GIFT or Dr. Horace Ivie \ „^,^i^- / THE HUNDRED DIALOGUES, NEW AND ORIGINAL; DESIGNED FOR READING AND EXHIBITION IN SCHOOLS, ACADEMIES, AND PRIVATE cmdLtes, "; WILLIAM BENTLEY FOWLE, ' A-Uthor of Familiar Dialogues; The Common School Speaker The Primary Reader; The Bible Reader, and other School Books. BOSTON: SAMUEL F. NICHOLS, NO. 43 WASHINGTON STREET. NEW YORK; COLLINS & BRO., lOG LEONARD STREET. Gm0F llortljeiiVs ^locutionarji Series, NORTHEND'S LITTLE SPEAKER— The Little Speaker and and Juvenile Reader, being a collection of pieces in Prose, Poetry, and Dialogue, designed for exercises in speaking and occasional reading in Primary Schools. By Charles Northend, A.M. 18mo. Price 30 cents. This little work is a judicious selection of simple and instructive pieces for the use of beginners in the study of elocution. It has been the com- piler's aim to adapt the work to the capacities of children, and at the same time to have the matter such as will make the proper moral im- pression. NORTHEND'S AMERICAN SPEAKER.-The American Speaker ; being a collection of pieces in Prose, Poetry, and Dialogue, designed for exercises in Declamation in Schools. By Charles Xortu- END. Improved edition. 12mo. Price 75 cents. In this volume will be found such variety as will tend to meet the wants of teachers and pupils, to whom it is commended, with the hope that it may prove a valuable and pleasant aid, and tend to give import- ance and interest to the subject of declamation. NORTHEND'S SCHOOL DIALOGTJES.-School Dialogues; comprising one hunured and one selections, particularly adapted to tlie use of schools. By Charles Northbnd. Twentieth edition, enlarged. 12 mo. Price 75 cents. The success of the " American Speaker" has induced the author to prepare this volume, which has been very favorably received. It con- tains -selections eminently adaoted to cultivate the elocutionary powers of the' student. • .' : •• ' •* la:cl|fls-.%rciker* THE NEW AMERICAN SPEAKER ; a collection of Oratorical and Dramatic pieces. Soliloquies and Dialogues, with an original in- troductory essay on the Elements of Elocution, desitned for the use of Schools, Academies, and Colleges. By J. C. Zacho, A.M. 12mo Price, $1. " This is a work which, for the pnrpoae, has no superior. The selections apppur to us tasteful and elegant. They are certainly made' from authors of the highest classical reputation. Copious in matter, tasteful in style, and clearly and hand- Vfnely printed, it is a book, we apprehend, that will supersede all others in tlie class • 1 d exhibition room, and become a general favorite both with teachers and students." \iiterary Advertiser. Copies of any of the above mailed post-paid on receipt of price. COLLINS & BROTHER, Publishers, No. 82 Warren Street, New York. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, Bt MARIA ANTOINETTE FOWLE, In the Clerk's Offlcft of the District Court of tJA6«. LXIl. TheGabbler 139 LXl JI Poverty and crime 142 LXIV. The Shooting of Young Ideas 144 LXV. City Sights with Country Eyes 147 LX\X City and Country, which is Best ? 150 LXVII Worth makes the Man 153 LX VIII. The Doctor in spite of Himself 158 LXIX. Regulus 160 LXX. The Charm of Woman 162 LXXI. The Poet in Search of a Patron 166 LXXII. The Rehearsal 108 LXXIII. TheBroken Chain 174 LXXI V. The Newsmonger 17(5 LXXV. Corporal Punishment 178 LXX VI. Manners make the Man 181 LXXVII. Life Insurance 183 LXXVin. The Reformed Wife 1S5 LXXIX. The Two Poets 189 LXXX. The Hypochondriac 191 LXXXL William Tell and the Cap 195 LXXXn. The Manly Virtues 197 LXXXIII. Nathan and David 206 LXXXIV. Fashionable Conversation 208 LXXXV. Scraping Acquaintance 211 LXXXVI. John Bull and Son 214 LXXXVII. Damon and Pythias 216 LXXXVIII Tobacco 219 LXXXIX. The Story Teller 221 XC. Love and Misanthropy 224 XCI. Never too Old to Learn 227 XCII. The Pope and the Indian 230 XCIII. Irish Immigration 233 XCIV. Naturalization 235 XC V. The Virtues and Graces 239 XCVI. The Martyr 245 XC VII. Alexander the Great , . -247 XCVIII. Sentimental Charity 249 XCIX. The Irish Interpreter 252 C. The Biter Bit 253 via No. P/BK. CI. The True Man's Work Never Done 255 CII. The Blue Stockings 257 cm. The Young Poets 260 •CIV. The School Examination •.•• 263 CV. Gentility, What is it ? A Discussion 269 CVI. William Tell and the Apple 278 CVII. The Printer and the Dutchman 280 CVIII. The Yankee in France 282 CIX. Monsieur and his English Master 284 ex. The Model School 286 CXI. The Lady Maid 292 CXII. The Will 294 CXIII. The Haunch of Mutton 298 CXIV. I'll Try, or the Yankee Marksman 300 CXV. The Female Exquisites • -303 CX VI . • The Gridiron 307 CXVII. TheLetter •••SlO FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIAia'G'ltES B^ ake7i ig the names, and, perhaps, a few words, these IHch logues may be made to suit either sex. I. THE COMPOSITION. MOrHER AND CHILD, (oR, BY ALTERING A WORD OR TWO,) A FATHER AND CHILD. Child. Mother, do help me write my composition. The teacher says I must write one before to-morrow morn- ing, and I am sure I could not write one if my Ufe de- pended on it. I can't do it, mother, and it is of no use for me to try. Mother. What did your teacher tell you to write about ? C. O, she said we might write upon any subject we thought of, but I can not think of any subject. I have not one idea in my head. M. Suppose I give you a subject, will that help you ? C. O, no, mother ; if you do, I shall not know what to say about it. It is a horrible thing to write composition. M. What makes it so difficult? Did she require any particular kind of composition ? G. Yes, mother, she said it must be prose, and I am sure I never wrote a word of prose in my life. M. Why, what do you think prose to be? C. I don't know, I'm sure. I looked in the diction- ary, and that said, " Prose is discourse without metre oi poetic measure," and I'm sure I didn't know then so well as I did before, for I thought prose was the opposite of poetry. M. Well, what is poetry ? C. I know it when I see it, but I never saw any prose. 10 fowie's hundred dialogues. M. All composition that is not poetry must be prose. Do you talk poetry ? ' / ' p. ]N^o/ kid^d, jTiother, I wish I could. 'M. 'If'y(JiX'dpn't'talk poetry, what do you talk ? ,; C; ,^'}Ji ?>iu^ I dp]?'t know. I didn't know I talked 'aii,y .ihp'ig.; ; ^ ^ : .','. ^ ; M. "What'di'd 1 tell you all composition must be that is not poetry '^ C. You said it must be prose. But, then, motJier, you know I do not talk composition, for that i:^ what they put in books. I thought talk was only conversation. M. You are right, it is conversation, but it is prose also. C. Do you mean, mother, that what 1 say to you now IS prose? M. Certainly it is. And, if, instead of speaking your thoughts, you should write the very same words you would speak, that would be prose composition. C. Why, mother, I thought composition was only what we read in books. M. What we read in books is composition, but the greater part of composition, <»r written language, is never printed. If, instead of talking together, as we have now done, we had written all we have said on the slate, what we wrote would be a composition in prose, and as it is in the form of a conversation, It would also be called a dialogue. C. Why, mother, is that all? I'm sure I did not know I ever spoke a word of composition or of prose, and I never dreamed of speaking a dialogue. I'll go and write down all we have said together, and then a compo- sition will not prove so horrible an aiFair, after ail. M. Do so, and when you have finished your prose composition, or, as the dictionary calls it, your " discourse without metre or poetic measure," bring it to me, and let me see whether it will do to print. C. O, mother, don't make fun of me. M. My dear, if nothing but wisdom were printed, there would be few books in the world. Come, go to work, and do not think it a task but an amusement, and I know you will succeed. 11 11. THE SPARROWS.. , r ;/. LITTLE ELLEN AND HER iVtP,THER, , >»» , , y> > Ellen. Mother, what are these'' little' mites of ])irds made for ? They are too small to be eaten, and not large enough t > work. Mother. They may as well ask what you are good for Ellen ; for you are small, and not fit to be eaten, and, as they earn their living, they must work harder than you do. £J. Yes, but you know what I mean, mother. I shall grow up one of these days, but they will never be larger than my fist. M. I hope you will live to grow up, though this is by no means certain. But I do not wish to evade your ques- tion. Though the little birds may be of no use to us, we may conclude that they are not useless, for the Creator has a design in every thing he makes. If the sparrows are too small to serve as food for man, they are large enough to feed many creatures smaller tlian man. E. Then other creatures eat animals, m'^ther? O yes, I miglit know they do, for I saw my kitten eating a little bird that she or her mother had caught. M. Do not the little birds seem to be happy ? J5. O yes, mother. I never saw such happy little things ; they are chirping, or flying, or playing, all the time. M. Then, perhaps, they were made to be happy. Do you like to see the little things ? J5 O yes, mother, I dearly like to see them. Jif. Then, perhaps, they were also made to contribute to your happiness. Did I see you giving them some «rumbs of bread just now ? B. Yes, mother, the snow covers the ground, and I feared the little things would starve for want of food. M. And you helped them out of pity, did you ? E. Yes, I did, mother. Was it wrong tc do so? M, O no, my d^ar child, and I presume it was one of 12 FOAVLE S HUNDRED DTALOaUES. the most important uses of their creation to give us an .opportunity to culti^'^ate our benevolent afiections. You :wqttld not .hint .fcl'te Jittle creatures, would you, Ellen? 'JE. 0,''n(>, Vri()tfii.er, I would do any thing to help them. j /iMl ; *Th€!re is ijoth-ing greater than charity, and any 'cr&SitiJiTQ.% hib)^eyoi:*.smalJ, that moves us to kindness, affec- tion, benevolence, br'love, which are only other names for charity, is created for a noble purpose, and the little spar- rows have not been made in vain, if they have excited tender feelings in my little daughter's bosom. £J. (To the birds.) O you dear little birdies, how could I think you were good tor nothing because you were not fit to eat ? I'll go and get some more bread for you this minute, and, if you would like to live with me this winter, I'll board you for nothing, and do your washing gratis, just as I do my little Dolly's. III. THE DOLL. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Child. Mother, I wish you would make me a doll. 1 want one dreadfully. Mother. Why do you wish for a doll ? What would you do with one ? G. I want one to play with. ilf. But a doll can not play with you. I should think you would prefer a kitten, for that can understand your play and play back again. O. Yes, mother, and it can scratch and bite too. Now a doll never scratches nor bites, and I like a doll best. M. You can teach a kitten not to scratch or bite, but you can't teach a doll anything. C. Can't I teach it to sit up, or to hold its tongue ? M. No, it will do that without teaching. G. O dear, I wish /could do so. Miss Teachura tries to make me sit still and hqld my tongue, ai^d if I was a fowle's hundred dialogues. 13 doll I could do so ; but I am not a doll, and it is hard work. T guess she wouldn't like to sit still herself, three hours in the forenoon and three hours in the afternoon, merely to learn to be a doll. M. You must not speak so of your teacher. But I will make you a doll, if you will tell me how it will be of any use to you. C It will make me love you better, dear mother. M. If I give you an orange, will not that do the same ? C. Why, mother, how you bother me. I want a doll to look at, to hug, and to kiss, as if it was a little baby, but I do not hug and kiss an orange. M. Do you think you could love a little doll ? C. O yes, I am sure I could, if it was pretty. M. Does my loving you depend upon your being pret- ty ? I think it depends more upon your being good C. Well, mother, the doll is always good as can be, but I am sometimes naughty. M. The doll is good because she cau't be otherwise, and there is no merit in such goodness. To be really good, you must not only not do wrong, but you must do some- thing right. Let me explain what I have said. I will make you a doll if you insist upon it, but my opinion is, that you will like it much better, and it will do you much more good if you make it yourself. C. I don't know how, mother. M. I will show you. C. Then I shall be glad to make it myself. M. Though you may not make it so well as I could, at first, still it will be your own, and, you know, mothers love their own children better than other people's. (Kiss- ing her.) C. But, mother, why did you wish me to have a kit- ten instead of a doll ? M. Because, in teaching such a young animal, you would learn, much yourself that you couldn't learn from a lifeless doll. C. What would the kitten teach me, reading or spell- ing, writing or needlework? M. She would teach you kindness. She would teach 14 FOWLe's HUNDUED DIALOGTTES. yon patience, if you had to bear with her ignorance ; for- bearance, if you were tried by her ill temper ; forgiveness, if she offended you. There is hardly a virtue that would not be improved, if you treated her properly. C Why may I not have both a kitten and a doll, then ? M. You shall do so ; and now I will go and find something to make the doll of, while you go and get your work-box, for the best time to do work is while you are in the mood for it. IV. THE BEST SAUCE. MOTHER AND SON. Boy. Mother, I wish you would give me something good to eat. Mother. What do you call good ? there is bread in the closet. B. I am tired of bread, and want sometliing better. M. You will find some meat in the pantry. B. Mother, I am sick of meat. M. What do you think you should Hke ? B O dear, I don't know, I am tired of every thing. M. It is not so much the kind of food as something else you want. B. Something elsel why, what is there but food to eat? M. There is one thing far more necessary than food to good eating. B. Well, I am sure I do not see how that can be. I have food and every thing else, and yet I don't see any thing that tastes good. M. Johnny Pinch has plenty of the thing you want. B. Why, mother, Johnny Pinch is poor as death, and how can he have what I have not. M. There is Johnny coming. You may ask him what it is that he has and you have not. {Enter Johnny.) fowle's hundred dialogues. 15 B. Johnny, come here! Would you like a piece of cake to eat ? John. I guess I would. B. Would you like a crust of bread ? /. 1 guess I would be glad of it. B. What if it is a little sour or mouldy ? /. No matter, I guess I could contrive to eat it. B. Johnny, what makes you willing to eat a crust of Bour bread ? /. I can not always get any thing as good as that. B. Mother, I don't see what it is that Johnny has. He can eat what I would not touch, but I don't see that he has any thing that I have not. I have as good teeth as he has. M. Johnny, what do you do in the morning ? /. I get up at sunrise, Ma'am, chop wood, feed the cattle, drive the cows to pasture, and churn the butter be- fore breakfast. M. What do you do after breakfast ? J. I do a number of chores, then walk two miles to school and back again, and then chop wood again till din- ner. M. Dinner tastes good then, does it? /. T guess it does. I get so hungry I can eat any thing. M. My son does not like any thing we give him to eat. B. Mother, if I can't eat cake and nioe things, I can't eat such things as Johnny does. M. O, yes, you can, if you use the same sauce that Johnny does. B. Why, mother, Johnny never saw any sauce in his life! M. O yes, he has the two best sauces in the world, Exercise and Hunger. Is it not so, Johnny ? /. Yes, Ma'am, I have enough of both to spare Mas- ter Frederic a httle, if he wants it. B. Mother, may I chop wood with Johnny to-morrow morning, and see how his sauce tastes ? M. Yes,, you may try the experiment, and I recom- mend to you to eat at Johnny's house for one month, and ^o to school with him. 16 fowle's hundred dialogues. B. I'll do it as suie as I live. M. So do; and as soon as you have learned to make the sauces, you shall turn doctor and go about curing the dyspepsia, which is caused by eating without these sauces. V. THE PRECOCIOUS SPELLER. MR. SMITH AND A SMALL BOY, (oR A LITTLE GIRL WITH A BOY*S CAP AND COAT ON,) THE BOY BLOWING A PENNY TRUMPET, AND STRUTTING POMPOUSLY. Mr. Smith. Who are you, my little fellow ? Boi/. Not so very little neither; I go to man-school twice a day when it does'nt rain and school keeps. Mr. S. You do ? Well, what do you learn at school ? Bo7/. I learn to spell and every tiling. Mr. S. What can you spell, my httle mastodon? Boy. Master what ? My name is not Don. D-o-n, Don. Mr. S. Well, no matter what your name is, tell me what you can spell. Bo2/. I can spell /ace, and e7/e, and tooth. Mr. S. How do you spell face ? Boy. F-a-c-h, face. Mr. S. Well done ! and how do you spell eye? Boy. You ? Mr. S. Yes, I. How do you spell eye ? Boy. U, I tell you. I guess you don't know how to spell. Mr. S. Tell me how you spell tooth, then. Boy. Too-oo-doo, tooth. There, do you understand that ? Mr. S. O yes, you are a wonderful speller. Boy. 1 can almost spell Massachusetts, arid I'm at the head of my class in spelling. Mr. S. How many are in your class ? Boy. Two, me and another girl, and she was'nt there to day, so I got to the head. fowle's hundred dialogues. 17 Mr. S. You must be a smart scholar. Boy. I guess I am. The mistress says I shall te a perfessor one of these days. Mr. S. A professor I What is a professoi ? Boy. I don't know, I suppose it's a dancing-jack or a little trumpet. I like a drum best. D-u-m-p, drum. Mr. S. How long have you been at school, my little man ? Boy. How long? I don't know, nine, or five, or six days. One, three, two, six. I study 'rethmetic, too. Mr S. You ought to study Grammar and Pliilosophy. Boy. I know gram'ma already. She is going to give me a wife when I grow up. I know how to spell wife ; w-h-i-p, wife. Mr. S. You will soon be a teacher and keep school yourself. Boy. I mean to. I could teach the cat now, only she can't talk. T-or-ec, tork. Mr. S. You beat me in spelling. Boy. I guess I do. B-e-lT, beat. (He bhivs a penny trumpet.) What would you give to spell like I do? Can you spell your name? I can mine. J-on, John; P-uf, Puff. (He marches off blowing his trumpet.) VI. TAEDINESS. MARY AND ANNA. Mary. Why such haste, Anna? there is no need of breaking your neck merely to be punctual at school. Anna. T do not intend to break my neck, but I am determined, if possible, not to break the rules of the scliool. Mary. O dear I I can't see what it matters whether I am there a few minutes sooner or later. Mother says she don't see the need of making so much fuss about a few minutes. 8» |y FOWLE S HLNDRKl) DIALOGUES. Anna. My mother tliinks di/Ferently. She loves to see order and pniictuality in every thing, and she says that such things form an important part of character. Mary. I don't see what going to school a minute sooner or later has to do with character. I am tardy almost every day, but I am sure that I have not lied, or cheated, or stolen in consequence of it. Anna. Are you sure of that, Mary. You know other things than money or goods may be stolen. When you come late, do you ever lose your lessons ? Mary. No, tlie master always hears my recitations in recess',=^ and so enal)]es me to keep up with the class. Anna. Does he not lose his recess by thus obliging you ? Mary To be sure he does, but what of that? Anna. I should think you robbed him of his time. He needs recess', as much as we do. Do you not like recess', yourself? Mary. Indeed I do, but I often gel cheated out of it. Anna. You cheat yourself, then ; but do you not also cheat the school by tiring the teacher, when he should be gathering strength to teach them after recess is over? Mary. You have proved me a thief and a cheat, and it only remains for you to prove me a liar. Anna. I have no wish to do this, Mary, and yet I dare say you have sometimes framed excuses for tardiness, tliat were not "the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth." Ma,ry Well, so I have, Anna, as sure as you live ; but I never thought before that I was doing wrong. I declare I am half inclined to thmk it is easier to be punc- tual than to be tardy, and if you will call for me as you go to school, I will always be ready to accompany you. * NoU. Two of the New England vulgar! -ims are, pronouncing re.czsz , and selectmen', with the accent on the iirst syllable. IUWLe's IIUNDRED DIALOGUES. 19 VII. DOING NOTHING IS HARD WORK. MOTHER .\ND SON, (oil, BY CHANGING A FEW WORDS,) A MOTHER AND DAUGHTER. Child. O dear, how tired I am, motliter, I wish I was not so tired. Mother, What makes you so tired ? Have you been running ? C. No, mother, I have not run or walked ten steps. M. What then ? Have you been playing too hard ? C. No, mother, I have not played at all. I don't like to play. M. Perhaps you have been working in the garden ? G. O, no indeed ; if I can't play, I am sure I can't work. M. Pray tell me what you have been doing. C. The truth is, — I have been doing nothing. M. O, I can easily understand your case. There is no harder work than doing nothing, though so many think there is great enjoyment in it. G. Well, mother. I sometimes wish I was a poor boy, that I might always have something to do. M. You always have something to do^now. C O no, mother, every thing is done for me I don't know any thing but eating that you or somebody else does not do for me. M. You sleep for yourself, don't you ? G. O yes, I forgot that. But I should like to do something more than eat and sleep. I should like to work. M. You lack one thing that is very important to all who have to work. G. What is that, mother ? I am sure I have two hands as good as any boy's. M. I don't mean hands. You lack something else. G. Is it strength, mother? I am sure I am stouter than Johnny Buirt, who does a deal of work every day of his life. 20 M. It is not strength. You have enough of that for one of your age. C, Pray, what is it, then? O, I know, it is tools. But I have some tools. Father gave me a little wheelbarrow, and uncle gave me a shovel, and you yourself, mother, gave me a little hoe. M. Well, you have hands, and strength, and tools, and yet you lack the principal thing. C. What can it be, mother? Do tell me, because I will ask father to get it for me. M He can't get it for you. You must get it for your- self, or never have it. C. Well, I'm sure this is a puzzle, and I give it up. M. What makes Johnny Burt work, as you say he does ? C. O, I know, it is necessity, he works because he must. Johnny is poor. M. Is not his father poor, also ? and is it not his father's laziness that makes Johnny have to work so hard, though he is so young ? Johnny would do as his father does, if he had not. what you lack. C. Mother, what can it be ? Do tell me, now, that's a good mother. M. It is the Disposition to work, my dear, or what is gen- erally called Industry. You do not love to work, or you w^ould never be idle. C. Yes, mother, but if I have not the disposition how can I get it ? M. By working till work becomes a pleasure. Yon were made to be active, or you would not be so tired of rest. C. If I was made to be active, why am I not active, then? M. Let me answer your question by asking another. Do you think you were made to be good or to be wicked ? C O, to be good, no doubt, though I don't think I am any too good. M. Why are you not as good as you can be ? Is it not, because you do not always try to be good? This constant trying, will create a habit, the disposition will grow with the" habit, and in time you will prefer to do fowle's hundred dialogues. 21 good, you will love to do good. Now, can you apply these remarks to v,rork ? C. Yes, mother, and I'll go to work right away, and never rest till I am industrious, and love to work. M. Then you will never love it, my son. If you are unused to work, you must not try to do too much at first. Begin rioderately, and do more as you get used to it. All I have said, will apply to your lessons at school, as well as to your work, and your conduct. Be attentive, be dili- gent, keep trying, and I shall never hear you complain agai. that you are tired to death of doing nothing. VIII. THE RIGHT OF PROPERTY. GEORGE AND CHARLES. George. Come, Charles, let us go and get some peaches. Charles. Where ? There are none in our garden. G. There are plenty in Squire Carleton's. C. They are not ours. G. They ivill be when we get them. C. I am not so sure of that. Taking a man's property witiiout his permission, does not make it ours. G. Poh I He has more than he wants, and more than he can use up. C. Perhaps he means to sell them. G. Perhaps he does, and perhaps he does'nt. I know he can't eat them all, and I mean to help him. C. Do you mean to say, tliat you intend to steal the }) caches ? G Not exactly. But 1 love peaches, and he has more than he wants, and would not miss a bushel if I took Ihem. O. You may say the same of his dollars ; but would you dare to take his dollars for the same reason ? G. Peaches are not dollars. C. They are property, and bring dollars. 