too, and eaten her up all but the cloak, whereof he had not touched her. So that poor Pyramus loses his life, d' ye see, for nothing at all ; whereof you know that it is enough to make a man hang himself. 214 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Bot. What, then, am I to hang myself for vexation because I had killed myself for nothing ? Quin. No, that is not in the play. Bot. Here will be salt tears wept, or I am mistaken. And if I be the man that acts this same Pyramus, let the ladies look to their eyes. I will condole and congratu- late to some tune. 1 will break every heart that is not double hooped with flint. I have a main notion of act- ing your lovyer that is crossed in love. There is but one thing that is more to my humor than your tribula- tion lovyer ; that is your tyrant — your thundering ty- rant. I could play you, for example, I could play you such a tyrant as Ercles when he gets on his brimstone shirt, and is all on fire, as the unlucky boys burn a great rat alive with spirits. And then when he takes up little — what 's his name ? — to squir him off the cliff into the sea, O, then 't is fine — " I '11 split " The raging rocks , And shivering shocks, With thundering knocks, Shall break the locks Of prison gates : And Phibbus' car Shall shine from far, And kindle war With many a seal, And make and mar The foolish fates. There is your right tragedy stuff. This is Ercles' veil? to a hair; this is your only true tyrant's vein. Your lovyer' s vein is more upon the condoling and congratu- lating. Now, Peter Quince, name the rest of the players. Quin. Francis Flute, bellows-mender. Flute. Here, Peter Quince. Quin. Francis, you must take Thisby on you. Flute. What, that is to be Nick Bottom's sweetheart, and to have my cloak worried alive by the great beast '* Why, Peter, I have a beard a-coming. I shan't make a clever woman, as you may say, unless it were Mrs. What-d ye-call-her — Mrs. Tibby ' s mother or aunt. Has SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 215 not the gentlewoman of the play a mother or aunt that appears 1 Quin. Yes ; hut you must do Thisby. You will do Thisby well enough, man. You shall do it in a mask. Robin Starveling, tailor. Star. Here, Peter Quince. Quin. You must play Pyramus' father ; I will play Thisby's father ; and Flute must play Thisby. Simon Snug, joiner. Snug: Here, Peter Quince. Quin. Simon, you must act the part of the lion. Snug. Heh ! the part of the lion do you say, Peter Quince ? Why, I never made a beast of myself in my -ife, but now and then, when I had drunk a cup too much. Quin. Pshaw, pshaw ! a better man than you, or I either, has been made a beast before now — ay, and a horned beast, too. But the lion is a royal beast, the king of beasts. So, Simon, you must play the part of the lion. Snug. Well, but an' it be a long part, I can't remem- ber it, for I have but a p or brain of my own. Let me see how many pages. Quin. Why, Simon, it is not written. And for the matter of that, you may do it off hand. It is nothing but roaring. Bot. I '11 tell you what, Peter Quince, you were bet- ter to let me act the part of the lion. Simon Snug is but a hen-hearted sort of a fellow. He won't roar you so loud as a mouse in the hole in the wall. But if you will let me play the part, I will make such a noise as shall do any man's heart good to hear me. I will roar that the duke shall cry, " Encore, encore — let him roar — once more, once more." Quin. But if you were too terrible, you might fright- en the duchess, and the ladies, that they would shriek, and that were enough to hang us all. Bot. Ay, if the duchess and the ladies were frightened out of their wits, to be sure, perhaps, they might have no more wit than to get us all hanged. But do you think, Peter Quince, that I have no more inhumanity in 216 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. my nature than to frighten people 1 I would restrain and aggravate my voice that I would roar you as gentle as any sucking dove. I would roar you were it any nightingale. Quin. I tell you, Nick Bottom, hold your tongue with your roaring, and set your heart at rest. You shall play nothing but Pyramus. Bot. Well, if I must, I must. What cannot be en- dured, you know, must be cured. But what beard were I best to play it in ? Quin. You must not have on a gray beard, you know, because it will not look natural for a man with a gray beard to be acting the part of a lovyer. Bot. Why, look you, master Peter Quince, I don't think it so very unnatural to see people with gray beards acting the part of lovyers ; at least, I am sure it had not need be unnatural, for it is common enough. But how- somever, it will look a little unnatural, as you say, to see the young woman, Mrs. Tibby, fondling and looking sweet upon a man with a gray beard. Wherefore, upon mature 'liberation, I will play it in a beard as black as jet. Quin. Here, then, masters, take your parts, and con them over with as much retention as you can, that you may be ready to rehearse by to-morrow night. Bot. But where must we rehearse, Peter Quince ? Quin. Why, you know, if we should go to rehearse in a garret, or a malt-loft, we should but draw a mob, and perhaps get ourselves taken up for cromancers. Therefore we must go to the palace wood, and do it by moonlight. Then, you know, we shall do it with dacity and imposure of mind, when there is nobody to deplaud or to hiss. Bot. Right, Peter Quince. We will be ready for you. {Exeunt.) DIALOGUE LXXIII. STUDENT, FARMER, AND MINISTER. Student. What can be more calculated to fill the mind with pleasure than the study of philosophy and astron- SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 217 omy ? For while they entertain and enlarge our under- standing, they lead us to contemplate the supreme source of beauty and harmony, Deity himself. Farmer {outside.') Haw buck here, whoe, haw whoe. (Enters.) How d' ye do, how d' ye do, my young friend? Stu. Yery well I thank you, how are you ? Farm. I don't know, moving 'bout a little, but I don't know but I have 'sturbed you ; you seem to be talking to yourself. Stu. Not in the least, sir. I was contemplating the beauties of creation, and admiring the order in which the planets move ; but as I am ever fond of parental instruction, I shall with no less pleasure listen to your observations. Farm. Well, I 'm willing to tell you anything I know, and there an't many more sperienced, though I say it myself; but I want to know what under heaven there is in creation so dreadful, that you make such a bustle about 1 Stu. Sir, I think there is an infinite variety of objects to entertain the rational mind, which we may contem- plate, and still find ourselves lost in the works of the Creator. Farm. Why — why — why — I s'pose there 's