some novels, like an endless chain, seem to have neither beginning nor end; others, while they give every little incident with wearisome minuteness, stop suddenly when they come to the colophon, pause in doubt and trepidation, and finally conclude with two or three sentences of sententious brevity, in which the word marriage occurs at least once. the writer of this history, like all right-minded scribes, becomes disgusted when the last difficulty is surmounted, but yet has sufficient moral power to devote a whole chapter (though a short one) to the conclusion. gentle reader, you ought to be indulgent to one who has such self-abnegation—such firmness of purpose—such greatness of mind.
this story draws to an end for several reasons: first, there is no great affinity between schoolboys, for whom it professes to be written, and volumes seventy-nine chapters in length; secondly, if the reader is not tired of it, the writer[391] begins to be; thirdly, a story dies a natural death as soon as its writer unriddles, or attempts to unriddle, its mysteries; fourthly (and this is perhaps the strongest reason of all), there is nothing more to be written.
if there are other reasons why the story should be brought to an end, they concern the writer, not the reader, and therefore need not be specified. but in case the reader should care to hear what became of those boys, the writer graciously spins out a few pages more.
naturally they married, observes the reader who is familiar with works of fiction. certainly; every one of them married.
marmaduke fell desperately in love; and, as was evinced when he rescued sauterelle, he was a man who could love passionately and for ever. he married the object of his choice, of course. by the way, she was actually a french heiress—at least, her papa was a frenchman teaching french in one of our colleges, and on the wedding-day he gave her the magnificent dowry of five hundred dollars, the accumulated savings of very many years.
charles married the young lady referred to incidentally in the last chapter. all the heroes were present at his wedding; and their enthusiasm ran so high that they clubbed together, and bought the happy pair a marvel of a clock, that indicated not only the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, and centuries, but was furnished, also, with a brass band,—which thundered forth “yankee doodle,” “hail columbia,” and “home, sweet home,”—a regiment of well-dressed negroes, an ear-piercing gong, and “all the latest improvements.”
charles and his pretty little wife tolerated this nuisance exactly three days, and then the former proposed the following resolution: “that clock runs just one year after being wound, and the boys wound it up tight when they brought it here and set it up. if we let it alone till it runs down, we shall be as mad as the man that made it. i used to delight in “yankee doodle,” but now i abominate it! we can keep the handsomest darkey in remembrance of the boys’ mistaken kindness,—rather,[392] in remembrance of the horrible fate they prepared for us,—but the clock’s doom is sealed. i will immolate it this very evening; and the street boys may make off with its broken remains.”
it is hardly worth while to go on and describe the wedding-feast of each of the heroes. turn to the last page of any novel whatsoever, and you will find an account quite as applicable to this case as to the original of a hero’s marriage.
will continues to commit his ridiculous blunders as of yore; but they are not quite so ridiculous as those narrated in this tale, for he has learned to keep a strict watch over himself. but, notwithstanding that, notwithstanding his bumps, notwithstanding that he is now a man, he will occasionally unstring the nerves of some weak-headed person by an unseemly act.
stephen still takes delight in playing off his practical jokes. he often gets into trouble by this means, but it is not in his nature to profit by experience.
george is a man, wise and learned in his own estimation. he sends scientific treatises to the leading journals sometimes, but, alas! it generally results in their being declined. but george does not value time and postage-stamps so highly as he should, consequently he still persists in harassing the editors with his manuscripts. he is very dispassionate in his choice of subjects, writing with equal impartiality and enthusiasm about astronomy, geology, philosophy, a?ronautics, and philology. probably that is the reason why he does not succeed. if he should take up a single science and devote all his energies to it, his name might eventually become known to every school-boy in the land.
the less said about timor, the better. any boy who will attempt to hide from a june thunder-storm by skulking under his bed, can never become a man. he may grow up to man’s estate, doubtless; but he will be nothing but a big, overgrown coward.