22 G. Not always. See, there tliey lie on the ground, thousands of them, and if we don't i)ick them up, some- body else will. So what harm will it do ? C You have no right to do wrong because others will do it if you do not. G. What do you mean by wrong? If I take what another does not want, or even miss, I do no wrong. He does the wrong in keeping it from me. C. I don't understand it so. What nobody owns, any one may take; — what is lost, any one may take, and keep — for the owner; but what is not lost, and has an owner, can not be taken without doing a wrong. G How would you get some of these peaches, then, if you Wanted some ? C I would go and ask the owner to allow me to pick up some of them. You have not done this. G. Suppose he refuses to give me any? C. Then go without. It will not be half so hard to go with an empty stomach as with a burdened conscience. G. Well, I believe you are right, and there comes the Squire ! Let us go and ask him. If he does'nt give us some he w'\\\ be as mean as dirt. C. There I agree with you. But the property of mean men must be respected, or the generous will have no secu- rity for theirs. IX. OBEDIENCE. MARY AND SUSAN, TWO SCHOOL-MATES. Mary. Do you think it right to spend your time in writing billets, when our teacher has expressly forbidden it in study hours ? Susan. I don't mean that he shall know it. M. That is not an answer to my question. S. I don't choose to answer it. If he doesn't know that I break the rules, there is no harm done. 2'S M. Is not your attention turned from your studies ? S. Yes, but, my little inquisitor general, what right have you to catechise me in this way? I an not under your care. M. Yes, you are, S. I should like to know how and wliy. M. Are you not my friend ? S. Granted. What then ? 31. Is it not my duty to look after my friend, and aea that she does no wrong ? S. The proverb says we wear a large bag in front for the faults of our friends, and a little pocket behind for our own. M. You know, Susan, I am not so unjust. But to re- turn to my question ; — Do you think it right to disobey your teacher, if he does not see and know it? Is this your standard of right and wrong ? S. Do you think 1 am going to answer you ? M. Yes. But let me ask you whom or what you offend when you do wrong. S. I offend him who makes the rule, of course. If Mr. Linzee tells me not to write a billet, and I write one, then I offend Mr. Linzee, and no one else. Nay, I don't offend at all, if tlie ride is unjust. M. Do you think this rule unjust ? S. Why need you ask that question? Are you deter- mined to leave me no chance to escape? The billet was an iimocent billet. M. Susan Jones Livingston, look me in the face. S. Well, what then ? M. Suzy, you know you have done wrong, or why do you blush so ? S Your honest face acts like a mirror, and seeing aiy- self in it, 1 blush at my conduct, and plead — Uuilty. M. I knew you would not persist in the wrong. S. Well, it is not such a dreadfui *:hing, after all, to write a billet to one's friend. There is not much difference between a billet and the regular exercise. M. There is all the difference between right and wrong, and this is incalculable. .S. O, dear, don't sa^ another woid. I only plunge 24 fowle's hundred dialogues. deeper and deeper. Mary I [long jmuae) yoci are a dear little angel ; what did your wings cost you ? M. Oljedience, Susan, and there are more for sale wliere I bought mine. Come, let us go a shopping for some. X. THE HARD LESSON. Child. Father, need I go to school to-day? I don't, want to go. Father. You mean you don't wish to go, my child, for all children are ignorant, and want knowledge, though they may not wish to go to school to obtain it. C. Why, father, what good will knowledge do me ? The pig and the horse never study, and they are a great deal liappier than I am. F. Would you like to live as they do, and go to the same school ? C. School, father! Why, horses and pigs don't go to scliool, do tliey ? I never saw a pig school, nor a horse school in my life. F. You have seen them without knowing it, my boy. The pig-pen is the pig's school-house. C. O, father, wJiat lessons does he learn there ? F. He learns to eat, and sleep, and grow fat. C. I wish I had notliing else to learn I guess he would not eat or sleep or grow fat, if he had to learn grammar and geography, as I do. F. When you have learned your lesson and grown up, you can enjoy your learning;, but what becomes of the pig wlien he leaves his school? C. O dear, father, he is killed, is n't he? F Yes, that is all we put him to school for. C. But, father, what school does the horse go to? I never saw a horse school-house, nor a horse school-mas- ter. F. The horse's school-house is the barn. C. Well, father, I heard our teacher say our school ► 25 house is a bam, but he couldn't mean that we were horses. P. No ; he only meant that the house was old, and cold and dirtv, as barns are apt to be. But, although the barn is the horse's school, his lessons are generally learn- ed out of doors. C. What books does he study, father ? I never saw a horse studying. F. O yes, you have. Did you see John beating the horse this morning, when I stopped him ? C. Yes, sir, and I was glad you saved the poor horse. F. Well, John was the master, and was giving the horse a lesson. C. What was the lesson about, sir ? the horse did not seem to like it or understand it. F. It was a lesson in obedience. John wished him to do something, and. he did not do it, and so John beat him. C. That's the way our master does, father. He tells us to do a thing, and if we do'iit do it, we get it, I tell you. F. Get what, my boy ? the lesson ? C. No, sir ; what the horse got this morning, a beating. F. Well, if I understand you, you wish to change places with the horse and the pig, to live as they do, go to their schools, and be happy, as you think they are. C. I should not like to be killed like a pig, nor beaten like a horse. F. I suppose not. But would you like to do nothing as the pig does, and never even play ? C. No, I could not stand that. F. Would you work like the horse, and never think, sr speak, or read ? C. O dear, no, sir. Is it school time, father ? F. Not quite, but why do you ask the question ? \ C, Because I am rather inclined to think school is the best place for me. F. My son, you must remember that you have a mind and a heart that may be taught, while the pig and the horse have no mind that can be instructed, and no heart that can be taught to love God and to do good to others. You may not see the use of all you are now re- 26 fowle's hundred dialogues. quired to learn, and you may not always like the treatment you receive from your teachers, but you must never re- fuse to receive instruction because it does not come in a pleasant form, and you must not hate school because you hate the rod. Were you whipped this morning ? C. No, father, but I am to be whipped, this afternoon, for not learning my lesson in the morning. I tried to learn it, but it was too hard, and so I failed and could not help it. F. Come, I will go with you to school, and try to per- suade your teacher not to beat you, as I persuaded John not to beat the horse. I have no doubt the teacher will forgive you, if you are sorry for it. C, Sorry for what, father ? I have not done any thing wrong. You told John he should not beat the horse be- cause the load was more than he could draw, and my lesson was more than I could learn. F. Come along, my son, you have learned something in the horse's school that may help you. XL PUNISHMENT. KATE AND MARY. Kate. T wish I could go to some other school, Mary, for T do nol like to be punished. Mary. No one likes to be punished. But, Kate, when one likes to do wrong, one must expect to pay for it. Did the teacher hurt you much ? K. No, .1 was so mad I did not care for it ; if she had broken my head, I should not have cried a tear. M, I take care not to do wrong, and so do not get pun- 'shed. K. T am not so sly, and always get found out. M. I should think you would grow tired of doing wrong, for it must be easier to do right than wrong. K. I am not so sure of that. I like to have my own way, once in a while. Ti M If your own way is wrong, and brings you into trouble, I should think you would give it up, and get a better way. K. Why, do you believe I could always act right, as you do? M. Certainly. Don't you think I could act wrong as yoLi do, if I tried hard to do so ? Do you think your little kitten will scratch me if I take her up ? K. No, indeed ! She scratched me once, and I soon taught her better. I should like to see her scratch any body now. M. How did you cure her so completely "^ K. I beat her soundly, and would not give her any thing to cat for a wliole day. {Mary begins to laugh, and Kate says. ) What are you laughing at, Mary ? I do not see any thing to laugh at. M. Nor did the kitten. And yet" it is rather funny that the kitten left oiF doing wrong after being punished only once, and you cannot leave olf after being punished a dozen times. K. Yes, but the kitten is n't a girl. M. I know she is not, and that makes me wonder the more, for she ought not to be expected to do as well as an intelligent girl. Now confess, Kate, that you can do right if you choose to do so. You know you can, and I wish you would, for my sake. K. Why for your sake, when I have to take all the punishment ? M. I really believe that, every time you are punished, I suffer more than you do. I love you, Kate, and can not bear to see you suffer. K. You are a dear one, Moll, and there's no denying it. Now I'll tell you what I mean to do, for I am desper- ate M. Don't say so. K. Hear me out, Mary. I am desperately sick of be- ing punished, and not a little ashamed to be worse than my kitten, and so, you see, I am going M. Where, dear Kate? Not to leave the school, I hope. K. No, but to love it, and try to be as good, as you are, 28 FOWLfi'S HUNDRKD DIALOGUES. you Jittle {)hilosopher. There, {kissing her,) there, let me seal my promise with a kiss, and when you see me doing wrong again, just say "kitty, kitty, kitty," and I shall take the !iint. Little did I tliink, when I punished my kitten, that the blows were to fall so directly on my own head. XII. FICTION AND FACT. MARY AND AMY. Amy. Have you read the tale, Mary, that mother lent you ? Mary. Yes, and was delighted with it. But, Amy, do tell me where the people live that I have read about. A. Where do they live? Why, what a funny ques tion. They live here, and everywhere. M. Why, Amy dear, the story says the poor girl was so good that a prince fell in love with her, and married her. I never heard of any poor girl liere that was so for- tunate as to marry a prince. A. Perhaps not, but then poor girls sometimes marry rich men. M. Rich men are not princes, and then you say they only do so sometimes. I guess sometimes means very, very seldom. And then, Amy, the man that was on the brink of ruin found a bag of money thaf contained just the sum he wanted to save him. Poor fatlier did not find such a bag, when he lost his property, and died broken-hearted. A. No, he did not. Such bags of money are scarce, but then, such a thing is not impossible. It might happen, you know. M. I should think it very unlikely. And the poor widow found such a friend I He supplied all her wants, educated her children, and, when he died, left each of them a fortune. Where did that happen, dear sister ? A. I can not exactly say, Mary. M. I know it did not happen here, for poor mother did 29 not find a friend after fatlier died, and she has almost killed herself by working to pay for our clothes and our education. A. You have no imagination, sister. These things are not meant to be received as facts. M. Are they falsehoods, Amy ? A. No, dear, a falsehood is told to deceive or injure some one, and these only please. M. O, I begin to see through it. Princes do not mar- ry poor girls ; those who are destitute do not find money- bags ; and widows do not find friends ; but the scory is told to show how it would be, if things happened as they ought to happen. A. That is right, you understand it perfectly. M. No, I don't, dear sis, no, I don't. There is one thing I can not yet understand, and that is, why things are not so, if they ought to be so. Now tell me that. A. O dear, you are getting too hard for me, Mary. Let us go and find mother, and see if she can answer your question. It is pretty clear the world of romance is not the world we and poor mother live in. XIII. SILLY BILLY. GEORGE AND BILLY. George. Billy, why don't you do as other boys do ? BiUy. I do do as other boys do. What is the matter with what I do, Georgy ? G. You are silly, Billy, and every body laughs at you. B. If you were silly, I should not laugh at you. What is silly, Georgy ? tell me, so that I may not be silly any longer. G. You talk like a little baby, and say foolish things. B. I didn't know it, Georgy, what do I say ? G. All sorts of things. You tell all you know, and get ten whippings where I get one. 3* 30 foavle's hundred dialogues. B. I always tell the truth, Georgy. Is that acting silly? G. To be sure it is, unless you are obliged to tell it. I never say a word that is against myself. B. I do, Georgy, and though I thiuk it is hard to be whipped for telling the truth, still 1 will tell it, and take the consequences. G. You are a fool, Billy, for doing so. Besides, you do other things tliat none but a fool would do. B. What do you mean, Georgy ? I try to do as I would be done unto. What have I done that was foolish ? G. You gave all your candy to John Crave, when he asked you for a piece. But he never would give you a piece in retuni. B. He never did give me anything, I know, but must I be stingy because John is? I don't feel stingy as he does, and it is no trouble to me to give. G. None but a fool would give to a fellow who never gives anything in return. He ought to be asliamed to take your candy. B. So I thought, and I gave it to him, in hopes lie would grow more generous. G. Why, you are green as grass ! But giving away your things is not so bad as letting the boys plague you, v/ithout resenting it. Gracious me ! I wouldn't be a coward B. What do you mean, Georgy ? I am no coward. G. You let Sam Jones strike you three or four tunes, and didn't hit him back again. B. Well, I didn't wish to hurt Samm.y. Sammy was in a passion, and didn't know what he was doing. G. He tried to hurt yoit. B. Well, he did hurt me, but it would not relieve my pain to give pain to him, and so I didn't retaliate, though I believe I could have flogged him. G. What strange notions you have, you silly fool. Nobody will ever respect you if you don't respect your- self B. But I do respect myself, Georgy, and I am not sure that I am siicli a silly fool as you tliink I am. vowll's hundred dialogues. 31' G. Why, what makes you think so. you smiple one? B. I'll tell you, if you will never tell again. G. I guess I shall not be tempted to repeat any of your nonsense. B. Well then, Sammy came to me this morning, and told me he was sorry he struck me, and he would never strike me again, because I was better than he was. G. Did Sam say that ? B. He certainly did. Have you seen this new top ? G. No. Where did you get it ? It is a oeauty. B, John Crave gave it to me last evening, and I know it was because I gave him all my candy. So you see I'm not such a silly fool as you think I am. G. Billy who put you up to this ? I don't believe you did it without help, B. I don't pretend I did. Mother often talks to me about such things, and I love her so that i try to mind her, though sometimes it is hard to do so. G. My father tells me never to give, unless I get something by it ; and if a boy strikes me. always to strike back again, though the fellow is as big as Goliath. B. My mother says that is the way most persons do, but she has tried both ways, and likes the other way best, and I love mother, and try to do a» she does G. Your mother is a woman, and my father is a man. B. What of that ? When the Lord blessed the peace- makers did he bless only the women ? When he told his followers to forgive injuries, did he only tell the womeu to forgive ? G. Poh, Billy, my father says the world is not pre- pared to live so. B. If all men wait till it is prepared, no one will begin, and then how long will it be before the world will be perfect ? Come, George, there is a sum in the Rule of Three for you. Good bye, mother is calling me. ( He goes.) G. {Alone.) Billy is not so very green after all, and that Sam Jones's aflair beats all I ever neard. Johnny Crave's top, too, is a spinner. 1 am not sure that I am not silly Billy after all. 32 XIV. THE LITTLE BEGGAR GIRL. PANNS AND ITER MOTHER. (oR BY ALTERING NAME3, A FATHER AND HIS LITTLE SON.) Mother. Where are you going, Fanny, in such a hurry ? . Fanny. There is a beggar girl at the door, and I am going to tell Michael to drive her away. I hate beggars. M. Why do you hate beggars, Fanny ? It is a serious thing to hate any human being. ¥. Beggars always look ragged and dirty, and T don't like rags and dirt. M. If you had no one to take care of you, perhaps you would become ragged and dirty. Do you know any- thing about the little beggar girl ? Did you ever see her before ? jP. No, mother, but I have heard the girls at school say that all beggars are liars and thieves. M. No doubt many are ; bnt, perhaps, they would not be so bad, if they were not driven away without being warmed, or fed, or clothed. If you were ragged, and cold, and hungry, and knocked at a door, where you saw a fire and everything comfortable, and were driven away without even a kind word, would not you be tempted to do something wrong, rather than freeze and starve. jP. But I am not poor, mother, — and father is rich. M. Then you are able to help others who are in want. Your having abundance is a reason for helping the des- titute, and not for neglecting them. But how is your little bird ? F. O, she is going to live, mother, though the naughty cat tore off some of her feathers, and made her wing bleed. She was so young, mother, she couldn't lly, and I believe some wicked boys had killed her father and mother, before the cat caught the poor little thing. M. What did you do to her ? F. Michael and I took care of her. I gave the poor fowle's hundred dialogues. 33 thing some little crumbs of cake to eat, and some clean water, and Michael v/'f.shed away the blood, and when she got over her fright, she seemed a great deal better. M. Why did you do so much for the little bird, Fan- ny, when you wished Michael to drive the little girl awa,y, without giving her any food or drink, and without warming her and making her comfortable ? F. What did you say, mother? M. Which do you think the most important, Fanny, a little bird or a little girl ? F. Mother, may I go and call the little girl back ? M. Remember, Fanny, that a beggar only means one who asks for aid. When you say "Our Father," as you do every night and morning, you ask God to give you your daily bread, don't you ? F. Yes, mother, I do. M. Well, when yon ask God for bread, you are a beg- gar as much as the little girl is, but did God ever turn you away, or refuse to hear you ? If He gives you bread, and does not give any to the little beggar girl, He does so to give you a chance to show your kindness by giving her some of yours. .F Dear mother, I never thought of this before, and you never told me. M. Well, dear, now you may run, and call the little girl back, and treat her at least as kindly as you did the littlo bird. — (She runs out.) Fanny is not hard-hearted, but it is evident that I have not educated her aright. How rarely the education of the head reaches the heart * XV. THE PLEDGE. GEORGE AND JAMES. George. I can not see, James, why you are unwilling to take the pledge, if, as I know, you never drink any spirit, and Jiave resolved never to do so. ^ 34 fowle's hundred dialogues. James. I see no need of a promise, if my mind is made up. I am as safe without the pledge as with it. G. I can not think so. In other human affairs, we do not act as you propose to do. All bonds, notes and con- tracts, are pledges, and yet they are valuable, if it be only to help the memory. /. I want no such helps, my memory is strong enough without a formal pledge. G. Your memory of what ? If I understand your po- sition, you have nothing to remember. You do not in- tend to transgress, you say ; pray, why not promise never to do so, and then your strong memory may help your good resolution ? /. My resolution is enough, and the same as a promise. G. Not exactly. A resolution is a contract that a man makes with himself, and it may be easily broken ; but a promise implies two parties, and is not so apt to be disregarded. /. I should be afraid, if I took the pledge, that I might, some time or other, break it, and be put to open shame. G. You surely do not wish to secure an easy retreat, in case you are tempted to excess. J. No, but I do not wish to disgrace myself by ena- bling any one to hold up a broken promise before my eyes. G. If you consider a resolution as good as a promise, I do not see that it matters much which is held up in fragments to mortify you. When Cortez invaded Mexico, he found that his soldiers could not be depended upon, because their vessels lay at the landing place, and they knew that, in any difficulty, they could fall back upon them. /. Well, what of that? G. He burned them all, and his troops being obhged to go forward, obtained a complete victory over the enemy. J. Then you would have me burn my resolutions ? G. No, not exactly, but I would place them under the guard of a solenm pledge, and so " make assurance dou- bly sure." fowle's hundred dialogues. 35 J. Well, George, give me your hand, for I surrender, and am half inclined to think that my objection to the pledge arose from a want of sincerity in my resolutions. t will sign the pledge, burn my boats, and face the ene- my, without allowing defeat or retreat to be possible. G. Heaven help you to keep your promise. /. So be it ; and let all parents say, Amen. XVI. STRAINING AT THE GNAT. A MOTHER AND HER LITTLE SON JAMES. (tHE TEACHER CAN EASILY ADAPT THIS TO A MOTHEB AND DAUGHTER, OR TO A FATHER AND HIS SON.) Mother. James, my love, what are you doing with that little fly ? James. Playing, mother. See how he staggers. M. Let me see. Why, my dear, two legs and one of its wings are gone. How happened this ? J. I pulled them ofl^, mother. M. How could my son do such a cruel thing? Did you know that this insect feels pain as much as you do when you hurt yourself? /. I didn't know that insects felt, mother ; they do not say any thing, nor make any noise like crying, as we do. M. They try hard enough to get away from their tormentors. Do you know who made that fly, James ? /. Yes, mamma. I suppose God did. for the hymn says, — " He who made the earth and sky, Also makes the little fly." M. Yes, He can give life, but when you take it away, you cannot give it again. Have you a right to take what does not belong to you ? /. No, mother, not after I understand it. But, mother dear what are the bells ringing for, so merrily ? 36 M. Because, our army has obtained a glorious victory over the Mexicans. J. What is a victory, mamma ? M. The two armies have fought, and our soldiers have killed more than five thousand of the Mexicans. /. Are you glad, mamma ? M. Yes, J ames, and you must be glad, and rejoice, too. You should hooraw, and clap your hands. Why do you look so sober about it ? J. Mamma. I was thinking why I should be sorry when I kill a fly, and so merry when five thousand men are killed. Does God care more for flies than for men, mamma ? M. Come, my child, it is time for you to go to bed. XVII. ALL'S WELL. George. Frederic. Thomas. Henry. Charles. George. Have you seen the fallen Nabob this mornini, ? Thotnas. Do you mean Bill Smart ? Geo. The same. You know his father has lost all his property, and Master Bill will have to attend the public school like the rest of us. Charles. Hooraw! hooraw! Now we'll pay off old debts. Frederic. That is unmanly. If he has insulted you, your true revenge is not to return the insult. Geo. O, Mr. Simon Pure, how do you sell sentiment by the quantity? You had better keep your advice till it is called for. Ch. Here comes the little great man. Now prepare to treat him with due respect and reverence. Fred. O, boys, don't insult him ; you see he looks sad enough without your help. FOWLe's hundred DrALOGUES. 