some- thing 'markable 'nough in creation ; but, for my part, I can't find anything so dreadful in creation. I find more profit in contriving how to fat my pork and beef in one year, than in thinking 'bout creation from July to 'tar- nity. {Turning around.) Don't let that ox hook the old mare, John. Stu. Those employments are indeed necessary, and truly commendable ; yet I find I have an opportunity to improve many superior pleasures, which demand and force my admiration. Farm. O ! you 're one of them colleges larnt ; I want to 'spute 'long with some of you noddies, some time j pray let a body hear what them 'markable things be? Stu. I think the order of the solar system, the regu- larity in which the planets move round the sun, their centre, the motion of the earth, which occasions that 19 218 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. pleasing variety of seasons, afford a fulness for our con- tempi ation. Farm. The motion of the world ! — 'pon my word, your college wit 's got something new ! Do you mean this great masterly world ever moves, or what a plague do you mean ? Stu. I had reference to the annual and diurnal mo- tions of the earth. Farm. What under heaven do you mean by your ludurnal motion ? That 's something new. Stu. I mean revolving on its own axis, from west to east, once in twenty-four hours. Farm. What ! do you say this great masterly world turns over every day, and nobody know nothing 'bout it? If this world tarns over, what ; s the reason my mill-pond never got overset, and all the water spilt out, long ago ? Do you think my farm ever turned over ? Stu. Your farm being connected with the rest of the globe, undoubtedly turns with it. Farm. What do you say ? — all the world turns over, and my farm turns too? Though I s'pose my farm lies about in the middle here, so '+ would n't affect that so much ; but what if anybody snould get close to the edge, and it should get to whirling and whirling, I guess 't would make their hairs whistle, and like enough 't would throw them off. Stu. I don't know what you mean by the edge ; this world is round, like an orange. Farm. Why, you talk more and more like a fool. What ! this world round? Don't you see 'tain't round? Why, 't is as flat as a pancake. Stu. The greatest philosophers give it as their opin- ion that it is round. Farm. What do you think I care what your boloso- phors say, when I know, u hona pida" 'taint so, and any other half-witted fool might know better. Stu. Unless you bring some argument to confute theirs, I don't see why you should disbelieve them. Farm. Why, I know 'tain't so, and that 's reason enough. What ! this world round, and folks live on 't, and turn over too ! Tha 's a plaguy likely story; but, SCHOOL DIALOCUES. 219 if you want to hear my arguments, you shall hear them in full. How d' ye think folks can stand with thei" heads downwards ? Why, why, if this world should only turn up edgeways, all our houses, and walls, and fences, would get slidin. and slidin. and as soon as they got to the edge, would fall down, down, down, and finally would never stop. That would be plaguy good 'conomy. Slu. The atmosphere turns with us. It would not affect us in the least ; our feet would point to the centre, as they now do. Farm. Why, yes, 'twould; if anybody should get to the edge, and it should get to whirling round, 'twould give 'em a plaguy hist, and like as not 't would throw 'em off; and that an't all; 'twould make their heads swim so they could n't stand. What d' ye think of that, ha ? Why, I tell ye this world is flat, and laid on its foundation, or it could n't stand. Stu. What supports this foundation ? Farm. Hem ! hem ! hem ! — why, how a plague do you think I know ? But I know 't is so, and that 's rea- son enough. But what do you ask such plaguy foolish questions for? Anybody knows this great masterly world could not stand without it had something to stand on. Slu. But if it has a foundation, how does the sun get through ? Farm. Hem! hem! hem! — that's another plaguy foolish question. But there 's no difficulty at all in that. Why, there 's a hole made just big enough for the sun to get through, without weakening the foundation. Stu. But there's one more difficulty; — the sun is much larger than this earth, and therefore must destroy your foundation. Farm. What ! do you say the sun is bigger than this great world? You great foolhead ! 'Tain't a bit bigger than a cart-wheel. Stu. If it be so small, how can it light this whole earth, when it is so far from us ? Farm. Why, hem! hem! hem! — I don't raly see into that myself; but then I don't s'pose 't is such a des- 220 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. put ways from us ; I don't think 't is more than a mile and a half, or two miles, or sich a business. But I don't quite see how it gets through the foundation, I confess. Stu. O, [ just see into it ! I guess it don't go through, only just gets down behind the trees, out of sight, and comes right back again, in the same place, and it is so small a thing we can't see it in the night. Farm. That 's about as cunning as the rest of your talk ; why, you plaguy fool ! you could see the sun in ths night as plain as you could a star, though it be ever so cloudy. Stu. Then I don't see but you must give up your — Farm. Give it up 1 Not I ! Think I ; 11 give up any- thing that I know 1 I 've, less me see — how old is my Nab? — I 've lived in this place sixty-four years; and for nine years I was first corporal in the company ; and for twelve years I 've been the oldest deacon in the church ; and I never heard of the world's turning over ; 't is impossible for it to go so fast as to turn over every day. Stu. But look here, Deacon Homespun ■ how many thousand times faster than for the earth to turn round once in twenty-four hours, must the sun go when it is so far from us 1 Farm. Hem ! hem ! hem ! — that 's a plaguy foolish question; I don't quite see into that, myself, but the Bi- ble says so, and nobody 's any business to conspute the Bible, you young blasphemer, you ! Slu. But the Bible was not given to teach philosophy. However, it says the earth was turned as clay to seal; therefore, it proves nothing about it. Farm. Why, hem! hem! hem! — but what makes you think 't is round ? Don't you see 't is flat as far as you can see 1 Stu. For several reasons ; it casts a circular shadow when it eclipses the moon, and, besides, it has been sailed round several times. Farm. You plaguy fool you, the earth never eclipses the moon; and as for sailing round it, they only sail round close to the edge, and take plaguy good care that the 1 '- don't sail off. But if this world turns over once in SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 221 twenty-four hours, they might chain up a vessel to a tree, and it would go round itself every day. Stu. But how happens it that the moon is always eclipsed when the sun is creeping through your under- pinning 1 Farm. Hem ! hem ! Well, I an't goin' to give up anything I know ; and I shan't believe this world turns round till I find I can stand upon my head, for I know the world can't stand without it has something to stand on. Stu. How do the sun, moon and stars, stay up with- out their proper foundation. 