bear this in mind, o parent; and if you should ever catch your little son skulking in the aforementioned place while the lightning is playing over the vault of[393] heaven, fall on him, drag him out by the coat-collar, and hoist him on the gate-post, that he may see how beautiful and marvellous the lightning is.
henry is a man, in every sense of the word. he has a good head for business, and in a few years will, in all probability, become a rich man—which, in good romances, is the main point.
marmaduke never became a poet, as steve fondly prophesied. but he is probably the most orthodox antiquary in the united states. he may safely be consulted on whatever relates to antiquities, as his information is unlimited, and his home one great museum of curiosities and monstrosities. to be sure, there are some hideous and repulsive objects in his cabinets—objects which a child would shudder to pass in broad daylight—but his home is the resort of profound, but absent-minded and whimsical, antiquaries from all parts. he and his wife live a quiet and happy life, pitied contemptuously by the ignorant, but honored and respected by those who know them best. he is not so romantic as formerly, his experience with “sauterelle” having shaken his faith in romance and mystery so much that he afterwards transferred his attention to antiquities, leaving romance and mystery for the novelists and detectives to deal with. he is undeniably a genius, and, much to steve’s joy, a thorough american.
reader, it is utterly impossible for the writer to inform you of the occupation of all the others—in fact, he is not morally certain that he did right in making an antiquary of marmaduke. take the matter into your own hands, and think in what business those boys would succeed best. if you can tell, good—very good; the writer is spared the trouble.
therefore: each reader is at liberty to make what he pleases of will, charles, george, stephen, jim, and henry. there is, however, this proviso: do not think of charles as an ambassador to persia; of steve, as the “proprietor” of a pea-nut stand; of jim, as a reader of ghost-stories at midnight. do not think of one of them as a future candidate for the presidency.
[394]
something has been said of steve’s calligraphic propensities. but he never made his fortune with his pencil; he did little more than while away an idle hour.
“ah,” sighs the conscientious reader, “were those boys not reformed? did the faults of their boyhood cling to them in their manhood?”
yes; they clung to them. it was originally the intention to reform them, one and all; but insurmountable difficulties lay in the way. in the first place, nothing short of a frightful, perhaps fatal, catastrophe could have a lasting effect on them; and it is unpleasant to deal with catastrophes. consequently, they are suffered to live on, their ways not amended. but the writer is as grieved at their follies, or faults, as you are, gentle reader.
after a careful and critical perusal of this composition,—which the writer is conceited enough boldly to call “tale,” “story,” and “history,” and indirectly to call “romance” and “novel,”—the reader may inquire, vaguely: “who is supposed to be the hero of it, anyway?”
the writer does not resent this as an insult, but replies calmly that he does not know. in the beginning, it was designed that will should be the hero-in-chief, but it soon became manifest that that was a mistaken idea. will is, at best, a shabby hero, not half so noble as the gamins in the fable, who stopped stoning the frogs when the frogs reasoned them out of it.
in point of religion, will is probably the best of all, though each one is sound in his belief. george does not permit his scientific hobbies to shake his faith in god or man; and if the reader imagines he detects profane levity in the course of this book, he is mistaken, for nothing of the sort is intended.
we do not inform possible inquirers what church these worthies attended, or whether each one attended a different church. we do not disclose with which political party they sided, but it may be taken for granted that they were not all republicans nor all democrats.
there is a motive for this reticence—a very base and significant motive. that motive is—policy!
[395]
to return to will. he endeavored to live up to the precept enforced in the following lines:
“so live, that when thy summons comes to join
the innumerable caravan, which moves
to that mysterious realm, where each shall take
his chamber in the silent halls of death,
thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
by an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”
the disgusted reader, if he has persevered to the end, tumbles this volume into an out-of-the-way corner, fetches a yawn of intense relief, and mutters, “good-bye to that self-styled writer, with his wegotism and his ‘demoralized’ heroes, who are always ‘chuckling’ over their atrocities; and who are a set of noodles, anyway; always quaking with fear, overwhelmed with consternation, or shuddering with horror—and all for nothing.”
the end