37 {Enter Henry, looking dejected.) Geo. (Boiving low.) 1 hope your Royal Highness is well to-day. Tom. {Pretending to kneel.) Will your Excellency allow me to kiss your great toe ? Ch. {Boiving low.) Will your Majesty allow us to walk in your shadow ? Fred. Boys, I am ashamed of you. Henry, you must forgive them. You may not always have treated them with respect, but I believe it was the fault of your educa- tion, and not of your heart. Henry. Had I felt guilty, Frederic, I should not have come near them. I dare say I have been foolish, but I shall now have an opportunity to grow wiser, and to show that by nature I am not proud. Geo. If you ielt so, why did you never let us know it ? Hen. I thought you rather avoided me, and preferred that I should keep away. I have often longed to join in your sports, but feared I should not be welcome. Now misfortune has made us equal, and I trust you will not shun me any longer. Geo. I hope you will forgive the insult I oiFered you just now. Hen. His Royal Highness knew it was a mistake. Tom. Henry, I feel ashamed of what I said to you. Hn. His Excellency feels no pain in his great toe. Ck. Then you will forget my impertinence also. Hen. Our Majesty will be careful never to cast a shade over your pleasures, Fred. Come, boys, I knew it was all a mistake. We have been playing " Bhnd Man's Buff" too long, let us now have a game of "All's Well." Ch. What game is that, Fred ? Fred. It is a new game, but easily learned and very pleasant. Some give it a longer name, and sav — " All's Well that Ends Well." AU. Good I Good ! ( Tom takes Henry under one arm, and George takes the other, and all run off together.) 4 38 fowle's hundred dialogues. XVIII. THE FISHING PARTY A FATHER AND HIS SON HARRY. Harry. Father, may I go a fishing this afternoon ? School does not keep. Father. Where will you fish, Harry ? I didn't know there were any fish in this neighborhood. H. O, yes, father, there are plenty of little mites of ones in the pond. I saw the boys catching lots of them yesterday. You never saw such pretty little things. F. Were they very small ? H. O, yes, father, not longer than my finger. F. How do they catch them, Harry? H. Why, don't you know, father? I'll tell you ali about it. First, they get a pole, and then some thread or small twine ; and then they crook up a pin, if they haven't a proper fish-hook ; and then, father, they dig up some worms, and pull them in pieces, and put a piece on the hook, and then the silly little fish comes to eat the worm, and we twitch the hook right into his mouth, and pull him out of the water. That's the way we do it, father. It's slick fun, I tell you. F. You say you pull the worm in pieces ; do you sup- pose it hurts him to pull him in pieces? H. Why, no, father, a worm don't feel. What made you think a worm could feel, father ? F. They squirm as much as we do when we are in pain. Do you think they like to be torn to pieces, and eaten by fishes ? H. I never thought about it, father. How funny it is that a worm should feel ! F. I suppose all little creatures are made to feel pain as well as pleasure. But how do the little fish like to be nooked ? P. O, they kick a little at first, but they soon get over it. F. How do they get over it ? — by getting well ? H. O, no, indeed, they never get well, they die. 39 P. Well, that is one way to get over pain ! I suppose the little fish don't feel any pain at being hooked, and gasping for breath, and dying, as you say they do? H. I guess they don't feel much, if they did, they'd make more noise about it. F. What do you do with them after they are dead ? H. I throw them away, because they are too small to be eaten. F. Then you kill them for pleasure, Harry, do you not? H. Ye — es, sir, that's all. Its real fun. F. Do you think the little things take pleasure in swimming about, and playing as they do, in the water, before you hook them? //. O, yes, they are delighted, I know they are. F. Well, my son, it seems to me, that, if you were a kind-hearted boy, you would rather see them playing and happy in the water, than gasping for breath, and dying on land, especially when their death does you no sort of good. I£. It is'nt quite fair, is it, father ? F. I think you may find as much pleasure in some other way. It can not be innocent to amuse ourselves by giving pain to little creatures that God has made to be happy, and that can do us no harm. I am told that lit- tle fish can be taught to eat out of one's hand, and this is surely better than killing them. J£. O, father, may I try to teach them ? I should like it dearly. F. Yes, and I will give you a little boat as soon as you have taught one fish so that' he will not be afraid of you. 11. I wish I could bring to life again all the poor little things I have killed, so that I might educate them instead of killing them. 40 powle's hundred dialogues. XIX. FILIAL DUTY. SARAH AND LOUISE. Sarah. Louise, why do you not try harder to learn your lessons, when your mother is so anxious for youi improvement? Louise. The truth is, I love play better than work, and I hate every thing that looks like study. S. This is very wrong, and very ungrateful. Do you love your mother, Sarah? L. What a question. Why do you not ask me whethei I love myself? S. Well, do you love yourself? L. Was there ever such impertinence ? Do you seri- ously doubt whether I love mother ? S. I do. L. Worse and worse ! Pray, Miss Prim, what reason have you to doubt my love ? ♦S. I see no evidence of it. We always try to please those whom we sincerely love. You ought to endeavor not only to please, but to help your kind mother. L. How can I help her ? I can not earn any thing to lighten her expenses. . S. You can not now. But when she becomes old and you are grown up, your positions will be changed. i. Then I will support her. S. What will you do ? L. What will I do ? jS. Yes, what will you do? L. I don't know. I will try to do something ; I will teach a school. S. Will you be qualified to do this ? A good teacher must first have been a good learner. L. That's true. I never shall make a teacher. What 'xin I do ? S. Can you do any thing without a good education ? The ignorant always labor to great disadvantage. L. I might do needlework, but that is killing poor mother, and is very unprofitable as well as unhealthful fowle's hundred dialogues. 41 S. Your mother wishes you to study and become an intelligent teacher. Now, I think, if you really loved your mother, you would try to please her by doing as she wishes. Ij. O dear, how can I ever study ? S. If, as you say, you love yourself, I do not see how you can show this better than by improving yourself. You can be young but once, and this youth L. Mast no longer be wasted. I never saw things in this light before. Come, Sarah, give me your hand, and go with me to mother. I wish to ask her pardon, and tc promise her, in yonr presence, that she shall no longer be ?is£.ppointed in her just expectations. S. That is yourself, Louise. I knew you could not Jong act so contrary to your true heart. O how happy your mother will be to learn that you intend to repay her love. Let us not lose a moment. XX. WHAT IS MONEY. MR. BULLION AND HIS VERY YOUNG SON. (tHE YOUNGER THE BOY THE BETTER.) So7i. Pa I What is money ? Mr. B. What is money, Paul? Money? So7i. Yes, Pa, what is money ? Mr. B. Currency, the circulating medium, bank-bills, bullion, bills of exchange, the precious metals, and so forth. Son. But, Pa, what is money ? Mr. B Gold, silver, copper. Son. Is this silver pitclier money, Pa? Mr B Not exactly, Paul. Money is eagles, dollars and cents. Smi. I know what they are, Pa, but I don't mean that. I mean what s money after all ? 42 Mr. B. What IS money after all ? Son. I mean what is it good for ? What can it do ? ^Folding hts arms and looking up hioivingh/.) Mr. B. It can do any thing. Son. Any thing, Papa ? Mr. B. Yes, any thing, almost. Son. Any thing means every thing, don't it. Papa ? Mr. B. It includes it. Yes, money can do every lliing. Son. Have you got much money, Pa ? Mr. B. Yes, Paul, a great deal, a great deal. Son. Then why did you let mother die ? Money is not cruel, is it ? Mr. B. Cruel? No, a good thing can't be cruel. So?t. If it's a good thing, and can do every thing, I wonder why it did not save mother. Mr. B Money, my son, though powerful, can not keep people alive, whose time has come to die ; and we must all die sooner or later, if we are ever so rich. Son. Will you die, Pa, one of these days ? Mr. B. Yes, Paul ; Yes. Son. Will your money die too, Papa ? Mr. B. No, that will live. Son. Then what is the use of money ? If it does every thing, please tell me one thing it can do. Mr. B. It can make us honored, feared and loved. Son. Yes, Papa ; but is a man who is honored for liis money really better tlian one who has no money ? Mr. B. Why — hem ! — perhaps not, ray son. Son. If money is good. Papa, why sliould any one fear it? Mr. B. It can do harm, my son. God is good, but he is greatly to be feared also because he is powerful. Son. If he is good and powerful, I should think lio would always do good. Are money and God the same thing, Papa? Mr. B. What makes you ask me such a question? Son. I don't know. Pa, but I wish you would tell me, and I should like to know, too, how money can make us loved Is nobody loved but those who have money ? fovvle's hundred dialogues. '13 Mr. B. If I should die, yon would have my money, and then people would love you for it. Son. I should think that would be loving the money, Papa, and not loving me. Do people love you for youi money only ? Mr. B. My son you are rimning wild with your ques- tions. When you grow older, you will understand the nature of money better. {He goes out) Son. ( Thoughtfully. ) Money is good but does bad things, I know, or it would not be feared. Money is powerful, and yet wouldn't or couldn't save mother who loved me so, and wished not to leave me. Money makes men honored, although they are not good men. I don't believe I know what money is after ail, any better than I did before. What is money after all ? . XXI. WEALTH IS NOT WORTH. JOHN RICH AND WILLIAM MEEK. John. What do you wear that old coat for ? You looK like a beggar. Wm. I am not a beggar, and it will be soon enough for you to twit me when I ask you for any thing. Jolm. Very pert for such a poor wretch. Wm. Do you think I am to blame for my father's poverty ? He is an honest man though a poor laborer. John. Perhaps you are not to blame, but then how wretched you must be ! W7n. Is my being wretched any reason why you should insult me ? John. I don't insult you, I only tell you what I think Wm. Do you think I am ignorant of what you tell me? John. No, not exactly; but you don't seem to feel poor, and I thought I would just put you in mind of it. 44 fowle's hundred dialogues. Wm. I do not feel poor, for wealth doesn t alwuys secure happiness, and I am sure it does not ah^ays pro- duce kind feelings. John. Poor and impudent too I Wm. T do not mean to be impudent, but as T do not dejiend upon you, I have a right to my opinion, and I only defend it. Poverty is not the greatest of evils. John. I should like to know what is worse. Wm. Wealth that insults poverty. I can see that a person may have riches and lack not only knowledge, but that benevolent disposition, which would lead him to treat others with civihty and kindness. The rich should always live as if they were one clay to be poor. John. We will call you Solomon or Di. Franklin. ^m. I am more anxious to know what I a7?i, than what I am called. It is time to go to school. Good bye. {He goes out.) John. The moment these fellows know any thing they lose all respect for their betters. XXII PROMPTING. TEACHER AND MARY. Teacher. Mary when your sister answered the last question, and went above Josie, did you whisper the answer to her ? I thought I saw you do so. Marij. I did. T. Do you think it right that you should do so? M. I did not think much about it. All the girls prompt each other, and I do not see why I should not do as others do. T. Why did you not prompt Josie, and prevent her from losmg her place? M. I do not like her as w?ll as I do sister. T. Then you did it to punsh her, I su])pose? 45 M. Not exactly. I did not think of it as a punish- ment, but 1 wished to help sister. T. Do you think your sister is fairly entitled to go up, under such circumstances ? M. Why not ? Josie missed, and ought to go down. T. My question is not whether Josie ought to go down, but wliether your sister ought to go up. M. If she answered rightly, she ought to go up. T. Did she answer rightly, or did you answer for her ? M. I thought I had a right to tell my sister her lesson. T. You had a riglit to show her how to learn it, but, when the class were rec ting, do you think you had a right to do as you did ? M. 1 do not see what difference it makes at what time I gave her the information. T. Should you think it right for me to tell Josie the answer to some question that your sister had missed, and then to let her go above your sister? I do not see any difference in the cases, except that I should do it openly, and you did it secretly. M. What harm did it do ? T. It did harm in more ways than one. First, it did harm to your sister, for such help would lead her to neglect her lessons another time, and to rely upon your assistance. Then it did wrong to the next scholar below your sister ; for, if your sister had failed to answer, the next might have answered and gone above both. M. Did Josie tell you of it ? T. Not till I asked her the question directly. You know I thought I saw you do it. M. She is a mean tell-tale, then. T. By no means. A child who is required to give information, necessary to enable the teacher to do justice, is not a tell-tale, but a witness. One who voluntarily and officiously gives information against her companions is a tell-tale. M. I would die before I would tell tales. T. Let us not wander from the point. Allowing that Josie did tell me, do you really think it worse for her to expose a wrong she supposed to be done to her, than 46 fowle's hundred dialogues. for you to do that wrong ? Besides, if it -w as right for you to tell your sister, how can it be wrong for Josie to tell me, or any one else, that you did so ? M. Well, it was no great harm. I had as lief get down as not. T. Perhaps Josie feels otherwise. I know she is am- bitious to keep at the head of the class, for her aunt has, 1 think, injudiciously, promised her a reward if she keeps there. But, besides the harm done to your sister and to Josie, you did some harm to me, by leading me to do what 1 considered an act of injustice to Josie. It is pain- ful, too, for me to have to complain of you in this manner, for I have never before had reason to censure you. M. My dear teacher, I may as well own that my con- duct lias led me to do wrong to myself also, for I have tried to defend conduct that I knew was not right. I blushed when I saw that you noticed my speaking to sister, and I have felt degraded in my own estimation ever since, because I knew I must be degraded in yours. T. I never thought you could long approve of your conduct, Mary ; but, what shall be done to set the matte* right ? M. I will confess before the wliole class how mean 1 was, and I think my disgrace will be a lesson they will not easily forget. T. I do not require this, since you are penitent. You may tell your sister to resume her place, and as no one but Josie knows of your fault, you may acknowledge it to her, but I do not think any unnecessary exposure can be of any service. On a suitable occasion I shall intro> duce the subject of promjfting to the notice of the clas?s, and I have no doubt there will be but one opinion upm it. rOWLE'S HUNDRED DIAL DGUES. 47 XXUI. A MISTAKE NO MISTAKE. MR. PASS AND A STRANGER. Stranger. Put up my horse, friend, and give him as much as he can eat. I want supper and lodging foi myself also, Mr. Pass. You are under a mistake, I suspect. /S. There is no mistake about it. My horse is tired and hungry, and so am I. I think there can be no mistake. Mr. P. Perhaps not about that. But there may be some as to the character of this house. Where do you think you are ? S. Where there is plenty of what I want. Come, lose no more time, or my beast will think he has fjillen among animals no better than himself Mr. P. This is too bad, sir. I am unused to such treatment. Do you take my house for an inn, sir? S. I do. Mr. P. Be it known to you then, that it is a private house, and not an inn. We entertain no travellers, no passengers here, sir. S. How long have you lived here ? Mr. P. About a month. The former occupant died, and I bought the house of his lieirs. S. How long had he lived here ? Mr. P. A year or two ; — he was accidentally killed. S. Who Uved here before him ? Mr. P. His father. S. And who lived here before him ? Mr. P. Hundreds, for aught I know. What do you mean by asking these questions ? S. Only to show that you are under a mistake and not I. Mr. P. What do you mean ? That I do not know the character of my own house, S. Even so. A house that changes its inhabitants so often, and receives such a perpetual succession of guests, can be nothing but an inn, whatever other name you may give it. 48 fowle's hundred dialogues,- XXIV. HONOR AND SHAME. LITTLE MARY, HER MOTHER, AND SARAH. Mary. Mother, may I go to Sarah Lovejoy's party, this evening ? Mrs. Puff. I prefer that you should stay at home. M. Why, mother ? All the girls are going, and I love Sarah dearly. Mrs. P. I prefer that you should not go. You must find more respectahle companions. M. Dear mother, is not Sarah respectable? I am sure her house looks as well, inside and out, as ours does, though you never visit there. Mrs. P. That may be; but as Sarah's mother once " lived out," no lady can visit her. So you will be careful to stay at home ; and, if any one calls, say that I shall return immediately. {She goes out.) M. {alone.) She has lived out ? Out doors, I suppose ; poor woman I Well, I should pity and not despise her for that. O dear, I wish I could live out doors, and live as other people do ! I must not wear a hood, because some poor girl wears one ; I must not laugh aloud, because genteel folks never laugh; I must walk just so, and never run, because only vulgar folks run; I must not go to Sunday School, because no genteel children go there ; and I must not set my foot in my dear Sarah's house, because lier good mother once lived out doors. O dear ' O dear I {Enter Sarah.) Sarah. Come, Mary, we are all waiting for you. We shall have a grand time. Why, how solemn you look ' Dear me, whsit can the matter be ? Come, put on your things, and we'll soon put some smiles on your face. M. Mother says I must not go to your house. S. Why? Pray, what has happened? M. She says your mother once lived out doors, S. Out what ! M. Out doors ; and it is not proper for me to visit you 49 S. What can it mean ? My mother never li\ ed out doors, any more than yours. She was once poor, but she never wanted a home. There must be some mistake. But here comes your mother, and I shall ask her what it all means. {Enter Mrs. Puff.) S. Mrs. PufF, what does Mary mean by saying my mother lived out doors ? Mrs. P. [aside to Mary.) Have you been repeating what I told you, Mary ? (Tb Sarah.) I never told her so ; she misunderstood me. *S. Then she may go with me, may n't she ? Mrs. P. I prefer not to have her go. S. What did you tell Mary about my mother? Yoxi must have told her something. M. Ma, you certainly did say she had lived (mt. Mrs. P. I did, but not out of doors. If she had only lived out of doors, I should not care, lor poverty itself is no disgrace. M. What did she live out of, mother, if not out of doors ? Mrs. P. (Pettishly.) Out at service, you simpleton. Sarah, you had better go home ; and Mary, you had better go to bed. M. Mother, dear, is it a greater crime to work when you are poor, than to be idle and dependent ? Mrs. P. No, not a crime ; but a servant can never make a lady. M. Why, mother, I heard father say, once, that most ladies would never be made, if their servants did not mgike them ; and that servants generally would make better ladies than ladies would make servants. Now, dear mother, what does make a lady ? Mrs. P. Poh ! nothing, nothing. M. Are you made of nothing, mother ? Mrs. P. No, no ; your simplicity has confused me. There, go off to the party, and let me hear no more about it. ( The children seize each other by th^ ivaist, and run out. ) After all, the true lady is she who rises above her condition, and not she who would never rise, should fortune prove unkind. I can not be fashionable if I try ever so hard. 50 fowle's hundred dialogues. XXy. THE AEITBIVjEIICIAN. JOHN AND GEORGE. George, {with a slate and pencil.) If there is any thing J hate, John, it is ariihmetic. John. Hate is a hard word, George. Pray tell me what has happened to make you hate what I so dearly love. G. I can't make head or tail ojf this sum, and I believe it is put wrong on purpose to bother me. J. Read it, and let me see if I can help you. G. (Reach.) " If a leg of veal weighs fifteen pounds, what will it come to at twelve cents a pound, if a large portion of it is fat?" There, was there ever any thing so absurd ? /. Why, what is the trouble ? what is the difficulty ? It seems simple enough. G. I could manage the leg well enough, if it was not for that plaguy fat J. Why does the fat trouble you, any more than the lean ? G. Why, don't you see? It does not say how much fat there was. I gue^s you are as dull as I am. /. It is no matter about the fat, George. G. Wliy, you goose, don't you see tliat a large portion 0^ the leg was fat, and who can tell how many pounds a laruo portion is ? J. Let us gel at it by trying another question. If a whole pig weighs twenty pounds, how much will he come to at five cents a pound ? G. Why, to five times twenty, or a hundred cents. '^'hat's plain enough. /. Well, now, if a part of the pig is bone, will that alter the cost of him? G. No — but then you see this is fat, and not bone. J. Well, suppose the pig is made up partly of bone and partly of flesh, and the whole pig weighs twenty pounds — 5\ G. Yes, but don't you see, this is not bone or flersh, but fat. You are duller than I am*. /. Suppose, then, that the pig consists of bone, and flesh, and fat, and weighs twenty pounds, how much v/oiild he come to at five cents a pound ? G. Why that is just like the leg of veal ; who can tell how much bone, or lean, or fat there is ? / Georue, you r^ust study algebra. G. What for? /. That deals in unknown quantities, and may help you. G. I woulg^' rather study any thing than arithmetic. /. Let Ct^ bring the question home. How much would you weigh, George, if you weighed just fifty pounds, and a large portion of you were fat ? G. How is that John ? Ask me that again, will you ? J. (shwly.) How much would you weigh, if you weighed fifty pounds, and a large portion of you were fat? G. Why, just the same ! But then, if I were sold as the veal was, how much would the fat come to ? /. If you were sold in the lump, at five cents a pound, what odds would it make whether a large or a small por- tion of you were fat or lean, meat or bone ? G. {He thinks a minute, then drops his head and hoks sheepish, and says,) It was not fixir to put that in to bother a fellow so. But, John, — /. What? , G. Don't tell any body of it, will you?. /. I will not tell, if you will promise me not to, hate arithmetic any more. G Done ! for any one who should hear of my leg of veal, would naturally set me down for a — ccdf. 52 HUNDRED DIALOGUES. XXVI. BUDS OF PROMISE. RALPH, JAMES, SAMUEL, JOHN. Balph. James, you did wrong to strike that little boy witli that great stick. James. I shall strike whom I please, I'm not a sneak, to let a fellow strike me, without returning blow for blow. Ralph. The most quarrelsome are sometimes the greatest sneaks, as you call us. I own that I endeavor by my own example and advice to stop ah fighting, every where. James. Fiddle-de-dee I Why don't you own yourself a coward at once, that can not stand a blow. Sam. Tliat would be untrue. Ralph bore his pain most bravely when he was so badly burned in saving little Jessie from the flames. James. What will such bravery be good for ? What do you mean to do, Ralph, when you become a man, if one who never fights can ever be a man. Ralph. I mean to be a missionary, and preach the Word of Life in heathen lands. John. I'll carry you thither in my ships, for I intend to be a merchant prince, and send iny fleets to the east and west. Sam. Ships are too apt to sink, to suit my rising hopes. I'll be a judge, the most profound and learn-ed judge that ever was, or ever will be. John. You will not be an uprii^ht judge, if you stoop so; {Samuel straightens z<;/>,) but what a change you'll undergo before that day can come. Sam. Poh, Mr. Merchant Prince, this moment I can see myself condemning one of your ships, for smuggling silk, or steahug the Golden Fleece. Then what a solemn judgment I'll pronounce upon the prisoners when I sen- tience them. The jury all will rise, the crowd be hushed as death, the criminal will melt James. If he melts, he'll run aivay, before you finish; Now, what wlute-livered geese you will remain, while I, fowle's hundred dialogues. 