7 Farm. How the old boy do you think I know? But if the world turns round, what 's the reason our minister never said nothing 'bout it ? Stu. He '11 tell you so now, or he is not fit for a min- ister. Farm. You 're an impudent scamp ! Do you mean to consult me to my face, and a deacon too ? Stu. If you are offended, I have no more to say. Farm. Well, I '11 make you know better than to con- spute me ! {Strikes him.) (Enter Minister.) Minister. Hold, deacon ! I 'm surprised to find you fighting ! Farm. I han't been fighting. Min. But I saw you fighting. Farm. Well, he 's a villain, and ought to be kicked by every good man, and much more by a deacon ! Min. Why, what has he done ? Farm. Done ! why he 's done everything. He ought to be hung ! Min. Let us hear what it is ? Farm. Why, he's a blasphemer; he holds to the most conbominable doctrine that ever was under heaven. Min. But what has he said, Deacon Homespun, that so exasperates you ? Farm. Why, he 'nies the Bible, and says you an't no more fit for a minister than my old one-horned ram. Mm. Wherein has he denied the Bible, pray '? 19* 222 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Farm. Why, he says this world is round, and yet folks live on 't; and turns over, too ; and that an't all — he 'nies the sun's rising and setting; and if a man won't fight when such conbominable doctrine 's held up, he san't be a Christian. Min. I don't see anything in that, criminal, or con- trary to Scripture. Stu. Did I not tell you your minister would say so ? Farm. Well, you 're all a pack, of blasphemers ; you 'nie the Bible, and I won't stay to talk with you ! (Leaves, and is heard in the distance saying :) Haw long here, whoe, git up, whoe hish ! DIALOGUE LXXIV. start fair; or, don't be too positive. {Enter Dick and Tom.) Dick. I 've seen him, Tom, and he 's a comical chap. I advise you to go and see him, by all means. Tom. I have seen him. He is a droll looking fellow. Dick. Yes, and what a fine set of teeth he has got ! Tom. First rate ! and did you notice what long arms he had 1 Dick. No. I thought his limbs very well propor- tioned, and his skin smooth and fair. Tom. Then you and I don't see alike. I call his skin very coarse and rough, and he has got the ugliest face I ever set eyes on. Dick. Well, Tom, I see there 's no accounting for tastes ; but you will admit that he walked off gracefully with his cane. Tom. His cane ! He had no cane when I saw him, and as for walking, he only moved about on his hands and feet. Dick. That's a likely story, Tom; you don't think you can make me believe that, do you ? Tom. I don't care whether you do or not. I say he walkol on all fours. (Enter Jim.) What do you say, Jim? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 223 Jim. Walk on all fours ! To be sure he does, and stands upright too, when he pleases. He is as spry as a cat. and sneezes as natural as old granny Darby. Tom. There, Dick — I told you so ; but I don't know about his being so very spry. Jim. He is, though. I have seen him leap three times his own height. Then he will lie down, and get up, and do many other things, by word of command. Dick. Yes, he is used to military commands. How nicely he acted General Bonaparte, with his little cocked up hat on ! Jim. I never saw him rigged up in that fashion. Tom. Nor I ; his ugly face must look odd under a cocked up hat. Dick. So it does; and altogether he is the funniest looking little fellow that has been seen in these parts for a long time ; and then he weighs but twenty-five pounds ! Tom. Twenty-five pounds ! You must be a fool, Dick ! — he weighs more than forty pounds. Jim. Nonsense, Tom! I'll bet a good large apple that he won't weigh twenty pounds. {Harry enters?) What do you say, Harry 1 Harry. I have heard your dispute, boys, and you are all mistaken ; nothing easier than to be mistaken. If I am any judge of weight, he '11 go over sixty pounds. Dick. Why, Harry ! he won't weigh half that. Jim. No, nor a quarter ; but I want to know if you don't call him spry and active ? Harry. No. I call him rather clumsy. Tom. Did n't he have monstrous long arms ? Harry. Not longer than common, I believe. Dick. Did he have his little cane ? Harry. No. Tom. I want you to tell Dick if he did n't go on his hands and feet. Harry. No ; he walked upright as anybody else Dick. With his little cocked hat on 1 Harry. No : he wore the same old greasy cloth cap he always wears. Dick. Is not he a genteel looking and well behaved young fellow 1 224 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Harry. I :all him an ill-looking fellow, and ■ Tom. Di .'. n't I tell you so, Dick 1 Harry. And as for his behavior, Squire Shed has just ordered him to be put in jail Tom, Dick, and Jim. In jail ! Harry. Yes ; and I don't see why you should be so surprised about it. It's town talk — the little scamp has been stealing. All three. Stealing! Harry. Yes, stealing. It is as true as that we stand here. Dick. Well, I, for one, don't believe it. Tom. Nor I. Jim. Nor I. Harry. And I don't want to believe it; but you may depend upon it, it is a fact, that Sam was taken up for stealing money from Mr. Traffic's drawer. All three {looking astonished.) Sam ! Sam who ? Harry. Why, Sam Gookin, to be sure. Who have you all been talking about, this half hour ? Dick. I have been talking about Tom Thumb, the little dwarf. Jim. And I have been talking about Mr. Hill's little dog, Carlo. Tom. And I have been talking about the orang-outang at the museum. All four. Ha, ha, ha, ha ! Harry. Well, comrades, let this awkward blunder teach us in future to start fair, and know, when we begin, what we are to talk about. Dick. And let 's keep this affair to ourselves, or we shall get laughed at by the whole school. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 225 DIALOGUE LXXV. lochiel's warning. Loc iel was the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons ; and in tne fol- lowing piece he is supposed to he marching, with the warriors of his clan, to join tk.3 standard which Charles Stuart, called the Pretender, had raised among the Highlands, in his invasion of Scotland in 1745. On his way he is met by a Seer or Wizard, who, having, according to the "popular supersti- tion, the gift of second sight, or prophecy, forewarns him of the disastrous event of the Pretender's enterprise, and exhorts him to return home, and not be involved in the certain destruction that awaited the cause and the followers of Charles, and which afterwards fell upon them in the battle of Cullocien. Seer. