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 marve............