53 who mean to be a warrior, and perhaps a king, will make the world resound with wondrous feats at arms. Jolm. You forgot how frightened you were once, when robbers broke into your father's house. James. I was afraid my father w'ould be killed. John. And to prevent the murder, hid beneath the bed I {All laugh heartily. ) James. Laugh on, but when you see my name on the historic page, you will be proud to say, " He was my schoolmate, he I" and I shall make you all immortal. Rahoh. Yes, and, as the world may like to hear some anecdotes of the great chieftain, I will rehearse in glowing terms the story of that robbery. James. Be silent, Ralph ! how foolishly you talk. I shall Achilles take, or Hector, or the Black Prince, for my model, for those ancient heroes fought it hand to hand hke lions. Imagine me the Black Prince now, commg to chastise your insolence. (^5 he adoances hastily he trips over his staff and falls, and ivee'ps most bitterly. ) Ralph. Though a missionary, I may lift up the fallen warrior. The Black Prince looks pale ! JoJm. Though only a Merchant Prince, and far from Black, I'll lend my brother prince a helping hand, for, no trifling wound would make the Black Prince boo- h 00 ! Sam. Hector and Achilles, when they fell, got up themselves, the poets say. James. 'Tis false I they never fell. Sam. O, did'nt they? They died though, both of them, and I suppose they did so standing bolt upright. James. Well, you may laugh, but none but warriors can be Presidents henceforth, and when I am one, as one I will be yet, I will repay these insults. Ralph. The bell has rung for school. Will the Black Prmce lead in ? Come Merchant Prince, and Judge. John. Ay, clear the way, and careful be in school not to inform the master what four buds of glorious promise are now^ swelling beneath his rod. 5* 54 FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. XXVII. PLAYING SCHOOL. SOLOMON, JAMES AND MOSES. James. Come, Sol, let's play school. You be master, ai d Moses and I will ba scholars. iS. You mean, you will be pupils, I don't believe you will ever become scholars. Moses Not under you. Master Solomon I S. Well, Jim James. My name is James, sir. S. O, right, no master should call his pupils by nick- names. Master James, take your arithmetic, and do the first sum in the fifth section, and .bring it to me. James. I will, sir. [He takes slate and book and goes to ivork. ) jS. Moses, come here I {Moses stands up very stiffly.) What have you studied, Moses? Moses. Grammar, sir. S. What is Grammar, Moses ? Moses. I don't know, sir. S. How can you study it then ? Moses. By the book, sir. All the words are there ju^^ as you have to say them. S. But words are not ideas, Moses. Grammar treats of words, sir, and has nothing to do with ideas. iS. O, very well, go and learn six pages, word for word ; for, if the words contain any ideas, and you con- tain the words, you must have the ideas also. Have you done your problem, James ? James. Yes, sir. S. Well, what is it? Read it. James. {Reading from his slate.) If 3 tons of straw cost thirty dollars, what will four tons cost? S. Well, what is the answer ? /. Forty dollars, sir. S. Wrong, entirely wrong. James. I have done it three or four times, sir ; will you please to look it over ? 55 S. Ah, you troublesome fellow I Let me see. ( He compares the book and slate, and then says,) Here, you care- less blockhead, see here, you have written it, "If three tons of straw cost thirty dollars," and in the book it reads, " If three tons of English straw cost thirty dollars," — Go and copy it correctly, and do it over again. / Master, that don't aifect the answer. ;S. Hold your tono:ue, sir. Go, and do as I bid you. Come here, Moses. What is a Substantive. Moses ^ M. "A Substantive Noun is the name of any thing that has a notion ; as, man — virtue — London.' ' S. Well, mention some noun to show that you under- stand the definition. M. I can't do it, sir, there's nothing on airth or under the airth like man — virtue — London. I have no idea what it means, sir. S. It may be good grammar without any meaning. James, how comes on the straw ? /. None the better for being English, sir. I see no error. S. O dear, if you can't show your learning, stand up and show your manners. There, now make your best bows, and go home. Moses and James. Hooraw for old Sol! English gram- mar and English straw, forever ! XXVIII. BIRD CATCHING. A FATHER AND HIS LITTLE BOY FREDERIC. Fred. Father, I wish you would buy me a cage. Father. A cage, Fred. ? what do you want of a cage? Fred. I want it to put my bird m. F. Your bird ? I did not know you had one. Fred. I have n't got one yet, but I am going to have one. F. How are you going to get it, Fred. ? 56 Fred. O, I know ; John Long has told me of a capital way to catch birds, and I mean to catch lots of 'em. I'll catch one foi you, father, if you would like to have one. F. I can not spare time to take care of one, my boy, and I have some doubts whether it is humane to confine the little things in prison. But I am curious to know how you are going to catch so many of them ; I always found it very hard work when I was a boy. Fred. O, it is perfectly easy, father ; you have only to cjet close to the bird, and put a little salt on its tail. F. Well, what will he do then? Fred. O, he'll be caught right away, you see. F. No, I don't see any such thing, my boy. Fred. Why, father, it's as sure as a gun. John Long told me that when I got near enough to put the salt on his tail, he wouldn't be able to move an inch, any more than if he was dead. Now don't you see how it is done, father ? F. Did John Long ever catch any birds so himself? Fred. No, father ; but he says he knows it can be done. F. Turn your back to me Fred., and let me put a little salt on your coat tail, if you have any, {he has on a boy's jacket,) to see if it will prevent you from running away. Fred. Ha, father, you know it wont, unless you catch hold of my coat. F. Now you have the secret, Fred. Fred. How so, father ? I don't see any secret about it F. If I get near enough to salt your coat tail, I may as well take hold of the coat at once, and hold you. Fred. O dear, I see. If I get near enough to put salt on a bird's tail, I can grab him at once, but then 7 shall catch him, and not the salt. F. You see sugar will do as well as salt, my boy, but whether you use salt or sugar, one other thing is very essential. Fred. What is that, father ? Do tell me. F. It is necessary that the bird should agree to stand still. Will one cage be enough, Fred. ? Fred. Father, I guess I'll wait till my coat tail grows- It is evidently not long enough yet. fowle'o hundred dialogues. 57 NO. XXIX. THE GHOST. Saul, a large boy, manager of a theatre. y ^^' > two of the actors^ met for rehearsal, Saul. Come, boys, are you ready for the play ? John, you were to be the bear, what have you done to quahfy yourself? Ned. Nature has done every thing for him. John will make a perfect bear without any traming. Johfi. You, Ned, are to enact the gentleman, and I am sure, we can't say nature has done any thing for you. S. Come, come, that will not do. Answer me, John, what have you done ? /. I have borrowed a buffalo skin, and it will do first rate, only it has no head, tail and legs. S. No matter, you must tell the company that the head and legs that they see are yours, and not the bear's. N. Sometimes it flatters the audience to let them make such discoveries themselves. I think you may trust them on this occasion. jS. Well, next comes the gentleman. Ned, how shall you work it ? You know you are to be lost m the lorest, and the bear attacks you, and eats you up. iV". As he can't do that before the company, how will the company know it ? S. The bear must come in and tell them all about it. J. What language shall I use ? I do not speak the bear lingo fluently. N. That never will do, no bear ever told any such story, and the audience will laugh when they ought to cry. We must do as Shakspeare did in a similar dilemma. He makes the ghost of a murdered king appear and relate the dreadful deed. /. But, if I have eaten him up, there is nothing to make a ghost of S. No matter. Ghosts are spirits, you know, and made of next to nothing 58 N. Shall I. have to spell all I have to say, as the rap- ping spirits do ? jS. No, that takes too long, you must speak out like a man. Let me hear you begin the speech if you have learned it. (Ned takes a few steps quickly, as if entering.) S. O, that will never do. No ghost ever moves faster than a funeral procession. Go out and try it again. You must be stiff, too, stiff as a corpse, and don't move hand or head, knee or elbow, any more than if you were wooden. (Ned comes in tvith slow and solemn step, and when he stops, John says — ) J. That never will do. Nobody ever saw a black ghost. You must have a sheet. N. Where could a ghost get a white sheet, in a bear's stomach ? S. You must have one. Here, take this white curtain. A ghost without a sheet, is a tree without a shadow. Wrap yourself up, and try it again, Ned. {Ned stalks in^ and the others start as if alarmed. Then Ned says in a shrill, squeaking voice — ) N. " Start not, O mortals, at the dismal tones of the underworld, where rest my marrow-bones," — S Pshaw, Ned, that wouldn't do for the ghost of an infant cricket. Don't you know, my dear fellow, that all ghosts have bad colds, and speak in the hoarsest tones ? N. How do you know that ? I guess if a bear had eaten you, you would be glad to speak in any tone. J. It is settled, that all ghosts, male and female, talk base, ever so far below any scale. So take your position again, and rough up. \Ned takes a step or two, they start, and he begins again. ) N. " Start not, O mortals, at the dismal tones of the under world, where rest my marrow-bones, for I've a tale " — /. That's more than my buffalo robe can say. N. John, if you interrupt me again — S. Come, no wrangling. John, recollect that you are a bear, and have not a word to say. Bears may make ghosts, but they cannot act them. Eating forty men wouldn't make a man of you. Ned, you needn't finish fowle's hundred dialogues. 59 the tale. Remember to flour your lace a little. When you have told your story, we will give chase to the bear, and avenge your untimely death by slaying him /. I'll die slick, I tell yoii, I'll growl — iV. You know how to growl, everybody knows. S. The audience will be greatly moved ; for, if this rehearsal affects these spectators, {looking at the company,) the effect of the play will be tremendous. Be ready when the clock strikes seven. XXX. THE COLLEGIAN. MR. AND MRS. HOMESPUN, AND ICHABOD, WHO HAS JUST RE- TURNED FROM COLLEGE. Mrs. FT. How can you think so meanly of Ichabod, Mr. Homespun. He seems to know every thing. Mr. H. I tell you, wife, that a good farmer was spoiled when he went to college. Mrs. H. More likely a great man was made. If he had not been sent there, he would not have known nothing. Mr. II. He knows it now, wife. Mrs H. Why, he has Latin at his tongue's end. Mr. H. He'll keep it there, it will never enter his mouth. I tell you wife, I wish I had kept him at home. He is too proud to "work now. Mrs. H. You can't expect a man, who has been at college, to work for his living. He must go into a profes- sion. Mr. H. Does he tell you what profession he prefers? Mrs. H. Yes, he prefers the law. Mr. H. Why so ? I like that the least. Mrs. H. He says he has no grace for theology, and DO taste for medicine. {Enter Ichabod.) Ich. "How are you father? Mother, how is it with you ? What do you look so sober about ? Nq eleventh cousin is dead, I hope. 60 fowle's hundred dialogues. Mr. H. We are more troubled about the living. Mrs. H We were talking about your choice of a pro- fession, Ichabod. Ich. Well, what about it. Mr H. My son, do you know how much is required to make a good lawyer ; how many years of hard study, and how many pounds of hard gold and silver? Ich. Poll, father, brass is better than gold or silver, and I have laid up a large stock of that. Mr. H, Yes, Icliabod, but you must know all about common law, and uncommon law ; and you must be able tu Irigiiten men from telUng the truth, and you must make falsehoods appear to be truths, and you must un- derstand logic, Ichabod. Mrs. H. What is logic, husband ? Ich. Logic, mother ? Logic is the right use of reason. Mrs. H, Well, my son, will you just give us an ex- ample, that will satisfy your father, for I have been try- ing to take your part against him. Ich. It is perfectly easy. Now here are these dol- lars that you gave me to set me up in business. My whole stock in trade, you see. How many are there ? {He hnlds wp tivo.) Mr. and Mrs. H. Two, two, that is clear enough. Ich. I will prove to you that there are three, or I'll go back to the plough. Mrs. H. Well, do now, for I long to see your father's mind settled. Ich. {Putting one dollar into his mother's hand.) How many dollars do I give you, mother? Mrs. H. One, my son. Ick. ( Taking the dollar from his mother and giving both to his father.) How many do I give you, father? Mr."!!. Two, Ichabod, two. Ich. How many did I give you, mother? Mrs. II One. Ich. And YOU, father? Mr. H. Two. Ich. Weil, are not two and one three ? Mrs. H. Well, that is curious ; Ichabod, you art a genius. DIALOGUES. 61 Mr. H. You certainly are, Ichabod, and one dollar will be full enough to set you up in business. So mother {giving her a dollar) you shall have that dollar ; I will pocket this, {he puts the other in his pocket) and Ichabod, my son, you shall have — the third. XXXI. THE PERFECT MERCHANT. MR. PERKINS AND HIS SONS, JOHN, MOSES, ROBERT, DAVID, AND HENRY. Mr. Per. Well, boys, you all intend to be merchants one of these days, and I should like to know what qual- ity you think most essential to success. Tell me, now, what you think will make you perfect merchants. John. I know what it is, father. No merchant can be any thing without Enterprise. When I am a merchant, I shall cut a dash, I tell you. Mr. P. Those who cut a dash usually fail. John. O, I don't mean that kind of dash. I mean to find out new places for trade, and make business. My ships shall be superior to all others, and nobody shall know where they have been till they come home full of money. Mr. P. Very well, John, this is all very well, but let us hear what Moses has to say. Moses. I shall not attempt to cut a dash, but shall modestly carry on a small and safe business. My rent and my other expenses shall not eat up all my profits, and by saving and taking care of small matters, I shall be ^^ure to grow rich by strict Economy. Mr. P. It is probably true, that more get rich by avmg than by any other way. But let us hear v hat Robert has to say. Robert. I think, father, I should depend upon m/ hidustry John. Well, I mean to be industrious too. 62 Rob. Yes, but you mean to do business on a large scale, and to run great risks. I shall run no risks, but shall make the very bees blush, I shall be so much more busy than the busiest of them. Mos. What will you be so busy about, if you have no business,^ to do ? Rob. I will make business. John. Yes, as Mr. Fussy does. His apprentice tells me, that, when no customer is in, they make believe wait on customers ; and, when they are tired of that, Mr. Fussy strows dirt on the floor and sets him to clean it up, 01 throws goods over the counters for him to put up on the shelves. Rob. When I have customers, I shall be very atten- tive to them. When I have no person in, I shall put the shop in order, buy goods, and prepare for business If no customers come then, I shall try to find some. If the honey does not come to the hive, the bee must go out after it. Mr. P. You stand your ground well, Robert. But, David, let us hear how you intend to manage. What do you think the most important quality to insure success in business ? David. Honesty, father. The old proverb says, "Honesty is the best policy," and I shall try it. John. Well, you don't suppose we mean to be dishon- est, do you ? A man can be enterprising and be honest too, Moses, Economical people are generally the mos^ honest. Rob: Industrious people need not be cheats. David. That is all very well. But, very enterpris- mg men can not be very punctual men, they depend so much on others. Economical people are often so close that they slide into meanness, and then into unfair dealing, while the industrious, or bustling, seldom keep correct ac- counts. Every man, who deals with me, shall feel th-it he can trust me ; that my word is better than any bond ; that he can never lose by me. Mr. P. Very well, David, stick to your plan, and you will deserve success, whether you obtain it or not Eut^ Henry, we must hear wliat you have to say. 63 Hen. "WeW, father, I don't see why all these qualities may not be united in a perfect merchant. I mean to be enterprising as John, economical as Moses, busy as Rob- ert, and honest as David. But, besides this, there is one other thing I mean to be. Mr. P. What is that? You fix your standard high. Hen. I mean to be a liberal merchant. No man I deal with shall ever say I am mean in my dealings. No man in my employ shall ever say he is not well paid for his labor. No good cause shall ever fail w^hile I can help it on. They shall not say on my tombstone, " He died like a Prince," but, they shall say "He lived like a Man." Mr. P. Well done, Henry ! That is the true mer- chant, — he who works not for himself, but for others, and who never forgets that '* it profiteth nothing for a man to gain the whole world, if, in doing this, he loses his own soul, or even contracts and belittles it." XXXII. THE NEW SCHOOL-HOUSE. MR. FORWARD AND MR. CONSERVE. Mr. Forward. Good morning, neighbor Conserve. How do you do? Mr. Conserve. I should do well enough, if other men would let me alone. Mr. F. What troubles you now ? Has anybody been guilty of helping a neighbor, or benefiting the community ? Mr. C. Have you heard of the doings of the School Committee yesterday ? Mr. F. What doings? They areallmeni am wilUng to trust. Mr. G. They have been so crazy as to vote to build a new school-house. Mr. F. They must be raving mad, surely, to do so, when the old school-house only lacks windows and doors, 64 and is more than half large eiiougli to hold the pupils. They must be crazy to think of giving up such a speci- men of Gothic architecture. M?'. C. You may laugh at their doings, bat we who pay tlie taxes do not find building school-houses such agreeable work. Besides, Mr. Forward, I have associa tions with that old building that I can never have with any new one. Mr. F. You may say as much of an old pair of shoes that pinched you, but shall you, on that account, never buy new ones? Mr. C. You have a knack at turning off an argument, My. Forward, but, after all, it is a serious business to build a new school-house. Mr. F. It is certainly a very serious business to pro- vide for the proper education of the generation that is to succeed us, but I think it is a far more serious business not to provide for it. Mr. C. They have no reason to complain, if they fare as well as their fathers did. I went to school in the old house, and it was good enough for me. Mr. F. Did your father build the house you live in, Mr. Conserve ? Mr. C. No, he lived in a log house. Mr. F. Why didn't you continue to live in the log house ? He, no doubt, found it convenient, and had pleas- ant associations with every log of it. Mr. C. It was not large enough for my family, and I wanted just such a building for my cattle. Besides, father had an idea that the old house was not healthful. Mr. F. I suppose the fathers of the town thought the old school-house too small for their growing family, and, if too small, of course, unhealthy. Mr. C. Living in a house is one thing, and going to school is another. Mr. F. That is certainly true ; living in a house is one tiling, and staying in that old school-house is another, for this is dying rather than living. Mr. C. Our fathers did not complain. Mr. F. Perhaps not, for they had better school-houses, 65 according to their means than we have, and thg laws of health are better understood now. Mr. C. So yon all say, but men are not half so robust now as they were then, and we see ten sickly boys and girls where our fathers saw one. We had to work when I was young, but now the children are too feeble to work. Mr. F. If children had to work as hard now, there would be less to fear from our poor school-houses. But to come down to conunon sense, neighbor Conserve, do you really believe that children or men can Avork as well in a crowded room, as in one not crowded. Mr. C. Perhaps not. I am a carpenter, and like to have room enough to swing my arms freely, but swinging one's arms and using one's mind are very different things. I could think in a flour barrel. Mr. F. Very well, could you think in a crowd, as well as when alone ? Mr. C No, no, I think not, but if children are to be alone, that they may be able to think, we may dispense with schools altogether. Mr. F. It is not necessary to be alone, if we are so separated as not to be exposed to constant interruption But, granting, for the sake of argument, that one can do as nuich work in a crowd, will it be done as well? Mr. C. That depends upon what it is. Some things can be done in a crowd that can't be done elsewhere. Give me a crowd when you want a good hooraw. Mr. F. Yes, give us a crowd when we wish to make a noise, or to do any mischief and not be detected. But, neighbor, would a cat live as long shut up in a small box as in a large one? Mr. C. That depends upon whether it is air tight or not. Mr. F. Very well, when you went to the old school- liouse, it was not air tight, for there was a large fireplace which ventilated it. But now, there is a air-tight and no fireplace. We save a ton of coal worth five dollars, and buy a cord of physic which costs nearer five hundred. Mr. G. Let me ask you one question, neighbor, for you have asked me several. Why is it that you, who liave no children to be benefited by the school, are for 66 fowle's hundred dialogues. hfivirig a new house, when I, v/ho have seven children, am opposed to it ? Mr. F. I do not think I am more liberal or more hu- mane than you are, neighbor, but I have been led to study the subject perhaps more carefully. My associations with the old school-house are as strong as yours, but they are the associations of ignorance, and I wish the present race to have purer associations, and do not think they will be any the weaker because they are of a higher cast. I have been a teacher, too, and I know that where the rconi is large and well ventilated, the furniture neat and con- venient, the apparatus simple, but abundant, the school, compared to those we used to attend, is as a railroad car to an old stage-coach, and the difference of progress about in the same proportion. Mr. G. Will old fashioned teachers be able to carry- on your new fangled schools ? Mr. F. Very seldom. You must have skilful engi- neers for your railroad, and not trust the engine to old stage drivers. When railroads were first introduced, there were not ten engineers in the country, but the de- mand for them created them, and so it will be with teach- ers, old things will become new, or the new will take their place. Mr. G. 1 believe you are more than half right, but still I can not see why an old bachelor should take so much interest in the welfare of other people's children. Mr. F. That is a great question, and puzzles me sometinifs, but not half so much as the question, wiry those w.io have children are so indifferent about tlieir comfort and happiness, their moral and intellectual edu- cation FOWLe's HUNDrwED DIALOGUES. 