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight : They rally, they bleed for their kingdom and crown : Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'T is thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep Albin ! to death and captivity led ! Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead: For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer i Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Seer. Ha ! langh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ] Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn. Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo ! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companioniess, bearing destruction abroad; 226 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. But dowi let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah ! home let him speed — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyrie that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height, Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn; Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return ! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood. Lochiel. False W izard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan ; Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And, like reapers, descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ! When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clan-Ranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed in their tartan array ■ Seer. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day ! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal: 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds, that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight; Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores : But where i 5 the iron-bound prisoner 1 Where 7 For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean- wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn 1 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 227 Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near ; The war-dwjm is muffled, and black is the bier; His death-bell is tolling ; oh ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, tnat it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Shall, victor, exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. DIALOGUE LXXVI. PEDANTRY. CHARACTERS. Digit, a mathematician. Trill, a musician. Sesquipedalia, a linguist and philosopher. Drone, a servant of Mr. Morrell, in whose house the scene is laid. {Digit, alone.) Digit. If theologians are in want of a proof that man- kind are daily degenerating, let them apply to me, Ar- chimedes Digit. I can furnish them with one as clear as any demonstration in Euclid's third or fifth book ; and it is this, — the sub 1 me and exalted science of Mathe- matics is falling into general disuse. O that the patri- otic inhabitants of this extensive country should surfer so degrading a circumstance to exist ! Why, yesterday, 228 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. I asked a ad of fifteen, which he preferred Algebra or Geometry and he told me — O horrible ! he told me he had never studied them ! I was thunderstruck, I was astonished, I was petrified ! Never studied Geometry ! never stud.ed Algebra ! and fifteen years old ! The dark ages are returning. Heathenish obscurity will soon overwhelm the world, unless I do something immedi- ately to enlighten it ; and for this purpose I have now applied to Mr. Morrell, who lives here, and is celebrated for his patronage of learning and learned men. {A knock at door.) Who waits there ? (Enter Drone.) Is Mr. Morrell at home ? Drone {speaking very sloic.) Can't say ; s'pose he is ; indeed, I am sure he is, or was just now. Digit. Why, I could solve an equation while you are answering a question of five words. I mean if the un- known terms were all on one side of the equation. Can I see him ? Drone. There is nobody in this house by the name of Quation. Digit. {Aside.) Now, here 's a fellow that cannot dis- tinguish between an algebraic term and the denomina- tion of his master! — I wish to see Mr. Morrell upon an affair of infinite importance. Drone. O, very likely, sir. I will inform him that Mr. Quation wishes to see him {mimicking) upon an affair of infinite importance. Digit. No, no. Digit — Digit. My name is Digit. Drone. O, Mr. Digy-Digy ! Yery likely. {Exit Drone.) Digit {alone.) That fellow is certainly a negative quantity. He is minus common sense. If this Mr. Morrell is the man I take him to be, he cannot but pa- tronize my talents. Should he not, I don't know how I shall obtain a new coat. I have worn this ever since I began to write my theory of sines and co-tangents ; and my elbows have so often formed right angles with the plane surface of my table, that a new coat or a parallel patch is very necessary. But here comes Mr. Morrell. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 229 {Enter Sesqiiipedalia.) Sir, (bow 7i g low) I am your most mathematical servant. I am sorry, sir, to give you this trouble; but an affair of consequence — (pulling the rags over his elbows) — an affair of consequence, as your servant informed you — Sesqiiipedalia. Servus non est mihi, Domine ; that is, 1 have no servant, sir. I presume you have erred in your calculation; and Digit. No, sir. The calculations I am about to pre- sent you are founded on the most correct theorems of Euclid. You may examine them, if you please. They are contained in this small manuscript. (Producing a folio.) Sesq. Sir, you have bestowed a degree of interruption upon my observations. I was about, or, according to the Latins, futurus sum, to give you a little information concerning the luminary who appears to have deceived your vision. My name, sir, is Tullius Maro Titus Cris- pus Sesqiiipedalia; by profession a linguist and philoso- pher. The most abstruse points in physics or meta- physics are to me transparent as ether. I have come to this house for the purpose of obtaining the patronage of a gentleman who befriends all the literati. Now, sir, perhaps I have induced conviction, in mente tua, that is, in your mind, that your calculation was erroneous. Digit. Yes, sir, as to your person, I was mistaken ; but. my calculations, I maintain, are correct, to the tenth part of a circulating decimal. Sesq. But what is the subject of your manuscript? Have you discussed the infinite divisibility of matter 1 Digit. No, sir; I cannot reckon infinity; and I have nothing to do with subjects that cannot