67 XXXTII. THE STANDING ARMY. ALEXANDER. MicAJAH, « shakcr boy. GEORGE. NED, the largest boy. ROBERT. OTHER BOYS, to any number. Alexander. ( With a sivord) Come, boys, let's play sol- dier ; get sticks, and mind your commander, George. Yes, boys, this is Alexander the Great, and he'll cut your heads off if you don't fight under him. Alex. I'll flog any fellow that don't enlist ; so get your sticks, and form a line, or look out for your heads. Geo. I will not serve on compulsion, Rob. Nor I. Micajah. Nor I. Harry. Nor I. {The rest say the same.) Alex. Why, this is rank mutiny. Rob. There is no mutiny where there is no leader. Will Mr. Alexander the Great please to show his com- mission. Alex. Here it is. (Wauing his suTord.) If you don't do as I tell you to, I'll knock you down with it. Harry. That's what I call despotism, and I will not submit to it for one.^ Rub. and others. Nor I ! Nor I ! Nor II (Alex, adcanccs to seize George, but all the boys protect UvMy and show fight.) Harry. If you strike one, you strike all. ( To Mica- jah.) Cajy, you'll stand by us, won't you? Mic. Yea, Til stand by thee, but thee knows I never fight. Alex. I guess I'll make you fight. Mic. I guess thee will not. Alex. I'll pound all the thees and thous out of you. Mic. Then thee will do all the fighting and not I. Geo. If you strike Cajy, you strike all of us. Don't he boys ? (All bluster and show their fists and say) Ay I ay I ay .' let him strike if he dares. 68 fowle's hundred dialogues. Ned. You'd better be reasonable, Mr. Alexander, for you are not at the head of an army as your great prede* cessor was. Stand back, boys, and face him, and let us have a parley. ( Thetj fall back lit a semi-circle. ) Alex. Well, Master George, you are the leader of the rebellion , what is your objection to joining my army. Geo. I had no voice in appointing the commander. I fight under no self-created general. What do you say boys ? {All.) Never! never! Liberty or death ! Alex. Well, Master Harry, why do you refuse to join my army ? Harry. There is not any army to join. Alex. Well, why do you refuse to help me form an army ? Harry, I hate standing armies. They enslave the people. Don't they, boys ? (All.) Ay! ay! Down with standing armies ! Down with military usurpers ! Alex. Bravely done ! Now, Micajah Broadbrim, what objection have you to joining the army ? Mic. I hate war. It is the worst trade in the world. I'll die before I'll fight. What do you say to that, boys? {All.) Down with the horrid trade! Down with human butchers ! Alex. Well, Master Ned, what objection have you to joining' my army? You are more reasonable than these rebels. Ned. I never will agree to fight till I know who the enemy is. Cliristian men never fight those who have not injured them. Alex. Will none of you enlist ? Come to the point at once. All. No, not one. Down with the usurper ! Alex. Til ere will be two words to that bargain. Now look out, I am going to give it to every mother's son of you. {He looks round to see ivhich he shall strike first, and all .stand firm with their fists raised, except Micajah, who goes beJiind Alexander and clasping his arms around him, and thus confining his arms, says:) Mic. If I can not fight, I can prevent fighting. Now, fowle's hundred dialogues. 69 George and Harry, ye may take away the sword, and may tie the geueral's feet and hands with your handker- chiefs. {Tkcy do so.) Now, friend Aleck, thee must join, not tlie army, that thee loves so well, but the Peace Society, or we will duck thee in the pond, to cool thy courage. What say ? Will thee join, or will thee be ducked ? Alex. I don't like fighting any better than the rest of you. I was 'nt in earnest. Mic. Say thee'll'join then. Alex. Well, I will. Come, let me loose. Mic. Thee promises not to hurt any of us for what we have done to thee ? Alex. No, no. Let me go, will you ? Ned. Boys, 1 nominate Alexander President of the Peace Party. Geo. I second the motion. Harry. Let all who favor the nomination say, Ay. AU. Ay ! Ay ! ( They untie him. ) Ned. Now three cheers for the new President, Alex- ander, the truly Great. AU. Hooraw ! hooraw ! hooraw ! Mic. Lead on, Alexander, we'll follow thee, now, and do any thing but fight with thee, or for thee. Give him ihree more peace cheers, boys. AIL Hooraw ! hooraw ! hooraw ! XXXIV. THE BOY KING. JOHN. SAMUEL. SOLOMON. PETER. GEORGE. DANIEL. ROBERT. BENJAMIN. WILLIAM. DAVID. JAMES. MOSES. John. ( Wearing a jjaper cown. ) Well, boys, now we are going to be a king, a first rate king, and who will be our ministers ? Come, ^^ ho wants office ? We are ready to receive applications 70 FOWLe's HUNDRrO DIALOGUES. George. I a})ply for the office of prime minister. I can promise and not perform, turn, twist and deceive, or do any thing of that sort to a charm. Jno. We are going to be a wise and virtuous king, and will not have a rogue for our prime minister. We banish thee from our presence. Wm. I should like to be the war minister. I can fight like a tiger. Jno. We shall have no fighting, and all tigers shall be caged. Wm. I guess your majesty will get on bravely with- out an army. Fist logic is the only logic the mass of men understand. Jiw. They have been badly educated. If we have an army, it shall be an army of missionaries or school- masters, and the commander in chief shall be a quaker. Sam'l. I propose to be at the head of the educational department. I can co?nmit like a high constabio. I will " put it in " and then " put it on," till it will be remem- bered, I tell you. Jno. You will not do for us. Our teachers shall all be practical men, words may be the means, but never the end of instruction. Da?i'l. That's your sort! and if your plan includes agriculture, I will be chief farmer. Jno. Education, as we understand it, includes every kind of useful business. All school learning shall bear upon actual life. We set you down, Daniel, for our chief agent, and not chief professor, for you shall do more than profess. David. I claim the musical department, if you have one. j7to. Music is one of the most important points of government. We will support a band of music in every village, and all our subjects shall learn to sing, or play on some instrument. Music belongs to peace and not to war. You shall be chief musician. Sol. I should .ike to be chief justice. Jno. What would you do in the department of law ? Sol. I would always whip both parties, and so stop liti- gation. Jno. Would you r ot sometimes whip the innocent, then ? FO\VLf/fc liLNDRfcJD D.ALOGULS, 7 1 Sol. Not. half SO ofttii as they are whipped now, and this will save the expense of courts and lawyers, jurors and sheriff-;, and armies to defend them. Jno. Thou shalt be our chief justice. Who next pro- poses ? Robert. T will be chief treasurer. I know how to get money, and how to keep it. Jno. You will not do for us. Our treasury shall not be a trader's shop or a miser's chest. We will aid every useful and benevolent undertaking, the chief end of oui government shall be to bless the governed. Some woman or some man with a heart, if we can find one, shall be our treasurer. Robert. Petticoats, forever ! Jas. I propose for the head of the health department. J?io. Very important. How will you manage it ? Jas. I will divide all the people among the doctors, and fine every doctor who let's a patient get sick. It shall be high treason for any person to die under three score and ten. Jno. What will you do if they insist on dying sooner ? Jas. Declare it suicide, and never let them try again. Peter. I will be head of the church, and take care of creeds and heretics. Jno. God will do that, and we will not usurp his pre- rogative. Instead of punishing men for differing, we will reward them for agreeing in opinion. So, Mr. Peter, you may go and tend sheep or catch fish. Ben. I will be chief of the navy department. Jno. We shall have none. Our merchant ships shall depend upon their honesty for protection. If men cheat or hurt us, we will not trade with them again, navies and armies promote wars, as learning the art of self defence often makes individuals quarrelsome. Benjamin. Hooraw for wooden guns ! Moses, {a very small hoy, getting up in a chair, and stand- ing tiptoe, squeaks out,) We should like to know where our kingdom is situated, and who are our subjects. Jno. Treason I treason I All Down with the rebel ! Down with him ! Moses. {Pointing a small syringe at them.) Come on, 72 FO^VI.E's HUNDRED DIALOGUES. we defy you all. Come on, any one who wishes never to Bee three score and ten. Jno. I abdicate in favor of Moses. Wni. I move that Moses be crowned king. All. Long live his majesty ! Long live Moses the Great ! ( Tliey shift the crown to his head, and. being too large, it sinks on his shoulders and covers his face. Then they give kini three cheers, and bear him off in their arms. XXXV. THE TALENTS. A MOTHER AND HER CHILDREN, JOSIE AND WILLIE, CHARLIE AND HATTIE. Willie. Mother, what did onr teacher mean to-day, when, after reading the parable of the Talents, in the Scriptures, he told us that God had given talents to all of us, and we must improve them, or meet with his displeas- ure. I am sure, mother, nobody ever gave me a talent or even a dollar to be improved. Mother. My dear Willie, your Maker has given you at least one talent, and I think you have improved it very well for so young a boy. W. Why, mother, I did n't know it, pray, where is it ? I should like to handle some of it. M. O, there are other talents than money, and your talent lies in Kindness. I do not know what I should have done, if you had not helped me take care of your brother and sisters, and done a thousand errands for me. Hattie. O, mother, he is real good to us, isn't he? How often he gives up his playthings to please us. Josie. [Kissing Willie.) There, Willie, that's for riding me and Charlie home on your sled. Charlie. I lub you, Willie, 'cause you lub me. M. Kindness or benevolence is a great talent, Willie, and it is clear that you have not wrapped yours up and laid it away to rust. n W. Well, mother, if I have such a talent, 1 didn't know it, and it is no great merit to do well, when you don't know it. But, do tell me, mother, whether Josie has any talent. /. O, dear, don't make fun of me, Willie, I am good for nothing, and every body knows it. G. Why, Josie, you know you help mother all the time. Don't you pick the raisins, and rice, and rock the cradle, and wash our faces, and comb our hair, when mother is sick, and don't father say you are an excellent little housekeeper? /. O, dear, that is a funny sort of talent. I do all that because I cannot bear to be idle. M. Your talent is useful Industry, Josie, and I don't know how I should get on without you, seeing that we are too poor to hire a servant. G. Mother, if we all have talents, what is mine ? for I don't think I know. I am sure I try to do as you tell me to do, and I mind father, and the teacher, and Willie. M. Yes, Charlie, and your talent, at present, is Obe- dience. It is a beautiful talent, my dear boy, and the more beautiful because it has become so rare. Now comes httle Hattie's turn. Hattie, you know, is lame, and sometimes suifers a great deal of pain. /. And yet, mother, she never complains. C No, Hattie is real good about that. I have seen. the great big tears roll down her little cheeks because she was in such pain, and when I cried, too, because I could n't help it, because she was so sick, she kissed me, and told me not to cry because it made her feel worse. W. When she was very small, and I used to rock her, she used to ask me if I was not tired, and didn't wish to rest. O, she's a darling. M. Yes, little Hattie's talent is Patience. The dear child has suffered a great deal, and I fear her talent will never have a chance to rust. W. Mother, what shall I do with my talent, when I grow up and the children do not need my help, a ad you have nothing for me to do. M. That time will never come, Willie, for the world is full of those who need assistance, and those who are 7 74 ready and willing to help the poor and weak, the erring and ignorant, will always find more work than they can do. You need not be afraid that your talent will have to rust for want of objects, Willie. J. What shall I do, mother, when I can't help you as I try to now ? W. You will keep house yourself, Josie, and have enough to do, as mother has now. H. O, Josie, may I come and see you, if mother will let me, and I am not too lame to walk. /. You will be a great girl, Hattie, dear, and will not have to ask mother's consent. H. O, I will never grow up, then, shall I ma' ? C. But, mother, when we grow up and do not have to mind you, as Josie says, what will become of my talent, Obedience ? M. Children obey their parents when they are young, but when they can understand, they must obey their Heavenly Father, and learn what he expects them to do. C. What will Hattie do, mother, if she ever gets well, and grows up, and has no pain to bear? M. She will comfort those who are suffering. No persons are so kind to others as those who know what it is to suffer. But she needs not fear that her Patience will not have full employment, for this is a world of trouble. But, my children, as fast as you are able to use them, God Will give you otiier talents, and I hope you will be as faithful when you have many, as you now are with ouly one. W. But, mother, where are the exchangers with whom we must place our talents to make them profitable? M. You must always do to others as you wish them to do to you, and thus, by doing good, and receiving good, all men become exchangers, and their several talents con- stantly increase in value. Now give me a kiss and go to bed . ( 'LVn y all kiss Iter. ) LL Ma', you did n't tell us what your talent is. M. My Heavenly Father has given me at lea^t four talents, and I have named them Willie, Josie, Charlie :«iid Hattie: How can I thank him sufficiently for all his g^oodness r FOWJ.E S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 75 XXXVI. THE SCHOOL OF THE WOELD. FATHER AND SON. Faiker. What has happened to you to-day, my son, that you are so unhappy ? Have you been punished at school ? Harry. Yes, sir, and scolded too, and I wish I wat never to go to school again. I do not love school, and do not learn any thing, and what is the use of going? F. You do not learn any thing, my son ! Why, I learn something every day of my life without going to school. H. Perhaps I should do so too, if I staid at hOme. F. I mean, tliat, without the adv^antage of going to school which you enjoy, I learn something, old as I am ; and, surely, you, who are but a child, can do the same. II. Father, did you not once tell me that the world is a great school ? F. Yes, Harry, it is so, and I am one of the scholars. It is a sort of High-School. H. At your school do you have lessons, that you do not understand, to learn by heart? F. No ; my lessons are about things, and not about words. II. Then I should like your school better than mine. I wonder what is the use of going to my school ! F. You are sent to school to prepare you to enter "he great school of the world, into which you will be admitted when you are prepared. H. How am I to be prepared ? Do you have to sit still all day on hard benches, with your hands folder or behind you, as we do at ours? F. No, indeed ; we are all the time in motion, and our hands are always at work. II. How does our sitting so still prepare us to run about as you do ? I like to sit when I am tired of running, but I do not like to sit till I am benumbed, and too tired to run. 76 fowle's hundred dialogues. F. You are required to sit still, that you may not dis turb your neighbors. H. Do you never disturb your neighbors by running about? I have read of a great philosoplier, who taught a school, and always kept his scholars walking about with him. I wish I could go to such a school. F. I am afraid you have not behaved well at school I hope you never talk there. H. No, father, we are not even allowed to whisper. Are you allowed to whisper m your great school ? F. We are often obliged to talk a great deal, and often very loudly, or we should never accomphsh any tiling. H. Then, father, I do not see how our bemg kept so silent prepares us for entering your school where so much talking is required. F. You study in sdence that you may get information, and have something to talk about hereafter. H. Do you only have to talk about what you once studied in my school ? We study sjjtiimg, and do you talk much about that ? F. No, my son, we talk about business. H. Business I Do we study that in our school ? You sell hats, but I never heard Master say a word about hats, except when he tells us to take them off and show our manners. I never read a lesson on hats ; I never ciphered about hats. I know, though, how you make hats, and how you sell them, though Master did not tell me. F. Your Master teaches you how to read, that you may not only be able to read about hats, but about every thing else. He teaches you to calculate, that you may find the cost or value not only of hats, but of other arti- cles also. H. I wish we could handle the articles instead of only studying about them. I hate the school so, that I would run away from it if I dared to do so. F. You would be a truant then, and would be pun- ished severely, and, probably, disgraced also. H. I know it, father ; but do you go to school every day as I am compelled to do? F. Every day, but Sunday, my child, and then, you know I go to cluu-ch, which is another sort of High- School. 77 H. But, father, you stay at home sometimes, when you do not hke tlie minister, and is not this the same as playing truant? But you always make me goto meet- ing, though you do not go yourself. Does the minister whip you for it with a rod, as our master whips the boys? F. No ; no man is allowed to strike another except in self-defence. H. Why are men allowed to strike boys, then? T mu'st say I like your school best, father. F. My boy, you have some strange notions on this subject ; who has been talking to you ? H. Nobody, father ; we are not allowed to talk. But I should like to know, if, when Master strikes me, I have a right to strike back, in self-defence, as you say men are allowed to do ? F. My son, you do not understand this matter. H. I know I do not, Father, and this is why I ask you so much about it. May I stay at home, fathor, until I am big enough to go to your school ? F. No, you must go to your own school, and I must see your Master, and have a talk with him about you, for, though I know you must be wrong, I do not see exactly how to prove you so. XXXVII. THE GOSSIPS. MRS, PRV, MR.S. QUICK, MRS. SEARCH, MliS. GOSSIP. SCENE :N the street. MRS. PRY, MRS. SEARCH AND MRS. QUICK, MEETING. Mrs. Pry. Have you heard any news, neighbor Search ? Mrs. Search. News ? no, 1 am dying to hear some. 1 have not heard a word since last night, and it is now almost noon. Mrs. Quick. I heard a piece of news as I came along, and you will hardly believe it, though I received it from a 78 fowle's hundred dialogues, person of veracity, who was knowing to the fact, and, therefore, could not mistake. Mrs. S Pray let ns have it. I hope it is nothing short of an elopement. Mrs. P. 1 hope it is a murder, or, at least, a suicide. We have not had any news worth mentioning these two months. Mrs. Q It is neither an elopement nor a murder, but you may think it sometiiing akin to the latter. Tlie truth is, there is a woman down in the village, and th'ey will not allow her to he buried. Mrs. S. You don't say so? Mrs. Q. 1 do. The coroner has positively refused to bury her. 3Irs. P. Do tell I What could the poor creature have done to be denied christian burial? Mrs. Q. I do not knov/what the ofTence was, but they say he has his reasons, and buried she shall not be. Mrs, P. Where is she lying? I must go and inquire into it. Bless me, Mrs. Search, how could this happen and we not hear of it ? M?'s. S. Did you hear her name, Mrs. Quick? that may give us a clue to the mystery. Mrs. Q. I did not learn her name, though, if I forget not, it began with a G, or some such letter. But I have a little errand up the street, and must leave you In the meantime, as we know so little of tlie circnm- Stances, it will be prudent nut to repeat what I have told you. Good morning. {SJlc goes out.) Mrs. P. Did you ever hear of any thing so strange? One of two tilings is certain, she has either killed herself or been killed, and is reserved for examination. Mrs. S, I don't understand it so. Mrs. Quick seemed to insinuate that she had been lying a long time, and was not to be buried at all. But here comes Mrs. Gossip, and perhaps she can tell us all about it, as she comes fresh from the village. {Enter Mrs. Gossip.) Mrs. P, Good morning, Mrs. Gossip. Mrs. G. Good morning, Mrs. Pry. How do you do, Mrs. Search ? Mrs: S. Pretty well, I thank you. How do you do? Mrs. G. Indifierent, I'm much obliged to you. I've 79 haci7ie into a large spoon. ) Dr. B. Take this, Sir. Dr. R. There 's death in it. Take this, Sir. Mr. S. Which shall I take, gentlemen ? I wish to obey you Loth. Dr. B Take this, Sir, or I will not anSAVer for your life another hour. Dr. R. Take this. Sir, or you are a dead man in five minutes. Mr. S. Suppose I take both, gentlemen, will not one prevent the other from harming me? Bro. You may as well take neither Dr. B. That fellow, (pointi?ig to Dr. R.) knows nothing of your case, Sir. Dr. R. Take that. Sir, (throKring his 9nedici?ie in his face,) since the patient will not. Dr. B. Take that ! (throwing his mixture in Dr. R's face.) Mr. S. Gentlemen, what will be the consequence of thus wasting the medicine at this crisis ? Bro. Your life will be saved, if there is any truth in the Doctors. Dr. R. Who are you, Sir ? Dr. B. Yes, Sir, who are you ? Bro. One who neither loves your physic, nor fears your anger. Dr. R. How dare you step, Sir, between the patient and his medical advisers ? Dr. B. Yes, Sir, how dare you interfere, in a case of such moment, Sir ? Mr. S. Brother, how can you interrupt the gentlemen, when I have but a moment, perhaps, to live ? Bro. (To Dr R.) What is the matter with the pa- tient, Sir ? Dr. R. It is a strong case of peri-cogno-mena-ignotha, Sir. Dr, B. A strong case of ninguna cosa, Sir. Sir, the man is as well as I am. Dr. R, And much more honest. ^ 130 Dr. B. You have taken my liquid, now, Sir, you may take the soUd. {He strikes Dr. R,, who chases him out of the room ) Bro. Now, brother, if you will let me prescribe for you, I will insure your speedy recovery. Mr. S. Well, brother, what shall I take ? I will obe> you. Bro. Take of Sensus Communis, half a grain, of For- titudinis Vulgaris, quantum suf. and you may laugh at the doctors. Mr. S. If you will mix it, brother, 1 will take it in- stantly. O dear, how much precious time we have lost by this quarrel ! LIX. THE MAERYING MISER. Skinflint, the miser. Trimmer, his neighbor. James, his cook and coachman. -p, ' I servants to Skinflint. Skinflint. You say your daughter will marry me with out compulsion. Trimmer. To be sure she will ; she dares not do other wise. Skin. I am overjoyed, but what dowry does she insist on. Trim. Twenty thousand. Skin. Too much, too much, when she brings nothing. Trim. You do her injustice, she brings more than you give her. Skin. How so ? I did not know that she brought me anything. Trim. She is but twenty, and you are sixty at least, and she gives you forty years, which you may set down al five hundred a year or twenty thousand. Sldn. Eh, eh I Is that all she brings : 131 Trim. She is priideiit and frugal, and will save you at least five hundred a year, that any other wife would spend. Skin Eh, eh ! TririL. She hates gaming and pleasure, and will not lose you five hundred a year, as most fashionable wives do, at the gaming table or the theatre. Skin. Eh, eh ! go on, go on, Mr. Trimmer. Trim. She has no poor relations, and you will save five hundred more by not having to entertain them. Skin. Eh, eh ! but there is no real estate in all this. Trim. Is not marriage an estate ? Skin. Yes, marriage must be called an estate. Well? 2Vim. Well, is there nothing real in having a young wife who sacrifices forty years ? nothing rtal in economy and frugality ? nothing real in abs taming from expensive pleasures and from ruinous play ? nothing real in saving you from the incumbrance of nobody knows how many poor relations ? Skin, Tliis is all negative property, or at best, promis- sory notes never payable. But you are sure the girl will have me ? 