be reckoned. Sesq. Why, I can reckon about it. I- reckon it is di- visible ad infinitum. But perhaps your work is upon the materiality of light; and if so, which side of the question do you espouse ? Digit. O, sir, I think it quite immaterial. Sesq. What ! light immaterial ! Do you say light is immaterial ? Digit, No . I say it is quite immaterial which side of 20 230 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. the question I esp;use. I have nothing to do with it. And besides, I am a bachelor, and do not mean to es- pouse anything at present. Sesq. Do you write upon the attraction of cohesion 1 You know matter has the properties of attraction and repulsion. Digit. I care nothing about matter, so I can find enough for mathematical demonstration. Sesq, I cannot conceive what you have written upon, then. O, it must be the centripetal and centrifugal mo- tions. Digit {peevishly.) No, no! I wish Mr. Morrell would come ! Sir, I have no motions but such as I can make with my pencil upon my slate, thus. {Figuring upon his ha?id.) Six, minus four, plus two, equal eight, minus six, plus two. There, those are my motions. Sesq. O, I perceive you grovel in the depths of Arith- metic. I suppose you never soared into the regions of Philosophy. You never thought of the vacuum which has so long filled the heads of philosophers. Digit. Vacuum ! {Putting his hand to his forehead.) Let me think. Sesq. Ha ! what ! have you got it sub manu, that is, under your hand ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! Digit. Eh ! under my hand ? What do you mean, sir 1 — that my head is a vacuum ? Would you insult, me, sir ? insult Archimedes Digit ? Why, sir, I '11 cipher you into infinite divisibility. I '11 set you on an inverted cone, and give you a centripetal and centrifugal motion out of the window, sir ! I '11 scatter your solid contents ! Sesq. Da veniam, that is, pardon me, it was merely a lapsus Ungues, that is, Digit. Well, sir, I am not fond of lapsus Unguals, at all, sir. However, if you did not mean to offend, I accept your apology. I wish Mr. Morrell would come. Sesq. But, sir, is your work upon mathematics 1 Digit. Yes, sir. In this manuscript I have endeav- ored to elucidate the squaring of the circle. Sesq. But, sir, a square circle is a contradiction in terms. You cannot make one. Digit. I perceive you are a novice in this sublime SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 231 science. The object is to find a square which shall be equal to a gh?3n circle; which I have done by a rule drawn from the radii of the circle and the diagonal of the square. x\nd by my rule the area of the square will equal the area of the circle. Sesq. Your terms are tome incomprehensible. Diag- onal is derived from the Greek. Dia and goneo, that is, " through the corner." But I don't see what it has to do with a circle ; for if I understand aright, a circle, like a sphere, has no corners. Digit. You appear to be very ignorant of the science of numbers. Your life must be very insipidly spent in poring over philosophy and the dead languages. You never tasted, as I have, the pleasure arising from the investigation of a difficult problem, or the discovery of a new rule in quadratic equations. Sesq. Poh ! poh ! ( Tunis round in disgust, and hits Digit with his cane.) Digit. O, you villain ! Sesq. I wish, sir, Digit. And so do I wish, sir, that that cane was raised to the fourth power, and laid over your head as many times as there are units in a thousand. Oh ! oh ! Sesq. Did my cane come in contact with the sphere of attraction around your shin ? I must confess, sir — {Enter Trill) But here is Mr. Morrell, Salve Domine ! Sir, your ser- vant. Trill. Which of you, gentlemen, is Mr. Morrell 1 Sesq. O ! neither, sir. I took you for that gentleman. Trill. No, sir; I am a teacher of music. Flute, harp, viol, violin, violoncello, organ, or anything of the kind; any instrument you can mention. I have just been dis- playing my powers at a concert, and come recommended to the patronage of Mr. Morrell. Sesq. For the same purpose are that gentleman and myself here. Digi. {still rubbing his shin.) Oh ! oh ! Trill. Has the gentleman the gout ? I have heard 232 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. of its being cured by music. Shall I sing you a tune I Hera ! hem ! Faw Digit. No, no ; I want none of your tunes. I 'd make that philosopher sing, though, and dance, too, if he had n't made a vulgar fraction of my leg. Sesq. In verilate, that is, in truth, it happened forte, that is, by chance. Trill {talking to himself.) If B be flat, me is in ,E. Digit. Ay, sir ; this is only an integral part of your conduct, ever since you came into this house. You have continued to multiply your insults in the abstract ratio of a geometrical progression, and at last have proceeded to violence. The dignity of Archimedes Digit never experienced such a reduction descending before. Trill {to himself.') Twice fa sol la, and then comes me again. Digit. If Mr. Morrell does not admit me soon. I '11 leave the house, while my head is on my shoulders. Trill. Gentlemen, you neither keep time nor chord. But if you can sing, we will carry a trio before we go. Sesq. Can you sing an ode of Horace or Anacreon ? I should like to hear one of them. Digit. 1 had rather hear you sing a demonstration of the forty-seventh proposition, first book. Trill. I never heard of those performers, sir; where did they belong? Sesq. They did belong to Italy and Greece. Trill. Ah ! Italy ! There are our best masters, such as Morelli and Fuselli. Can you favor me with some of their compositions. Sesq. O yes ; if you have a taste that way, I can fur- nish you with them, and with Virgil, Sallust, Cicero, Cassar, and Qiiintillian; and I have an old Greek Lexicon which I can spare. Trill. Ad libitum, my dear sir, they will make a handsome addition to my musical library. Digit. But, sir, what pretensions have you to the patronage of Mr. Morrell? I don't believe you can square the circle. Trill. Pretensions, sir ! I have gained a victory over the great Tantamarrarra, the new opera singer, who SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 233 pretended to vie with me. 