7Vim. Certainly, and as she is to dine with you, I will go and see that she is ready. {Trimmer goes out.) Skin. Brindle, come here! You must dust all the furniture, but don't rub it for fear of wearing it out. At dinner you must be butler, but, if a bottle is missing or broken, I shall take it out of your wages. Brin. Very well, sir. {Aside.) Sucli pay is better than none. Skin. You, Finch, must hand round the wine, but only where it is called for ; and don't provoke the guests to drmk as some impertinent servants do, when, if it v/as not ofiered, they wouldn't think of drinking a drop. Sometimes you need n't hear them call, and be sure always to carry a pitcher of water on the waiter with the wine. Brin. My clothes are ragged, master, and have a great rent behind. Fineh. And mine have a great grease spot there as big as your hand. 132 FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. Ski7i. You must both keep your backs to the wall, and always face the company. There, be good boys, and go to work. [They go out.) James, come here I James. Is it James the coachman, or James the cook you call? Skin. Both. James. But which of them first '^ SJan. Tiie cook James. Wait a minute then. {He puts on a cook\ urpron.) Now, sir, your orders. Skm. What can you give us for dinner, James ? James. That depends upon the money you give me to purcnase it. 8ki?L. The deuce it does ! It is always so with you. I never mention dinner but you cry money I money ! Any body can provide a dinner with money, but the great art consists in providing a good dinner without money. James. How many guests will there be ? Skin. Ten, but you must only provide for eight. When there's enough for eight there's enough for ten, all the cook books allow. James. I understand. To be deeent, we shall need three dishes. Skin, Villain I you will ruin me. James. Soup ; — fish ; — beef ; - - ( Skinflint puts his hand over his mouth. ) S/cin. Traitor, stop, you will eat. up all my property. James. Puddings ; — pies ; — {He puts his hand occr James's mouth again as he says) nuts ; oranges ; grapes — SJan. Do you wish to kill the company, — to kill them by repletion ? Go and read the Physiology, or ask the doctor if any thing is so prejudicial to health as sucli excess. "We must live to eat, and not eat to live," as tlie great man says. James, {aside.) He has only misplaced the wo]ds. Skin. What, are you muttering, fellow? Now, mind me, get only such things as are Jeast likely, to be eaten ; su'ih as soon cloy ; such as the guests will not take the trouble to eat. Lei them peel their own oranges ; crack Lue nuts badly. Be most officieis with what costs least. James. You may rely upon me. Now, sir, {whiU> ke 133 speaks he talces off his apron and puts on a coachman^ & great coat) what orders for your coachman ? Skin. Clean the carriage, and put in the horses to bring "my future" over. James. One wheel of the carriage is smashed, sir, as you know, and the poor horses would be on the litter, if they had any. They are better than the Pharisees, how- ever. Skin. What do you mean, blasphemer, why are they better than the Pharisees ? James. Because they fast more than twice in the week. Skin. They are eating up all my substance, you vil- lain. James. And losing their own. They are only shadows of horses. Skin. They have had nothing to do. James. And nothing to eat. They can do without work better than without food. So far from drawing the carriage, they can 't drag themselves. Skhi. Silence, impertinent I You are proving that what everybody says of you is true. James. So are you proving the truth of what they say of you. Skin. What do they dare to say of me ? Tell me frankly. Speak out ! James. They say you have an almanac printed for your own use, in which you have no holidays and many fasts ; that you always quarrel with your servants just at Christmas and New Year, so that they may expect no presents ; that your coachman caught you one night stealing the grain that he had placed in the crib for youi own horses, and, pretending not to know you, he gave you a sounder thrashing than the grain ever had, and you said nothing about it ; in fine, everybody says that you are an old fool to expect to marry such a young wife, and that you cannot see with spectacles what a blind man could see in the dark. Skin. Hold, slanderer, or you shall be hanged the Luoment tlie dinner is over. I'll serve you as they serve inad dogs. 134 James. It will be a late dinner, if you wait for me to serve it. Farewell, old fourpence half-penny. LX. DAVID AND GOLIATH. Saul. David. Goliath, {the latter armed.) Saul. My noble boy, I cannot but perceive In every movement, and in every word, That 'tis not thou alone that goest forth To meet Gath's champion. Israel's God Inspirits thee, and therefore art thou strong. Thy foe advances. I would gladly strive Beside thee, with thee live or die. Far more I need encouragement than thou. Farewell ! {He goes out.) Goliath, (advancing.) Israel has accepted, and I come To meet her champion, but the knight Has fled and left this stripHng in his room. Go call thy master, boy, and tell him I, Goliath, the great champion of Gath, Await him. Speed thee quick, or, by the gods Of great Philistia, I will toss thy corpse To the vultures, who would hardly thank Me for the meagre banquet. Hence, I say ! David. My master is the living God, and I, His servant, and my country's chosen one. Do in that country's name, and in the name Of great Jehovah, meet thy bold defiance. Goliath. Thou I and does the king abet the insult, And expect that I shall spare in pity What 'twere little fame to slay. Begone, I say ! Or I will treat thee as the worm on which I tread to rid the earth of vermin. Go, And bid thy mother keep her boys at home. David. The deer is larger than the dog, and yet The dog can worry him. The battle is not With the strong or to the bulky ; for, a bear Once smote my flock ; a lion once, and yet I tore the victims from their jaws, and both With these hands slew. I do not heed thy size, Which makes my aim more sure. Goliath. Thy words provoke My wrath, and yet I know not whether most To laugh or to avenge. I hoped a foe Would venture forth, whom it were not disgrace To kill ; but thou ! — I counsel thee, vain boy, To seek thy home, and watch thy tender sheep, If any are entrusted to such hands. David. The God I serve works not by instruments Like those men use. A woman with a nail Did silence Sisera, and put to flight The host of Canaan ; and my God to-day Will give thee to my hands, and I shall smite Thy head from oft' thee, and the mighty sword, Which thou art girdeth with, my weapon be. Goliath. By all the gods I worship, this is more Than flesh and blood can bear. Where, rash shepherd, Is thy armor, where thy sword ? 'Twere base to strike A boy unarmed. David. Thou com'st to me with sword And spear and shield, but in the awful name Of Israel's God I come, and with this stone And the same sling that simple shepherds use, The Lord whom thou defiest will now give A lesson to Philistia, who hath dared To lift herself against Jehovah. Goliath. Now Will I stop thy prate, although my sword Would rather rust than soil itself to drink Such feeble blood. Curst for a coward king Is he who sent thee forth, and cursed tliy God Who moves thee now to mock Gath's champion thus.=H= ( While he speaJcs these ivo-rds, David swings his sling, Goliath instardly strikes his hand upon his forehead, reek and falls. ) David. Great is the God of Israel, and henceforth, Let all the people bless his holy name ! * The dialogue may end here or be finished as follows. 136 LXI. DOES LEARNING INCREASE HAI»- PINESS ? A CONFERENCE. (Five Characters.) A. To me there appears to be no room for any diifer- euce of opinion upon this subject, for who can, doubt that knowledge gives increase of happiness as well as power. B. Tiie case is by no means so one sided as you sup- pose, and I am prepared to maintain, that, in most cases, increase of knowledge is increase of pain, or that, as the wise king expressed it, ** all knowledge increaseth sor- row." G. How can that be, since knowledge enables us to reuiove pain. B. Much depends on what you call pain, and I be- Ueve that, oftentimes, the happiest are those who enduro tlie most. The martyr has embraced the stake with joy. The knowledge of the physician may quiet the heart- burn, but it will not cure the heart-ache. A. Surely you will not pretend that the educated are more afflicted with the heart-ache than tlie ignorant and humble minded. B. I surely do mean this. The ills of life are multi- phed by the refinements of education. The sensitive- ness to emotions that give pain, increase with this refine- ment. A. May we not grant this, and still maintain that education fits the mind to bear this increase of ill, and wiio denies that cultivated taste opens new inlets to de- light, sources of pleasure that the ignorant must lack. D. If we may judge of human happiness by outward show, I think that I have seen more perfect happiness in the cellars of poverty, and even in the hovels of the slave, than I have seen in polished and refined saloons. C. We must^ determine what is happiness before we can proceed with certainty to say who has it in the largest measure. It seems to me the happiness of the slave re sembles that of the lower animals and nothing higher. 10^\LE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUKS. 137 B. Yon will not surely say that knowledge always elevates and refines the mind. I have been led to think it oftener sharpens the animal instincts, and makes re- finement to consist rather in delicate vice or splendid evil, than in true elevation of the soul to the great height-i of virtue, D. 1 knew a learned man who spent his life in edu eating three fair daughters. No expense was spared t give them such instruction as would make them orna ments to the lordly halls of wealth, and to the classi bowers of learning and refinement. All that could purifi tlie taste was cultivated without stint, and the Ibnd la ther had the pleasure to behold his daugliters all that ht had imagined. A. Well, they were happy then in their capacity for enjoyment, and he was happy in his great success. B. Not so. The minds thus cultivated lacked the means of exercise. The father had impoveiished him- self on their account, and they had wishes that could not be gratified, and aspirations that were not fulfilled. In- lets to ha'ppiness had been opened and multiplied, but all their tastes were far above their means of gratifica- tion. Envy and disappointment soon ])egan to sour the temper and embitter life, until no beings could be more unhappy or less fitted to enjoy the pleasures within reach. They even taunted their fond parent for the care that he had lavished on them, and declared that they regretted he had not neglected them, tliat they might love what the poor love, and take delight in what the ignorant ad- mire. C. 'Tis clear that the instruction was defective, and when we are asked whether learning increases happi- ness, it is important to determine not only what is happi- ness, but what is learning, too. B. Will you name the points in which the education of the daughters was defective? C. In proper views of life. They had not learned fhe virtue of self-denial and the grace of resignation. D. 'Tis true, and these defects so frequently are found that a person of what oft is called a finished education, who comes down to poverty with grace, and does not 12» 138 repine, and wince, and rail at fortune, is a rare exception and remarked by all. B. Besides, 'tis well to notice that the defects just named in finished education are the first lessons of tlie poor and ignorant. Their daily work is self-denial, and resignation is an early habit. What to the learned and refined is keenest torture, has no terror for tliem ; and Gaii has well ordained it so, since wealth and ease, knowledge and nice taste must be denied to the greater part of men. A. If it be true that ignorance is bliss, as you pretend, then must the child be happier far than the adult, for though the adult may little know, even that little will be much, compared with childish ignorance. D. Who that ever saw the innocent playfulness of infancy can doubt that the happiest hours of life are those which, having no past, know no regrets, and, seeing no future, know no fear. The present is their world, and that is always full of suns! line. A. Not always, for their tears fall easily and con- stantly, I think, B. But they are April showers, that last not long, and but refresh the earth, and leave no gloomy clouds behind. 1 think no one can doubt that childhood is the happiest part of life. C. The argument is specious but not sound, for all the joys of childhood cease to be joys when the mind is more mature. B. I grant it, but the question is not whether the hap- ])iness of knowledge is of a higher kind than that of ig- norance, but whether the highly educated man is, on the whole, more happy than the untaught. E. As I have heard the conference thus far, and have not taken sides, may I be now permitted to remark, that, were the world what it should be, and what it might be- come, if all were wise, then every word of truth, and ail that can deserve the name of knowledge, w^ould conduce to the happiness, not only of the possessor, but of all around him. The difficulty is, that men "get knowl- edge " as the wise man bids, but disregard the rest of the command, "with all thy getting, understanding get." fowle's hundred dialogues. 13U Knowledge with understanding is what we call wisdom, Jind no one can be made less happy by possessing wisdom. If we allow the soul to be more excellent tlian the body, then must its pleasures be superior, too. The daughters who were admitted to a higher sphere and fell from it, would not have fallen from happiness, had they but used thalr knowledge as they might, instead of mourning over it. There was a world around them, and they had the means of doing good to others, but their selfishness made them repine at their loss, and rest in idleness. The first and chief ingredient of happiness is innocence, the next is active goodness, Tliese, poor men may all pos- sess as well as the rich ; and when to these is added knowledge of the right kind, this knowledge confers })ijwer, and makes the possessor happier by the means iL places in his hands to bless mankind. LXIL THE GABBLER. SQUIRE FLIT AND MESSRS. JONES, BAYLEY AND BARNEY, ITIS NEIGHBORS. Flit. How are you, Jones? Is that you, Bayley ? and Barney too ? How strange that I should kill, — hit, J mean, three birds with one stone. Talking of killing, did I ever tell you of that gunning affair down at the Cape ? Jones. When your gun kicked you over, and you — Flit. False, Jones, every word of it. By the way, how did your boy get out of that frolic at Brighton? Made him pay well, hey ? I' 11 tell you what — Bay. Have you heard the news ? Flit. News, no, what news ? There was no news an hour ago, except the loss of the Constitution at Barba- does, and every body expected that. Why, when she was at anchor here, I went on board and told the captain she was unseaworthy, but nobody will take advioe now 140 o*-days. They know too much, they know too much. Barney. That 's what th^y sometimes say of some- body not a mile off. Flit. Tiieydo? Who does ? The mischief with me is, I never speak my mind. I should save the State mill- ions of dollars if I spoke out, and told half I see. J3y the way, Bayley, why does your wife wear that shocking boimet I I would not let my cook wear such an unbecom- in£i- affair Bay. She thinks Flit. Poll, no matter what she thinks, — it 's a fright. Bay. People's opinions differ in matters of taste, and Flit.- Taste, what's taste? Barney, what are you going to do with that boy of yours ? He is a plaguy smart dog, and ought to be employed Why don't you send him to sea ? Barn. The sea is a bad school of morals. Flit. So is the land, not a cent to choose b'etween them. When I was a boy just fourteen years, three months, and five days old, I remember my age, because that day, General Washington died, — as I was saying — what was I saying? — gracious, how a man forgets what is at his tongue's end. What on earth ivas 1 saying? Jones wake up I what's the matter with you? Jones. Nothing 's the matter, I was hearing you run on. Flit. Run on! what do you mean by running on? I '11 talk vi^ith any man on any subject for a wager. Do you know that the other day, at town meeting, I was suddenly called on to speak. •! had n't an idea in my head, and hadn't heard the previous speakers. No mat- ter, says I, here it goes, — and I plunged right into the debate, and Bay. Did not say a word to the point, of course. Flit. Who says so ? Now look here, I '11 prove to you til at it is all false. You see, the town liad concluded not to make tlie road by the great swamp ; well, the object \v.\r, lo make them change their determination. J^tiy They did n't do it. Flit No, but they ought to have done it, and I told 141 them so, and )ne of these days, if not sooner, they '11 see their mistake. {He sits with his back to Jones and the others.) You see there is but one way to manage a town, and that is, to seem to want what you don't want, and then they '11 oppose you, and grant the opposite, which is just what you do want. Jones. Wisdom will die when you do, Squire. {Jones goes out.) Flit. You may say what you please, but there must be somebody to take the lead in public affairs, or nothing will be done. Bay. You ought lo go to Congress, Squire. They want some men there mat know what 's what. ( Bayky goes out. ) Flit. It is not for me to say any thing on tliat subject, but, if I were in Congress, I beheve i could save the country milHons of dollars that are now wasted. Barn. You ouglit to go, Squire, and who knows but you may be President yet. Flit Stranger things have happened. Why there was Bill Jinnison, an old school-mate of mine, so far be- low me that I could not see him without a telescope — (Barney goes out.) — well, he married a woman with prop- erty, and got into a bank, and then into a rail road, and then into Congress. Talking of Congress, do you know, Bayley, that the Common Council have concluded to light the streets with gas ? Now, you see, gas is well enough, but what shall I do with my oil? I 've laid in enough to supply the town a year. Now don't interrupt me, and I '11 tell you how 1 came to buy such a lot of it. You know the Sperm Works failed ; well, I told the assignees, — you understand, the assignees. — now Jones do n't you interrupt me because your brother happens to be one of the assignees; — Barney, who was the auctioneer when your things were sold? — don't you remember? well, no matter. He sold the Sperm Factory, and I laid in with him {lie turns his chair round, ojnd sees thai he is alone) hooraw I all gone. Well, it is about time for me to go, too. 142 fovvle's hundred dialogues. LXIII. POVERTY AND CRIME, DIVES AND LAZARUS. Dives, What say you ? Have I canght you in tl € ct? Lazarus. You have, and I can but submit. D. You do confess the theft ? L. I do. I will not hide the truth. D. If truth you speak, say why you stole at all. L. I needed food, and needed means to purchase it. D. The State will find you food and work besides, when you are sentenced and confined. L. 'T were better to have found me both before. D. If you had been disposed to work, you had not thus been driven to theft. L. You, who abundance have, know not the trials ai)d temptations that beset the destitute, and sway their better will. D You had no right to steal. L. I had a right to live. My children D. You have children, then ? L. Five, till two were taken. D. How taken ? L. By disease, induced by destitution and exposure. D. Audi you did steal to save the rest ? L. Even so. Would I had done it sooner for their sakes. I did not yield till every hope was lost, and then the sacrifice was vain. D. ' T was a hard case. How came you destitute to this degree ? L. I worked too hard, fell sick, and found no friends. My wife then overtoiling, fell a sacrifice for those she loved. Z). How was your boyhood passed ? L. In poverty. My parents died while yet I was a child, and I had none to guide me. T). Somebody was to blame. Did you not ask assist- ance ? L. Often, and sometimes found it, but no oue cared enough to take me by the hand and save me. row J:'6 IIINDRED DIALOGUES. 145 D. Did you e'er tell your case to aiy one ? L. Yes, often. D. To wlioni ? L. To you. I wpU remember your reply, — "I've heard that tale before. You beggars are impostors all." D. I have been oft imposed upon. Does not the citj (»r the State provide for such as you ? L. Not till we break the law. It leaves us free till then, D. You knew the law ? L. I did, but did not make it ; never gave it my as- sent. Had poor men made the law, it had preventea crime, or been more mild and just in punishing. D. How just! It cannot sure be wrong to punish theft ! L. The poor man's law had looked to motives, not to acts ; it would have weighed temptations, circumstances, and, mayhap, have laid the penalty on those, who, hav- ing more than they could use, imparted not to those who sorely lacked. D. Then you think me more guilty than yourself Is it not so ? Speak out. Be plain. L. 1 say not so ; but, if the blessed rule of doing as we would be done unto had been observed, I had not stolen ; and if none but he who is without offence may cast the stone JD. You do not mean to impeach my character withal I L. The world has said that you were hard. D. Hard, but most just. I never took a farthing not my own. L Your shrewdness all allow. Your bargains all are good, as those are called which often are unequal. D. Yes, they are always good. " I often shave the flats . " ( Exultingly. ) L. And take what, had they equal knowledge, equal skill, they had not lost. In God's just balance, this may be called theft without the excuse of want. I never thus have WTonged the ignorant, and never stole when I had means to live. D. The world does not call shrewdness theft, and a sharp bargain is applauded oft. 144 L. The wretched look on Hfe with other eyes than tlie siiccessfiiL 1 have sometimes tiioiight when I have seen the judge condemn the criminal, whom ignorance and tem{)tation caused to fall, that, had their circum- stances heen exchanged, their fate had been reversed. D. You would make all men thieves I i. O, no ; I would make all men merciful. D. What would you have me do, were you now in my place ? L. Do as you would be done unto. Forgive as you would hope to be forgiven. D. 'T will do no good thus to forgive, if the tempta- tion or necessity to repeat the oflence be not removed. L. 'T is true — I must submit. D. Not so. The lecture you have read me shall not so be lost. I will forgive the offence, and freely will sup- ply what you most need to save your httle ones from want, and to enable you to begin a course of honest industry ; — and God forgive my trespasses as I do yours. LXIV. THE "SHOOTING OF YOUNG IDEAS." [Characters. Mr. John Rathripe, almost eight years of age, and nis brother, Mr. Robert, just turned of nine. Their father sitting, unnoticed by them, behind a screen. The boys have cigars in their mouths.] Robert. ( Gaping.) Horrid long days these, Jack, though we see so little of them. I should die if I had to get up before dinner. How do you feel after the ball? (Gaping.) John. {Gaping.) Done up, I am, confound the stupid thing. I couldn't see it through, and came home soon after day-break. ( Gaping ) R. I could have staid till noon. What was the mat- ter? Would not Fanny dance with you? I had a glorious romp with Kate ; waltzed with her every time ; worship- ped her all night, and dreamed of her ever since. But, tell me, who cut you out in Fanny's eyes, I thought you were the light of them, Who is your rival ? 