'T was in the symphony of Handel's Oratorio of Saul, where you know everything depends upon the tempo giusto, and where the primo should proceed in smorgando, and the secondo, agitati. But he was on the third ledger line, I was an octave below, when, with a sudden appoggialura, I rose to D in alt, and conquered him. (Enter Drone.) Drone. My master says how he will wait on you, gentlemen. Digit. What is your name, sir ? Drone. Drone, at your service. Digit. No, no ; you need not drone at my service. A very applicable name, however. Sesq. Drone ? That is derived from the Greek Draon, that is, flying or moving swiftly. Trill. He seems to move in andante measure, that is, to the tune of Old Hundred. Drone. Very likely, gentlemen. Digit. Well, as I came first, I will enter first. Sesq. Right. You shall be the antecedent, I the sub- sequent, and Mr. Trill the consequent. Trill. Right. I was always a man of consequence, — Fa, sol, la, Fa, sol, &c. {Exeunt.) DIALOGUE LXXVII. GENTLEMAN AND IRISH SERVANT. (Gentleman seated at a table ; Irish servant enters, in search of employment.) Irishman {taking off his hat, and bowing.) An' plaze yer honor, would ye be after giving employment to a faithful servant, who has been recimminded to call upon yer honor ? Gentleman. You appear to have walked some dis- tance ; does i+ rain 1 Ir. Never a drop, plaze yer honor. 20* 234 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Gent, {looking out of ivindov;.) Ah ! I see the sun shines now ; post nnbila Phoebus. Ir. The post has not yet arrived, sir. Gent. What may I call your name 1 Ir. My name is Michael Carnes, and I have always been called Mike, and you are at liberty to call me that same. Gent. Well, Mike, who was your last master ? Ir. Mr. Jacobs, plaze yer honor; and a nicer man never brathed. Gent. How long did you live with Mr. J. ? Ir. In troth, sir, I can't tell. I passed my time so pleasantly in his sarvice, that I niver kept any account of it, at all, at all. I might have lived with him all the days of my life, and a great deal longer, if I had plazed to do so. Gent. Why, then, did you leave him ? Ir. It was by mutual agrament. The truth was, a slight difference arose between us, and he said I should not live with him longer ; and at the same instant, you see, I declared I would not live with him : so we parted on good terms, — by agrament, you see. Gent. Was not your master a proud man 1 Ir. Indade he was — bless his honest sowl ! he would not do a mane act for the univarse. Gent. Well, Mike, how old are you now ? Ir. I am just the same age of Patrick O'Leary; he and I were born the same wake. Gent. And how old is he ? Ir. He is just my age. He and I are just of an age, you see, only one of us is older than the other ; but which is the oldest I cannot say, neither can Patrick. Gent. Were you born in Dublin ? Ir. No, sir, plaze yer honor, though I might have been if I had desired ; but as I always preferred the country, I was born there ; — and, plaze God, if I live and do well, I '11 be buried in the same parish I was born in. Gent. You can write, I suppose. Ir. Yes, sir ; as fast as a dog can trot. Gent. What is the usual mode of travelling in Ire- land? SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 235 Ir. Why, sir, if you travel by water, you must take a boat ; and if you travel by land, either in a chaise or on horseback ; and they who cannot afford either of them are obliged to trudge it on foot, which, to my mind, is decidedly the safest and chapest mode of moving about. Gent. And which is the pleasantest season for trav- elling? Ir. Faith, sir, I think that season in which a man has most money in his pocket. Gent. I think your roads are passably good. Ir. They are all quite passable, if you only pay the toll-man. Gent. I understand you have many black cattle in Ireland ? Ir. Faith, we have plenty of every color. Gent. I think you have too much rain in your coun- try. Ir. So every one says ; but Sir Boyle has promised to bring in an act of parliament in favor of fair weather, and I am sure the poor hay-makers and turf-cutters will bless him for it. It was he that first proposed that eve- ry quart bottle should hold just two pints. - Gent. As you have many fine rivers, I suppose you have an abundance of nice fish. Ir. And well may you say that ; for water never wet better ones. Why, master, I won't tell you a lie; but if you were at the Boyne you could get salmon and trout for nothing ; and, if you were at Ballyshanny, you 'd get them for much less. Gent. Well, you seem to be a clever fellow, and if you will call again to-morrow, I will see what I can do for you. Ir. Pace to your good sowl ! I will surely do so. {Bowing, leaves.') * DIALOGUE LXXVIII. FRENCHMAN AND HIS ENGLISH TUTOR. Frenchman. Ha, my good friend ! I have met with one difficulty — one ver' strange word How you call h-o-u-g-h, ha 7 236 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. Tutor. H-o-u-g-h spells huff. Fr. Ver' good, huff ; and snuff, him what you put m de nose, you spell s-n-o-u-g-h, ha 7 Tu. O, no, no ! S-n-u-double-f spells snuff. The truth is, words ending in ough are not very regular in their pronunciation. Fr. Ah, ver' good! 'Tis beau' ml language! H-o-u-g-h is huff. I will remember him. And c-o-u-g-h is cuff. I have one bad cuff, ha ? Tu. No, that is wrong. We say kauf, not cuff. Fr. Kauf? Ver' well. Huff and kauf, me no for- get; and, pardon me, how you call him what makes bread with ; d-o-u-g-h, duff, ha ? Tu. No, not duff Fr. Not duff? Ah, monsieur, I understan' — it is dauf ha? Tu. No ; d-o-u-g-h spells doe. Fr. Doe ? Ver' fine language, sure ! wonderful lan- guage ! D-o-u-g-h is doe, and t-o-u-g-h is toe, certainment. The bread is made of doe, and my beef-steak is very toe, ha? Tu. O, no, no ! You should say tuff, and not toe. Fr. Tuff? Then him what the farmer uses, what 37-011 call him, p-1-o-u-g-h — pluff? ha? no? Me no get him right ? Is his name ploe, like doe ? One ver' fine ploe, ha? Tu. You are still wrong, my friend. P-1-o-u-g-h spells plow. Fr. Plow ! ha ? Ver' wonderful language ! Me un- derstand him ver' soon. Plow, doe, kauf, and tuff. Then one more; r-o-u-g-h — what you call General Taylor ; Rauf and Ready, ha ? No ! certainment, then, it must be Row and Ready, ha ? Tu. No. R-o-u-g-h spells ruff. Fr. Ruff, ha ? Let me not forget him. R-o-u-g-h is ruff, and b-o-u-g-h is buff, ha ? Tu. No ; bow, and not buff. Fr. Ver' wonderful language, sure ! And what you call t-h-r-o-u-g-h ? — tlirow ? or thruff? or what you call him? Tu. T-h-r-o-u-g-h spalls thru. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 237 Fr. Ah, 't is ver' simple, sure — wonderful language ! but I have had e-n-o-u-g-h, what you call him, ha 1 Tu. Ennff. But that you may not forget these ter- minations, it may be well for you to write them, as I spell and pronounce them. ( Tutor spells and Frenchman writes as follows.