145 /. That sneak of a Bill Daisy. By the powers, I've a mind to challenge the rascal for interfering. She was mine by all the laws of honor. R. I'd sue her for breach of promise, if you have proof. How do you know she loves you, Jack? J. She has said she did a thousand times. I never gave her a lot of sugar- plums without receiving a vow of eternal constancy in return. And I love Fan, and have no idea of being cut by her, or cut out by Bill. R. You must shoot Bill, that 's clear, and then perhaps Fan will lapse to the survivor. She 's a pretty girl, that 's a fact, but growing old. More than eight. Too old for you. Jack. J. Not eight, by Jupiter ! If any body else had called her eight, I'd have called him out. But she shall not have Bill Daisy, that 's plump. I'll kill him and blow out her brains first. R. You are a boy in these matters, Jack. Let me give you a little of my experience. I go with the poet, and if a girl won't have me, and I can't make her, I say, " the Devil take her," and there 's an end on 't. You are no philosopher. Jack, not a bit of one. /. No. I'm sick of the world, sick to death of it, and mean to turn hermit right away. R. You had better turn nun, for hermits have beards ! But how long have you been so sick of the world ? J. Almost twenty-four hours, by gracious ! Job could not have stood such misanthropy so long. R. But to change the subject ; are you going to the fancy ball to-night ? I should go, if I were you, and flirt with some girl merely to vex Fanny. Nothing will bring her to her senses so soon. J. I'll go, that's poz. But, Bob, what is to become of our lessons, and the school? We have both played truant to-day by oversleeping ourselves. R. Better do so than play the fool. I '11 tell you what, Jack, I've come to the conclusion that "all knowledge increaseth sorrow, and all study is weariness to the flesh." Dr. Johnson found it so, and let the truth out, and I'll have none of it. J. I think it was Solomon said so, but whoever it was, 13 146 fowle's hundred dialogues. it took him half a century to find it out, and I am going to save half a century of my life by adopting his experi- ence. I know of no greater bore to a sensible man {atr etching himself upward, and pulling up his dickey,) than what is denominated study. Solomon is the boy for me. I go for Solomon in the matter of education. R. Hooraw for Solomon ! I go for him, too. Father {coming forward with a heavy switch in his hand.) So do I. Solomon recommends the rod for the fool's back, and I am going to try his recipe. Come, {to John) venera- ble hermit, take off your jacket. And you, {to Robert) veteran of nine years, ten days and some hours, minutes and odd seconds, take off yours. J. Oh, Father, I'll never play truant again, nor stay out all night, — oh ! nor lie abed all day, — oh ! nor fall in love ; — oh ! nor fight a duel, — oh I nor turn hermit, — oh ! — nor — uor — {Bvfore each oh I the father raises the rod, without striking. ) F. Very well, I will begin with Robert then, who being comparatively a patriarch, must have led you astray. {Raising the rod.) Come, prepare ! R. Oh Sir, you never told me it was wrong to do as ] have done. F. {Dropping his arjn.) It is true, boyi?, I never did. Accidentally overhearing your conversation, I saw that I was to blame for not watching better over my children, and saving them from the follies that are turning boys and girls into men and women, before they have done sucking their tliumbs. On the backs of the parents the rod should be laid with a heavy hand. My twigs are sadly bent, but they are not trees yet, thougl\ inclined to think them- selves fully grown. If I had taken half as much care of tliem as of my worthless poplars, they would not have been so deformed. But come, boys, go to bed and sleep off your dissipation, and, in the morning, I will go with you to school, and consult with your teacher about your future studies. If I had done my duty, I should have •onsulted him long ago. DIALOGU1.S. 147 LXV. CITY SIGHTS WITH COUNTRY EYES. MARY AND HER AUNT RACHEL. Mary. Well, Aunt Rachel, tell me what you saw in the city. Did it equal your expectation ? Aunt. O dear, ask me no questions, child, it has made me so dizzy that I shall never recover my senses again. M. That would be a great misfortune. Aunt, to us as well as to yourself. But do tell rne something about it. What did you see there ? A. What didn't I see there? Houses so thick you could not see between them, and people so thick you could uot pass between them. Every body in motion and minding nobody but themselves, and every body in every body's way. O dear, I should go distracted to live there a single day ! M. Would you not get used to it. Aunt ? Surely those who live there have learned to bear it. A. I could as soon get used to suicide. And how the people do live there nobody can tell ; and where they get enough to eat is beyond my ken. M. Mother says they live by eating each other up. A. Well, I believe they do, and they do say there are le gions of doctors who kill folks to make monotonies of them M. What are mxjfiotonies, Aunt ? A. Sluletons, they are called now, my dear, but they were always caWed monotonies in my day. And, O deal me, such doings ! M. What did they do to you. Aunt? A. What did they do ? Rather ask what did n't they do to me ? M. Did you buy the dress you wanted ? A. O dear, I can't say what I bought. I only looked into a shop, and a young man asked me very politely to walk in. I told him T was looking for a first rate muslin de laine, and he told me that he had some that were beau- tiful. So I stepped in, and he took down some calicoes. I wish for muslin de laines, said I. Those are muslins, what we call muslins, said he, better than the article 148 fowle's hundred dialogues. you inquired for, and only half as dear. But I want some thing dark, said I, and not such light and briLiant (Colors. No you do n't, nobody, now, wears dark colors, and you would not wish to be singular. Will these colors wash ? said I To be sure they will, said he, and so I did just as he told me to do. M. And just what you ought not to have done, I dare say. A. Exactly so. I tried a piece of the calico on my way home, and it did wash with a vengeance. Every grain of the colors washed out, and left the bare white cotton. M. Was that all you bought? A. O no. I heard a man, as I passed another shop, crying at the top of his voice, going I going ! a watch worth a hundred dollars going for one I who '11 buy ? " Madam," said he, calling right out to me, as if he was an old acquaintance, "will you see this watch, a gold watch, patent liver, sold for nothing, thrown away? " Is it good gold, said I. '* I sell no bad gold," said he. Will it go, said I. " It is going," said he, " shall it go for noth- ing ?" A fellow, who was standing by, said he would give ten dollars, — if he had them, — and so I gave the dollar and now they tell me the watch is only Calvmized, I think they call it, and only goes — when it is carried. M. What is Calvinized, Aunt ? A. I don't know, dear, but I mean to ask parson Spin- text. M: Did you visit any place of amusement ? A. O yes. I went to see the Dire — something. M. The Diorama, you mean, I suppose. A. It was dire enough, for it was 3,000 miles long, 1 believe, and I sat through the whole of it. I broke my back, I was so tired, and then I went to a Phrenologist, one who iQlhforiens by feeling of one's head. M. What did he say of your head. Aunt? A. O, he said I had Pliilopropotatoes large, and was too indulgent to my children and grandchildren, when, mercy knows, I never had a child or a grandchild in the world. He told rae also, that I must know a thing or two, for •• my form was large and my language decent ; '' a foavle's hundred dialogues. 149 rascal I to sneer at my form because I was a little bent, and to say my language was decent, as if I did not know what 'pcrirriety and grammar wan as well as he did. ilf. VVell, you got home safe and sound, notwithstand- ing your adventures and alarms. A. I am not so sure about that ; for, if the sights and noise of the city did not utterly craze me, 1 thought the cars would. O dear, did you ever ! Such a puffing and wheezing and whirling, I wonder any head is left on my shoulders. "The Lord made man upright, but he has sought out many inventions." M. Well, what do you design to do about it, Aunt? A. Do about what? I mean to have an early cup of tea and goto bed. O dear I how wicked men must be to provoke the Lord to pile them up in cities. M. Do you think the people are more wicked there than here in the country ? A. O yes indeed I and I was afraid, all the time I was there, that it would sink and swallow me up. M. Do you mean, dear Aunt, that your being in the city made you afraid it would sink, when it did not sink witliout you ? A. Very well I very well ! very smart on your poor old Aunt. Now go and steep that tea, or I shall be af- fronted with you. A cup of good hyson will build me up again. M. You shall have it, Aunt Rachel, immediately. {^Lau gibing.) A. What do you laugh at, niece ? at my infirmities, I suppose. M. No, dear Aunt, the naughty idea crossed my mind, that if a cup of tea will build you up, you are not quite demohshed yet. A. Go away ! go away I or I shall have to apply the rod, that was spared when you were spoiled. But now I think of it, I will steep it myself, lest you should spoil it Come, see how I do it, and try to behave more respectfully* ia» 150 fowle's hundred dialogue;s. LXVI. CITY AND COUNTRY; WHICH IS BEST ? Annie, Jessie, Bessie, ;\.ATE, C'lara, .ViARY. ^'' Annie. I must confess that I prefer the country because it is so quiet. The bustle of tlie city so excites me, that I seem to be always in a hurry, and such a state of mind is unfavorable to reflection. Kate. That is the very reason why I love the city. O dear, 1 should become a tortoise or a snail, if I were con- demned to live here where nothing moves, and nobody makes a noise. Bessie. I agree with Annie, and after having visited the city, I always come back to the woods and fields with increased delight. Jessie. Why, what do you find to do here, where there are no theatres, no concerts, no lectures and no frolics ? i should prefer to leave vegetation to the trees and tlie shrubs, that have neitlier eyes nor ears, Clara. You undervalue our rural pleasures. We have our theatre, and the scenery is the natural landscape ; the actors are the elements ; the audience, all who have hearts to feel and admire the perfect works of the Creator, Mary. Yes, and you have concerts also. I have at- tended some of them, where the chief performers were the crickets for treble, the grasshoppers or locusts for tenor, .and the biill frogs for double base. O the music is exquis- ite, and the sentiment delightful ! A. It is all that to one whose ear has not been turned from the simple love of nature to the refinements of art. I should even claim that we had our lectures too, for we find " Books in the running brooks " that it would be hard for you to find in city gutters ; sermons in stones," such as you do not often find in " city bricks "; — and there is so little temptation here that we may finish the remark of the poet, and say, we find " good in every thing." K. Well done, Annie! You innocent little creature, 151 liow much more learned your books from the brooks must be tlian those in our great libraries. And your sermons, too, how eloquent tliey must be compared with those we liave from living preachers. I wonder if you always re- member the text. J. And then only think of the little rural innocents finding good in every thing, and laying up goodness as bees do honey. It is really affecting, isn't it, ray little Betty Beeswax. {To Bessie.) B, You may laugh at our innocent pleasures, but this will not lead me to undervalue them. Did you ever think, my dear Jesse, that when man was perfect he lived in a garden. /. Yes, dear, and I wish you would tell me how he happened to be turned out of it, when there was no city influence to corrupt him. C. We do not pretend that those who live in the coun- try are naturally better or purer than those brought up in the city ; but only that the influences which surround them are more favorable to virtue. M. The most you can say of rustic virtue, then, is, that it is untried ; untried virtue is no virtue. I prefer that which has been tried and has overcome. A. That is a very romantic sentiment, friend Mary, but I think it is a very dangerous one. No one pretends that we are not surrounded by trials and temptations enough to give a character to our virtue. /. I suppose you find so much occupation in making butter and cheese that you do not find time for reading and music, or do you muse over the milk paris, and make inspiration come with the butter. K. I dare say you little innocents all write Pastured poetry, as the milkmaid called it. JMow I have tried my hand at that, and, if you will imagine me to be a singer, you shall have a song. ( She sings. ) O, love in a cottage is fine, Though pork is its favorite meat, And milkmaids look all but divine. And smell of the barn and the heat. A nap in the bower is sweet, If bugs do not enter your car, 152 And a walk in the grass would be neat, If the dew would forget to appear. O, life in the country for me ! To labor, to eat, and to sleep ; O, life in the country must be Sublime — to intelligent sheep I B. I have heard of a city lyric of the same order. It runs thus : {She sings.) O, life in the city I sing Where notliing of nature is seen ; Where riches, not birds, take the wing, And only the dandies are green. O, life in the city is great, Where ladies have nothing to do, And faint, if they walk at the rate A tortoise may leisurely go. O, life in the city is brave, Where he who can't cheat is a dunce, And dyspeptics go down to the grave, Who eat a whole cherry at once. O, life in the city for me, Red bricks, smoke, and noise I adore ; O, life in the city must be A sublime and ineffable bore. C. But we do not allow that because we work we are unfitted for intellectual enjoyment. You may smile at my simplicity, l)ut I must confess that my mind is more ex- panded by the unobstructed view of the heavens in the country, than by the view of streets and houses, which, not being transparent, prevent any wide range of vision, to say nothing of the impurities of the atmosphere, which are not favorable to enlarged views of any description. J. Well done, Clara I You study Astronomy, you lit- tle philosopher, do you ? Now, I can hardly conceive of any thing more dreadful than to try to imagine a great bear or any other figure drawn round a few stars that do not look half as much like a bear as they do like a milk- pan. I know of no greater bore than Astronomy. fowlk's hundred dialogues. 153 K. I think Botany a greater one. O dear, I sometimes feel disposed to faint when I see a rinal philosopher ana- lyzing a dandelion or something like it, and talking about the pistols and stam — some things, that surround the cor- ollary. I despise affectation. A. My dear Kate, I am no friend to affectation or pedantry, but I am surprised to hear you speak so dis- paragingly of Astronomy and Botany. We find much pleasure in both ; and as they can be best studied in the country, we sometimes spend a leisure hour upon them. I sometimes envy you your city libraries, and lectures, but it is not large libraries or learned lecturers that make profound scholars. B. After all that has been said, it must be confessed that the happiness of a city or a country life depends, in some degree, upon habit. We might have been satisfied with a city life, if we had never known any thing better. M. Well done, Bessie ! the compliment you pay to a city life reminds me of the ant who was so tickled be- cause Solomon sent the loafer to her, that she owned he was a pretty sensible fellow — for a man. C. Our discussion seems to have ended where it be- gan. The truth is, I suppose, that each has its advantages, and all that is needed to make the city or the country a de- sirable and happy residence, is a disposition to improve every opportunity to get knowledge, and to avoid what- ever is injurious to mind or morals. M. The only fair judgment of city or country must be based upon the true character and objects of each, and not upon their abuses. LXVII. WORTH MAKES THE MAN. MR. STATELY AND HIS SON JOHN. Mr, S. My son, I don't like to see you so much with young AliwelL It will hurt you. 151 John. Hurt me, father? Why, there is not a more exemplary young man m the city. Mr. (S. Poh, poh, yen greening I I did not alhide to his morals, they are well enough, for aught I know, but he can't help you. John. He has helped me, sir. If I ever am a man, I shall owe it to his advice and example. Mr. S. Poh, poh, poh, poh, poh ! I tell you, if you wish to rise, you must drop him. John. I do not see how dropping him will make me rise. Mr. S. I dare say you do not Do you not know that he has no friends, no influence, and, if you rise, you must carry him with you, and you may as well tie a millstone around your neck at once. John. I confess, siip^ that I do not see the reason on which your fears are based. Mr. S. Reason has nothing to do with it. If a young man wishes to rise, he must beware of all clogs. John. But, sir, the acquaintance of such a young man cannot but elevate my character. Mr. S. Elevate a fiddlestick. What has character to do with rising in the world ? John. Sir ! Mr. S. Sir I Why one would think you a puppy dog whose eyes were not yet open. Look here, sir — if you expect me to help you, you must give up all such notions, and look to the main chance. John. I should wish to be guided by you, sir, in every thing that does not touch my conscientious discharge of duty. • Mr. S. Conscientious discharge of nonsense. If you persist any longer in such opposition to my will, I'll dis- inherit you, Joh9t. What is your will, sir? it has never been clearly revealed to me. Mr. S. Hear me, then. Young All well's friends are poor, and can not aid you. You must drop him, there- fore, and seek some friends whose families are more res- pectable. Joh7t It will be difficult to find such. AllweU'e 15b family are virtuous, intelligent, amiable and philanthro- phic to a fault. They have every thing but money. Mr S. They may as well have nothing. If you wished to get up a new bank, how could they help you ? If you wish to save and to accumulate, how will their philanthrophy assist you ? Philanthrophy is to wealth, what a leak is to a ship. It will sink you, sir, if you listen to it. The [)rosident of our bank has two sons and you must secure their friendship ; he has a daughter, and you must endeavor to secure her hand. John. Sir, the young men are profligates, and the young lady is Mr. S. A fortune, sir, and you are a fool. As to the sons, I know they are said " to live freely," but what has that to do with the matter ? John. Every thing, father. I can not number such men among my friends, I have too much self respect. Nor can 1 marry a woman I despise. Mr. S Then you would sacrifice all for such senti- mental nonsense; I tell you, sir, there is but one thing needful, and that you must be willing to obtain, or give me up. John. What is that one thing, sir ? Mr, S. Money, sir, money. Your sentimentality will say, " a man is a man without that," but I tell you, sir, that without money an angel could not rise in the world. Money, sir, brings influence, rank, respect, every thing worth having. Money is the chief end of man. John. I own it is, sir. Mr. S. Own it is, then why do you object to " the means that lead to it ? John. Wealth is the chief end of man, sir, but, in my opinion, it ought not to be. Mr. S. What, sir ! Do you flinch again ? John. No, sir, I do not flinch, but hope to be as firm as the adamantine rock. Mr. S. You then will reject Allwell? John. Never. Mr. S. You then renounce your father? John. Never, — I only cleave to truth and Justice. Mr. S. Begone, sir, I now cast you ofT for ever. 156 fowle's hundred dialogues. John. T submit, but can give up the fortune better than the father. Farewell, sir. {He goes out.) F. There's something in the boy, and I would do as he does, were I he. There must be something wrong when noble thoughts like his, must be condemned. Here comes All well, I'll have a talk with him. SCENE II. MR. STATELY AND ALLWELL. Mr. S. Allwell, you are my son's companion and his friend. Is it not so?" All. I trust it is, sir. I have no reason to distrust his friendship. Mr, S. I wish you to renounce him utterly. AIL A father's wish is sacred, if its grounds are just. May I presume to ask these grounds, ere I accede. Mr. S. Your friendship thwarts my views, and will a deadly breach create between my son and me. All, How can this be ? I always have enjoined on him obedience and filial love. Mr. S. Still it is necessary to his peace that you should separate. You will not sure refuse to benefit your friend. All. Does he request the sacrifice ? Mr. S. No, he refuses to submit, and hence the appli- cation to yourself You love him ? All. Better than myself Mr. S. Then you will give him up for his best good. All. Make this appear, and I will do it, however terri- rible the sacrifice. Mr. S. My son was born to fortune, and has a right to rank with princely men. All. He has, and by his friendship could ennoble the noblest of them. Mr. S. What if his intimacy with yourself prevented his reception where he has a right to look ? All. Then let me fall at once. Mr. S. 'Tis nobly spoken. The moment that tho 157 bond 'twixt you is severed, ten thousand pounds are yours, I'll freely give it. AIL O, no, I do not sell affection. I can make any sacrifice of it for your son's good, not for mine own. If I must give him up, let it be freely done. I can accept no bribe, and no reward. Mr. S. And are you sure you love him for himself, and not for the aid his fortune may afford you ? AIL Your son sought me, not I your son. Would he were destitute, that I might show how free from selfish- ness my friendship is. Mr. S. You have your wish. Be it known to you that he is disinherited, and not a cent that I possess can e'er be his. AIL Farewell, sir. The only circumstance that marred our friendship was the different hope that wealth held out. Now, we are equals, and our union perfect. Farewell, sir. You have lost a son unequalled for his worth, and I have now secured him for a friend. (He goes out.) F. It cannot be that I am right to sever such a union. If wealth is the chief end of man, it only can be so, when it is used to make men happy. I have wealth enough, and, if it can not be that my son stoop to his friend, that friend shall rise to him. My daughter's hand can never find a hand more worthy. Be it my care then to unite them. The friends have met ere this, and I must find them, and bestow my daughter upon one, my blessing upon both. l08 FOULe's HLNDRKD DlALOGl'ES. LXVIII. THE DOCTOR IN SPITE OF HIM- SELF. [Altered from Moliere. ] Note. The Author supposes a rustic who wiis at first niisiaken for a Physician, to be compeHed to act as one. The patient, tiie daugh- ter of a geutleiuaii, to avoid a disagreeable marriage, pretends to be (hnni>. DOCTOR, FATHER AND DAUGHTER. Rustic. Well, what is the matter witli you ? Daughter. (Pointi)ig at her tongue.) Haii, hi, hoo, how, hail, lii, hon. R. What? D. Han, hi, hon. R. What the deuce does that mean ? Father. That is the trouble, sir. Slic has become un- accountably duml>, and this circumstance has delayed her marriage ; for he whom she is to marry wishes lier to be cured first. R. What a fool I I wish my wife had the same dis- ease, I would take care not to let any one cure her. Does the disease trouble her much ? P. Yes, dreadfully. R. So much the better. Does she suffer much pain? F. Shocking pain. R. That's right. (To the daughter.) Give me your hand. {To the father.) Her pulse indicates tiiat she is dumb. F. Yes, that's the trouble. You have hit it tlie first time. R. Ay, ay. We doctors know tilings at a glance. An ignoramus would have Ijeen embarrassed, and you would have been told this thing, and tliat tiling, but [ come to the point at once, and tell you tliat your daugh- ter is dumb. F. Yes, b it T should like to have you tell me how she came so. DIALOGUES. 159 R. Nothing is more easy. It comes from her having lost her voice. F. Very well, but what made her lose her voice ? R. All our best authors will tell you that it arose from some obstruction in the action of the tongue. F. What can the obstruction be ? R. Aristotle, on this subject, says some very fine things. F, I dare say he does. R. O, he was a great man, that Aristotle. F. No doubt. R. A great man, every inch of him ; a Goliath of a man. But to return to our reasoning. I hold that this hindrance or obstruction to the action of the tongue, is caused by certain humors, which we knowing ones call peccant humors, that is to say, humors peccant, not unlike vapors, formed by the exhalations of influences, which rise from the region of diseases, coming, if 1 may say, — to — . Do you understand Latin? F. Not a word. R. You don't understand Latin ! F. No, not a syllable of it. R. Cadricias arci thurum, catcdamus, singulariter nomi- natico, hoc tnusa, bonus, bona, bonum. Deus sanctus, nos- trum 'panem quotiduom, etiam, quiry query quory substantivo concordat in generi numerum et casus. F. Gracious ! why did n't I study Latin I R. So these vapors, of which I spoke, passing ^rom the left side, where the liver is, to the right side, where the heart lies, it happens that the lung, which we call ramram in Latin, having communication with the brain, which we call masmas in Greek, — do you understand Greek ? Fs Not a syllable of it. I wish I did. R. No matter. The vapors I spoke of fill the ventri- cles of the breast-bone — and — . Now understand the chain of reasoning, I beseech you, because the vapors have a certain mahgnity, — that — you understand me — that is caused by the aforesaid humors, so thsit ossabundus, nequa, nequam, quipsa milas, and that's all the trouble with, your daughter. 