} H-o-u-g-h — huff. C-o-u-g-h — kauf. P-1-o-u-g-h — plow. D-o-u-g-h — doe. R-o-u-g-h — ruff. S-1-o-u-g-h — slou and sluf. L-o-u-g-h — lok. T-h-r-o-u-g-h — thru. T-o-u-g-h — tuf. T-h-o-r-o-u-g-h — thur-ro. B-o-u-g-h — boio. H-i-c-c-o-u-g-h — hik-kup. B-o-r-o-u-g-h — bur-o. T-r-o-u-g-h — trof. E-n-o-u-g-h — enuf. F-u-r-1-o-u-g-h — fur-lo. Fr. Ennff, sure ! Ver' strange language ! You cer- tainment have given me e-n-o-u-g-h for dis one lesson, and now I will take what de soldiers call one f-u-r- 1-o-u-g-h. ♦ DIALOGUE LXXIX. THE FANCY DRESS DEJEUNE. (Mrs. Leo Hunter, attired as Minerva, is receiving the company, who make their appearance in various fancy dresses.) Servant. Mr. Pickwick, ma'am. Mrs. Leo Hunter. What ! — where ? Mr. Pickwick. Here. Mrs. L. H. Is it possible that I have really the grat- ification of beholding Mr. Pickwick himself 7 Mr. P. No other, ma'am. Permit me to introduce 238 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. my friends, Mr. Tupman — Mr. Winkle — Mi. Snod- grass — to the authoress of "The Expiring Frog." Mrs. L. H. Mr. Pickwick, I must make you promise not to stir from my side the whole day. There are hun- dreds of people here that I must positively introduce you to. Mr. P. You are very kind, ma'am. Mrs. L. H. In the first place, here are my little girls ; I had almost forgotten them. Mr. Pick. They are very beautiful. Mr. Pott. They are very like their mamma, sir. Mrs. L. H. Oh, you naughty man ! Mr. Pott. Why, now, my dear Mrs. Hunter, you Know that when your picture was in the exhibition of the Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you, or your youngest daughter ; for you were so much alike, there was no telling the difference between you. Mrs. L. H. Well, and if they did, why need you re- peat it before strangers. Count ! Count ! Count. Ah! you want me? Mrs. L. H. I want to introduce two very clever peo- ple to each other. Mr. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count Smorltork. {She adds, in a whisper :) The famous foreigner — gathering materi- als for his great work on England. — Hem ! Count Smorltork. Mr. Pickwick. Count S. What you say, Mrs. Hunt ? Pig Vig, 01 Big Yig — what you call lawyer, eh ? I see ; that is it. Big Vig. {Proceeds to write in his tablets.) Mrs. L. H. No, no, Count ! Pick- wick. Count S. Ah ! ah ! I see. Peek — Christian name ; Weeks — surname : good, ver' good ! Peek Weeks. ( Writes.) How do you do, Weeks ? Mr. P. Yery well, I thank you. Have you been long in England? CountS. Long — ver' longtime — fortnight — more. Mr. P. Do you stay here long ? Count S. One week. Mr. P. You will have enough to do to gather a31 the materials you want in that time. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 239 Count S. Eh ? — they are gathered. Mr. P. Indeed ! Count S. (tapping his forehead.) They are here. — Large book at home, — full of notes, music, picture, sci- ence, potry, poltic — all tings. Mr. P. The word Politics, sir, comprises in itself a difficult study, of no inconsiderable magnitude. Count S. Ah ! (Drawing out his tablets again.) Ver' good! Fine words to begin a chapter. "Chapter Forty-seven. Poltics. The word Poltic surprises by himself " {Writes.) Mrs. L. H. Count ! Count S. Mrs. Hunt — Mrs. L. H. This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick's, and a poet. Count S. {Takes out his tablets again.) Stop. Head, Potry; chapter, Literary Friends; name, Snow- grass. Ver' good. Introduced to Snowgrass — great poet — friend of Peek Weeks — by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote other sweet poem — what is that name 1 Frog — Perspiring Frog — ver' good — ver' good, indeed. DIALOGUE LXXX. CIRCUMSTANCES ALTER CASES. ( Snarl, a merchant, at his desk, with cloth lying upon the counter. Enter Spunge.) Spunge. Your most obedient, sir. Have I the honor of addressing my friend, Mr. Snarl ? Snarl. My name, sir, is Snarl ; but I do not recognize your countenance. " Eight and six are fourteen " Sp. I dare say. It is many years since we sailed in the same steamboat to Albany. I now put up with law- yer Keen, of your city, and Sn. I am lawyer Keen's and your humble servant, but as we have no business together that I know of, you will excuse me. " Carry five." Sp. I find, sir, upon looking over my late father's 240 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. papers, an account of a debt left unpaid, and am come Sn. It is no business of mine; I owe no ma:i. ''Two and seven " Sp. I wish I could say as much for myself, but I find that my father was indebted to yours, in the small bal- ance of fifty pounds, and as a man of honor, I am come to discharge the debt. Sn. (Rising.) My dear sir, ten thousand pardons for my forgetfulness ! I remember you perfectly now. Yes, you lived in Kinderhook, and we were messmates. Pray, sir, be seated. (Hands a chair.) Sp. Dear sir, if those who are indebted to me had a little of my punctuality, I should be a richer man than I am ; but to have my name in one's book is a thing I can't bear. Sn. And yet the generality of people bear it very patiently. Sp. I am upon thorns, in a manner, while I owe one farthing ; and for that reason I am come to know when you '11 be at leisure to receive the money. Sn. No time like the present. Sp. True. I have it at home, ready told ; but as I have the management of my father's effects only as a guardian for my daughter Harriet, it 's proper that the other guardians should be by at the payment. Sn. Very true, sir ; then what do you think of to- morrow at three o'clock ? Sp. With all my heart. But I have interrupted yon, perhaps. (Rises.) Why, sir, I imagine" you do more business than all the shopkeepers in this part of the coun- try put together. Sn. I can't complain. Sp. No, you have such a way with you that those who buy once can't, for the blood of them, help coming to you again. A pretty bit of cloth this. Sn. Very pretty. Sp. One meets, in your shop, such a generosity of treatment and politeness of behavior, that makes it jleas- anter to pay money than to receive it elsewhere. The wool seems tolerably fine. SCHOOL DIALOGUES. 241 Sn. Right Spanish wool, every hair of it, sir. Sp. So I thought ; now we talk of Spanish wool, if I am not mistaken, Mr. Snarl, you and I went to school together formerly. Sn. What, to old Ironflst ? Sp. The same ; you were a handsome youth, I re- member. Sn. So my mother always said. Sp. Egad, for old acquaintance' sake, you and I must eat a bit of dinner together to-day. We have a fine goose at home, that a client sent Mr. Keen from Norfolk. Sn. A goose ! that 5 s my favorite dish. Sp. And my wife shall dress it by a family receipt. It 's a treasure — that receipt 's a perfect treasure ! Her uncle, the late Alderman Dumpling, passed through the whole circle of corporation honors, and died mayor, by virtue of that receipt. Sn. Ay, ay ! Sp. Then Mrs. Keen will be happy to see you ; now I think on 't, I promised her that you should have my custom for the future ; and to make a beginning, I don't care if I have the pattern of a suit of clothes from you now. Sn. Very happy to accommodate you, sir ; what color would you choose ? Sp. Color ! why here 's a pretty one enough, to my mind, sir. Sn. Very pretty, indeed, sir; it 's an iron gray. Shall 1 cut off the quantity you want, to have it ready ? Sp. To have it ready ; no, Mr. Snarl, pay as you go, that 's my rule ; pay as you go. Sn. Good, an excellent rule it is too. Sp. Do you remember, Mr. Snarl, the evening we were together at the Goose and Gridiron, in Albany 1 Sn. What, the evening I so roasted the parson ? Sp. The same. You were very severe on him. \ ou had a world of wit. Pray what must I pay you for a yard of this cloth ? Sn. Why, sir, another should pay me nineteen and sixpence ; but come, you shall have it at nineteen shil- 21 242 SCHOOL DIALOGUES. lings. Now I think of it, here 's your quantity, ready cut. Sp. Ready cut ! That 's lucky, indeed. {Snatches up the cloth.) S?t. Stop a moment, till I measure it before you. Sp. O fie ! do you think I have any doubt of you ? Sn. But the price. Sp. Poh ! I never haggle with a friend ; I leave al 1 that to you. Good-day. Sn. Let my shopman carry it over, and bring back the Sp. No, no ; don't take him from business. It is but a step, you know, and I 'd carry it twice as far to oblige you. Compliments to Mrs. Snarl ; — good-by to you, good-by, good-by. {Exit.) DIALOGUE LXXX1 INTERVIEW BETWEEN SAM WELLER AND HIS FATHER. (Mr. Weller, sen., is seated at a table, on which are a pot of ale, a round of beef, appoint the reasonable expectations thus excited. They are elementary works pre- pared by authors in every way capable of doing justice to their respective undertakings, and who have evidently bestowed upon them the necessary time and labor to adapt them to their purpose. We recommend them to teachers and parents with confidence If not introduced as class-books in the school, they may be used to excellent advantage in general exercises, and occasional class exercises, for which every teacher ought to Krovide himself with an ample store of materials. The volumes may be had separate- j ; and the one first named, in the hands of a teacher of the younger classes, might furnish an inexhaustible fund of amusement and instruction. Together, they would constitute a rich treasure to a family of intelligent children, and impart a thirst for knowledge." — Vermont Chronicle. m Of all the numerous works of this class that have been published, there are none that have acquired a more thoroughly deserved and high reputation than this series. The Chambers, of Edinburgh, well known as the careful and intelligent publishers of a vast number of works of much importance in the educational world, are the fathers of thus series of books, and the American editor has exercised an unusual degree of judgment in their preparation for the use of schools as well as private families in thv country."— Philad. Bulletin. <* The titles furnish a key to the contents, and it is only necessary for us to say, that gae material of each volume is admirably worked up, presenting with sufficient fulness aad with much clearness of method the several subjects which are treated."— Cin Gazette. ** Wa notice these works, not merely because they are school books, but for the par poee of expressing our thanks, as the 'advocate' of the educational interests of the people and their children, to the enterprising publishers of these and many other val uabio works of the same character, the tendency of which is to diffuse useful know- ledge throughout the masses, for the good work they are doing, and the hopo thai then sward may be commensurate with their deserts."— Main* School Advocate A. S. BARNES & COMPANY'S PUBUC1TIONS. Northend' a Elocutionary Work*. ELOCUTIONARY WORKS, BY CHARLES NORTHEND, PRINCIPAL OF THE KPPE8 SCHOOL, SALKH, MASS. I. NORTHEND'S LITTLE SPEAKER. II. NORTHEND'S AMERICAN SPEAKER. III. NORTHEND'S SCHOOL DIALOGUES. I. NORTHEND'S LITTLE SPEAKER. "The Little Speaker, and Juvenile Reader. — Mr. Northend is known, both at sn experienced teacher, and as the author of the ' American Speaker,' and other edu- cational works. The object of this little work is, to provide the means for exercising auite young pupils in declamation. Mr. Northend justly remarks, that the longer exer- cises "in declamation and composition are delayed, the more difficult it will be to awaken an interest in them. This little volume is well adapted to its purpose."— Vermont Chronicle. II. NORTHEND'S AMERICAN SPEAKER. • "American Speaker. — This is an admirable book — and as the exercise of declama tion, of late, is considered essential to a good and finished education, and is introduced into our best schools as an important element, we hope that this volume of well-selected pieces, compiled with great care by the author from our best writers, will find its wav 'nto the hands of every school boy." — Barnstable Patriot. "American Speaker, by Charles Northend, Principal of the Eppes School, Salem. — In this work, Mr. Northend seems perfectly to have accomplished the object he had in view. The selections are made with perfect taste, and afford an ample variety, to meet all occasions. Wherever a work of this description is wanted, this may be safely rec- ommended, as possessing every desirable attribute. It is for sale by all our book- sellers.'' — Salem. (Mass.) Gazette. "It is the best compilation of the kind we have ever examined, fhe selections are of a high character, and an elevated moral tone is prominent throughout the work. The book is divided into three parts— the first beiug composed of sixty-two prose ex- ercises; the second, of thirty-four interesting dialogues ; and the last, of seventy short Kerns. We hope this book will soon be extensively introduced into our schools, e author truly remarks in the preface, 'The advantages of frequent practice in speaking are so many and so great, that it should receive more prominence in all t w schools.'"— Salem (Mass.) Advertiser. III. NORTHEND'S SCHOOL DIALOGUES. " The character of the author of this work is a guarantee that it is a book of goo* practical common sense — one that will take hold of the youthful mind, and delight snd interest it. A cursory examination has fully confirmed us in this favorable opin- ion. The author has selected such dialogues as contain good sentiments, and such a* Wili have a salutai t influence on the mind of the young." — Teacher's Advocate. "The selections manifest an intimate knowledge of the wants of the young, a scru- pulous regard to the sentiments inculcated, and an eye to combined instruction and amusement They are preferable to any other books of the same character with which we are acquainted, from the greater variety of the selections, and from their bein* railed to a considerable extent from the works of modern authors. Children tire of ok* threadbare pieces, however eood they may be ; and novelty has ever for them pecaliai -Ohitmceeter Times. A. S. BARNES