160 fowle's hundred dialogues. F. That seems to be clear enough, only I do n't under- Btand about the place of the heart and liver. It seems to me y )u have placed them wrong, and the heart is on the left side, and the liver on the right. R. It used to be so, but we have changed all that, and now administer accordingly. F. 1 did n't know that, and must beg pardon for my ignorance. R. There is no harm done. You are not expected to know such matters. P. Just so. But, sir, what' do you think must be done? R. What do I think must be done ? F Yes. R. My advice is to send her to bed, and give her a little toast dipped in gin and water. F What for, sir ? R. Because there is in the toast and gin, when united, a certain sympathetic virtue which makes one talk. You know they never give any thing else to parrots, and they learn to speak by eating it. F. That's true. O, what a man ! Here, servants ! servants ! Bring some bread and gin ! {He goes out.) R. That heart on the right side was a sad mistake ! I must stick to my Latin, and then my blunders will nev- er be discovered. LXIX. REGULUS. REGULUS AND A LEGATE FROM THE ROMAN SENATE. Leg. The Roman Senate, honoring the riame of Regu- lus, and pitying his misfortunes, invite him now to enter Rome, and meet them in the Capitol. Reg. I am no longer Regulus. A Carthaginian pris- oner, come to proffer terms of peace, that, but for his mismanagement, had ne'er been asked, I may not entei DIALOGUES. 161 Rome, but nere, without her walls, will wait the Senate's answer. Leg. The Senate have decreed peace upon any terms, that will redeem her Regulus from chains. Reg. It must not be. Carthage, reduced by our suc- cess, must unconditionally fall, and Regulus can never find a better time to die for Rome. Leg. Think of your wife and- children. Reg. I think of Rome, whose glory shall advance, let who may fall. Leg. Your family must plead with you. Reg. I shall not see them, lest affection's pleadings may unman me. I have resolved to counsel Rome to reject the peace that Carthage claims by virtue of my capture. 'Tis better far that Regulus should die than Rome surrender the advantage gained. Say this to the Senate, and ask them to forget that Regulus has lived. Leg. Regulus will not leave his wife and children and return to prison and to death, when he can now command his freedom. Reg, I gave my word, good Legate, that I would return when I had borne the message of the Carthaginian senate to our own. Leg. A promise wrung by force can never bind. Reg. Then it should ne'er be made. Death should be rather borne, if that is the alternative. Leg. The senate have judged otherwise, and Punic faith, that is a bye-word, holds such promise vain. Were Regulus a Carthaginian — Reg. He is a Roman I The promise to return was freely given, not forced. It was my fear that Rome, remembering the service I had done her, might be thus moved to embrace the offer of the enemy, and yield up her advantage to preserve my life, and I came in person, to protest against such weakness. Leg. Is there no motive that can win you from your purpose ? Reg. None. My word is given. Leg. The holy Pontifcx will leap with joy to loose you from your promise. Reg. He hath no power. My word once given, no W2 power on earth, above, or under it, can offer absoluLion. Leg. The Senate by a solemn embassy may induce the Carthaginian to release you from the promise. Reg. E'er that can save my honor, I must return and place me in his power, as when I gave the pledge. Leg. Your death awaits the unsuccessful issue of your embassy. Reg. Not so, good Legate, If no peace is made, the embassy will prove successful. To that end I came. Leg. Thy death is certain, then. Reg. It always was, and never comes too soon to him who meets it in his country's cause. Leg. And I must tell the Senate Reg. To grant no peace to Carthage, and to think no more of Regulus. Leg. What message shall I bear to Reg. Name them not. I have served my country they are hers. Leg. But you will leave them destitute and poor. Reg. No, — rich, rich, rich. Leg.. In what ? Reg. In honor. The wealth I might bequeath would soon be lost, but now I shall bequeath a lasting heritage. Tlie memory of him who kept his word, at such expense, will live, and grow more glorious as the world grows old. Farewell. The ship that bears me back to prison is in motion. Commend me to the Senate, and to , O God ! (He goes out.) LXX. THE CHARM OF WOMAN. ANNA, ADA, LAURA, DORA, IDA, CLARA EVA, Anna. 'Tis clear, my friends, that woman has no hope If Beauty is denied ; — all other charms, Wealth, learning, grace and all domestic skill Are worthless, if the form and face but lack fowle's hundred dialogues. 163 That something indescribal)le, which men Call Beauty, and bow down to with a worship, More sincere than usually is paid To Him who beauty gives. Dora. No one denies that Beauty has some power, And often catches those who trust the eye, And disregard the judgment ; but, no charm Attracts mankind, and fastens them so sure As Wealth. The needy beauty long may wait, While one almost deformed may captivate, And bear away the young and fair, if Wealth Has gilded o'er the unlucky blemishes, Tiiat stand 'twixt her and beauty. Eca. I confess the charm of Beauty, and the power, Of Wealth ; but what are these without a mind With Learning stocked. Beauty, with Wealth combined, Is but a marble statue, gilded o'er, And destitute of life, the intelligence. That, whether stolen or not, came down from heaven. Beauty can only charm the eye of fools, And Wealth can only catch tlie miserly ; But learning in the fair secures to her The homage of the soul, and well atones For superficial cliarms that pass away. Affa,. The worth of Knowledge all men will confess, But learned women are a source of dread, And rarely catch a husband ; while the maid. Who only understands the useful art Of Housewifery, the art of making home A place of comfort, neatness, order, thrift. Is sure to find a mate, and, what is more, To keep him long. Beauty, with Housewifery Becomes slip-shod, and Wealth too often trusts The house to menials. Learned women, too. Forever at the book, all household care Neglect, and slatterns grow so oft, that men. In search of wives, the stockings blue avoid- Ida. The charm of Beauty I shall ne'er deny, And that of Wealth must ever be allowed ; Learning has also charms that all must own, While Housewifery must still essential be 164 To a happy home ; — but Beauty without Grace Will soon disgust ; Wealth without Manners turns To dross, and Learning, oft unneat, without The aid of Dress must fail to please. And who Knows not that Housewifery too oft degrades The wife to the drudge, and renders her unfit To live out of the kitclien. Manners make tlie man, And woman too ; and, destitute of Grace, And graceful manners, no one can sustain llespected rank in good society. Laura. The need of Manners and of Grace to all, Who seek to gain the esteem of man, must be Confessed ; but, after all, 't is but the dress Of other charms, whose power it may assist, But not supply. There is one charm that forms The basis of all others, without which No Union can be safe, no happiness Secure. Virtue alone can Beauty make Of any worth ; and, without Virtue, Wealth Is not esteemed. So Learning, unrestrained By virtuous thought, is but for mischief armed. Good Housewifery, apart from Virtue, delves In vain ; and all the Grace and Maimers, That adorn the vicious are a lure to catch And to destroy. Against the charms you name Exist objections ; but, to Virtue none Can well be made, and all men will confess That Woman, without virtue, can not bless. Clara. I would not seem a judge between my friends And yet it seems to me that all are right, And all are wrong ; for, in the character Of perfect woman, every charm you name Is necessary, and no one alone Can stand. 'Tis true that Beauty, from the first, Has held a sway unequalled, and all men. Of every age and clime, have bowed them down, And worshipped her ; but Beauty is so frail She hardly is possessed ere she decays. And then neglected pines in vain regret Of what can ne'er return. 'T is true that Wealth, If well employed, is not to be despised, fowle's hundred dialogues. IGO Fxjt many ills arise from poverty. Embittering lile, and clouding every scene. But Wealth is transient too, and oft destroys The peace to which it shoidd administer. 'T is true that Learning gives a goodly charm To female worth, when it is meekly worn, But when displayed, as savages display, The gaudy trinkets, which but few obtain. The female pedant fills men with disgust. 'T is true that Home must lose one half its charms When neatness, order, management and thrift Are absent ; but, all these administer To the animal wants, and can not feed the mind. 'T is true that Manners give a Grace and charm To social intercourse, but they are oft So artificial, when a study made, That they lose all their influence, and rough But natural manners are preferred, because The simple and sincere five nearest truth. 'T is true that Virtue is the only sure And lasting element of character, But it is also true, that Beauty lends A charm to Virtue ; Wealth a jewel is On Virtue's brow, and Learning that confers Intelligence on Virtue, furnishes A light to walk by and a law to guide. A virtuous Home, ill managed, may become Intolerable ; and when Virtue grows Morose, unmannerly, 'tis not allowed A decent rank amongst the elements That should the perfect character compose. Therefore, my friends, I said you all are right, As far as you go, but all are wrong to think That any excellence alone can stand, When each upon the others rests, and all Are bound together by affinities. That render separation almost death. May we in youth lliese various charms combine, And say, at last, — this character is mine. M«i. 166 LXXI. THE POET IN SEARCH OF A PATRON. CRACK, the Foet. PUSH, DRIVER, SCRAMBLE, SPRING, BANKS, JlVe Uve YauJcceS, Crack. Sad times, when a poem like mine must go a begging. No pubiishtjr would touch it, and now that I have printed it at my own risk, no man will buy it. This nation is so absorbed in speculations and inventions, that it has no time to spare for any thing else. But there comes a yankee, in a hurry, as they always are. I will cross his path, and try to sell him a book. {As Push at- tempts to pass, Crack calls out) How do you do, Sn- ? Push. What is that to you ? Do you want one of my Washing-machines ? Prime, first rate, cheap, too, as dnt ; — wasii without soap or labor, wear and tear, or — Crack. Or water, I'll be bound. But look here, my friend, here is my new poem, which I should like to sell you. Only one dollar. An epic, equal to Homer, all in hexameters. Fush. What is it about ? I never need poetry. There is more invention and poetry, too, in one of my washing machines than in all the poetry that ever was written. Crack. You Imve not read my poem. Fush, I never mean too. If it was about soap-suds, I might swap for a copy ; but I suppose it is about some- thing more frothy, so, stranger, good luck to you, farewell, good-bye. {Goes out.) >, Enter Drioer. Crack. {Stoppmg him.) Here, friend, a word with you. Dricer, Let it be a monosyllable then, for I am in pur- suit of a fellow that has dodged me. What do you want ? Crack. Here is a copy of my new poem that I wish to sell you. Driver. A copy of what ? CroAjk, Of my new poem. Did you never hear of my poem ? fowle's hund-red dialogues. 167 Drioer. No, nor of you, either. Crack. Friend, Dricer, You go to grass, as Nebuchadnezzar did, for you must be as crazy. I 've lost two minutes on your nonsense. {He goes off.) Enter Sicramhle, in haste. Crack. Here ! I say ! Scramble. Well, what do you say ? Speak, I'm off. Crack, I've something of importance to show you. Scrarn. What is it, a gold mine? Crack, Better than that, an intellectual mine, — my poem. Scram. You get out ! What is a poem good for ? I never read any one but "Now I lay me", and that was too long. I would n't give ninepence for a ton of poems. Crack. My poem has the soul of poetry in it. All who have souls recommend it. Scram. Let 'em buy it, then. I'll tell you what, friend, you 'd better sell blacking or matches. What on airih could I do with a poem ? Crack. Read it, and elevate your soul. Scram. Elevate a pig's tail. The only way to elevate a man's soul is to fill his purse. That's my notion about it. So good bye to you. {He goes out.) Enter Spring, walking rapidly. Crack. My friend I Spring. Well, who are you ? Speak quick. Crack. I have something I wish to say to you. Spring. Well, why the deuce don't you say it ? Crack. This is a copy of my poem. Spring. What do I care for that ? Crack.' I wish you to buy it. Spring. What is it about, what is it good for ? I could n' t wrap a sausage in a leaf of it. Crack. It is about — my subject is — Spring. Poh, what's the use of a subject. I deal in provisions, and would n't give a crossed four-pence ha'pen- ny for a barrel of poems, salted and saltpetred. Crack. My poem is full of Attick salt. ^?ring. Liverpool is better. I'll tell you what, friend, 168 money is money, and provisions are cash, but pot-ras Crack. Mine is food for the mind. Spring. Poh, I reacli the mind through the stomach. Good luck to you. You'll never grow fat on poetry. {^He goes out.) Crack. Why didn't I write a cook-book ! Enter BanJcs. Sir — er ! Banks. Get out of the way. Crack. Sir, I have a poem here, my poem, that 1 should like to show you. Banks. What is it about, Interest or Discount ? Crack. It is about mind, immortal mind. Banks. Then it is below par. I'll tell you what, friend, fancy stock is poor stuff. Stick to mortgages or real es- tate. Crojck, My poem is on the sublime subject of Banks. Air-castles, and nobody buys them. My friend, let me give you a word of advice. Sink the poet, and buy a hand-cart or a wood-saw and go to work. {He goes out.) Crack. (Holding wp his book.) '* Is this a dagger that I see before me ? " {He strikes his bosom with it, and goes out.) LXXII. THE KEHEARSAL. JOHN, a sly rogue. henry, a sober boy. GEORGE, a small boy. thomas, a slender boy. WILLIAM, a tall boy. joshua, a stout boy. THE MASTER. Scene — The schoolroom after school, the boys only beitig present. Hen. Now leave off play, and let us proceed to busi- ness. To-morrow is exhibition day, and, before Master returns, you know, we must rehearse our pieces, and be ready to recite them for the last time to him. fowle's hundred dialogues. 169 Wtn. I mo /e that we take turns in speaking our pieces, while the rest criticise. Josh. Agreed, and the youngest shall begin, poorest first, you know, while the people are coming in. So, Master George, make your bow, and go ahead. Geo. No, no. Let us do the thing decently and in order. I move that every one considers himself as some- body. IJios. (Squeaking.) Well, is not every body some body? Geo. I mean, some one of the company that is to be present to-morrow, and then we shall have somethmg like a. decent audience to speak to. I will be Parson Hum- drum, that you may have some one to keep you in awe. John. Good. I '11 be Squire Nicks, and commit you all at one lesson, if you are uproarious. Harry, you may be Dr. Vermifuge. Hen. Done! And all who misbehave shall chew aloes or sip Ehxir Pro. Wm. The exhibition will be dose enough without your aloes. I shall represent Deacon Grump, for he is a solemn man, and a terror to evil doers. Who will you be Josh ? Josh. I will be Farmer Carrott, and woe betide all who do not walk in a straight furrow. Tom, you shall be the master, the honorable particular, perpendicular, Jeremiah Sneak. All. Good, good ! Thos. Give me a switch, then, A master without a rod, is like a rowdy without a cigar ; there is no life in him, and no feeling in his pupils. Wm.. Well, now to business. Take your seats all, and go it, George, you are the youngest. Geo. Then, let me come last, and have the benefit of your sage example. Thos. Begin, sir, instanter, or I shall ferule you Geo. Well, I 'm not set about it, thongh I do n't know my piece at all. No matter, you must prompt me. Here it goes. {He recites.) "My name is Normal on the Grammar Hills." John, Well, what is it on other hills ? 15 170 fowle's hundred dialogues. Geo. You get out I Now be still, and don't interrupt me. " My name is Norma] on the Grammar Hills, my father feeds his iiock." Josh. All nonsense, boy ; the hills have nothing to do with the name. The boy's father fed his flock on the hills. John. The Lord have mercy on the sheep, then, for none but sheep con Id live on Grammar hills. Wni. Go on, Georgy, don't mind the hills. Begin again, and take a fair start. Geo. *' My name is Normal on the Grammar Hills My father feeds his flock of sheep, A frugal swine." Thos. There must be some mistake. .Tosh. There never was a frugal swine. Win. ( Who has been looking in the book, ) Ha, ha, ha ! Hark now, and hear me read it. " My name is Norval ; on the Grampian Hills My father feeds his flock ; — a frugal swain," &:c. There, try it again, Georgy, now you have cut Gram- mar, and got your father out of the sty. Geo. Well then — "My name is Norval. On the Grampian Hills My fattier feeds his flock. A frugal svv^ain, Whose only care was to enlarge his store," — Hen. Young man, what does enlarging a store mean? Gto. BuikUnga kitchen end to it, as our storekeeper did last spring. John. Young man, let me ask Gto. Well, ask and welcome. You may speak your- self, if you want any more speaking. llai. Weil, it is not fair to interrupt one so, if he doea forget his name and stumble over the hills into a pig-sty. Come, Will, now give us a taste of your quality. You are the tallest weed in the company. Josh. Yes, now go it like a young steer, Wm. ( Speaking. ) — •' You 'd skerce expect one of my age " — Geo. Young man, how old may you be ? Thos. Don't interrupt the child, it isn't fair.- Now 171 my little fellow begin again, and they shan't interrupt you. Wm. '• You 'd skerce expect one of my age To speak in public on the stage, And if J chance to fall" Joh7t. You must not lie. Geo. No, young man, it is naughty to lie. You must always live to the truth. Hen. Parson, it is too bad to interrupt him so. Geo. He interrupted me. Come, Deacon, begin again, as near the end as you can, and go through like a streak of lightning. Wm. I '11 not speak another word if -it thunders. Let Josh try, and see how he likes it. Josh. ( Standing ivith his toes turned in. ) '• It must be so " Thos. No, it must n't. {He rises, and turning out Joshua's toes, says,) — It must be so. Josh. Very well, — "It must be so, then Pluto, thou reasonest well." John. Young man, Pluto was the god of the infernal regions, and Plato was a Grecian philosopher. Now, which do you think reasoned best, the God or the Philosopher? Josh. The God, if he was a lawyer, as they say all are down there, [pointing doivnicard.) Now be still, and let me go on. " It must be so '"' — Thos. Not unless you turn out your toes. Josh. Well then, {Turning them out,) — if •' It must be so, Plato thou reasonest well Else why this pleasing hop," Wm. Pleasing what? Josh. Hop, don't you know what a hop is? Wm. Yes, but the word is hope. Josti. No it is n't. Give me the book. {Jle opens it and j)ointing to the word, says) — there, h-o-p, does n't that spell hop ? Wm. Yes. {looking on.) Yes, but don't you see some fellow has scratched off the e. John, this is some of your mischief. Go on, Farmer Carrot. 172 Josh. V 11 not ho]) another inch. I '11 tell you what ; we have only five minutes left hefore the master returns, and the sooner every one speaks the quicker, as Paddy said. Hen. He ordered every one to speak his piece at least once before he returned, and now for it, my hearties, let us see who will get through first. {All six begin as nearly as possible together, hurrying on, ind speaking louder and loader, to drown eaeh others voices. ) Geo. " My name is Norval, on the Gram}>ian Hills " My father feeds his flock, a frugal swain, •' Whose only care was to enlarge his store ** And keep myself his youngest son at home. '* For I had heard of battles, and I longed *' To follow to the field some warlike lord, &c. Thos. (SqueaJd/ig.) "My voice is still fur war, Gods I can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death ? Let us arise at once, and at the head Of our remaining troops, attack the foe, — Break through the thick array of his thronged Legions, and charge home upon him." &c. Josh. '• It must be so. Plato, thou reasonest well, Else why this pleasing hop — hope, this fond desire, This longing after immortality. Why starts the soul back on herself, And shudders at destruction. 'T is the divinity That stirs within us, 'tis Heaven itself, That points out an hereafter, and intimates Eternity to man." He?i. " Friends, Romans, countrymen, I come To bury Caesar, not to praise him, .The evil That men do lives after them, the good Is oft interred with their bones : so let It be with CiBsar. Briitns hath told you Ctesar was ambitious ; if it were so. It was a grievous fault, and grievously Hath Caesar answered it." Win. "You 'd scarce expect one of my age "To speak in public on the stage, " And should I chance to fall below 173 ■" Demosthenes or Cicero, "Don't view me witli a cricket's eye, •' But pass my imperfections by. ** Tall oaks from little fountains groWy *' Large streams from little acorns ^ow?," &c. Joh7i. " To be or not to be, that is the question ; Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or, to take arms against a sea of troubles, And, by opposing, end them. To die — to sleep No more ; and by a sleep, to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to." &c. ( When each has s'poken about six lines, the Master sudden' ly enters, and all instantly stop. ) Master. Well, boys, have you finished your rehearsal ? You seem to be doing it at wholesale. Hen. Pretty much, sir. Master. What have you selected, Henry ? Hen. Anthony's Speech, sir, on the death of Caesar. Master. Well, don't kiU it, as Brutus did Caisar. What do you choose, William ? Wm. " You 'd scarce expect one of my age." Master. I hardly should expect it, 1 confess. What is your piece, Joshua? JoiJi. " It must be so." Master. If it must, you must make the best of it. Well Thomas, what do you give us ? Thos. {Scjueaking .) " My voice is still for war." Master. It would do better for piping times of peace» but no matter. What have you, John ? John. "To be, or not to be," sir. Master. Well, make up your mind immediately, for we have no time for hesitation. What do you propose, (George ? Geo. My name is Nor — , Nor — .. Nor — - Master, Well, gnaio away, till you master it Y(*\i may go and study your pieces now, and, thi» ai^Btno^ , I will hear you recite them. 15» 174 LXXIII. THE BllOKEN CHAIN, "or, let by-gones be by-gones." squire dust, (with a family tree before him,) an© farmer oldbuck. Dust. (Alone.) What would I give if I could supply the lost branch in my family tree. I can go up to Ichabod Dust of Littleton, who married Mehitable Weakly of the Slenderpools, and I can descend from the Original Dust to Benajah, who was slain at Deerfield, but there a link in the chain is lost, and all my industry and research can not connect Benajah with Ichabod. O, here comes neigh- bor Oldbuck, he is remotely related, and perhaps, can help me. {Enter Oldbuck.) How are you, Mr Oldbuck? I am in trouble, and want a little of your assistance. My family tree has a stump in it that I can not get over. What shall I do with it ? Oldbuck. Burn it, that's the way I do ; or root it out, if it is decayed. Dust. You do n't understand me. The stump is in my family tree, and not in my field. Oldbuck. It is all one. Saw it off, and graft it, if there if any life in it, that 's the way I treat my fruit trees. Dust. Poh, })oh. You see, I can trace my pedigree up to my great grandfather, and can't get a stej) farther. Oldbuck. A step-father, what do you want of a step- father? Dust. Pshaw, I can't find out who the father of my great grandfather was. Oldbuck, Well, what of that? You know he had one. Dust. To be sure I do. Oldbuck. Well, what do you want more? If you had no great great grandfather, it might be a circumstance worth looking up. Dust. You are enough to provoke a saint. I have spent days and months in trying to supply the link in my family chain, and — bOWLc's HUNDRED DIALOGUES, 175 Oldbutk. I '11 tell you what, friend Dust, this looking up old ancestors who never did enough good or evil to save their names from ohlivion, is like looking up old debts that are outlawed ; the time spent in the search may be better employed. You may earn ten dollars for one you will get \^ that way. Du&t. Yes, I may earn ten dollars, but I can't earn ten grandfathers. Oldbuck. True, you can not, but you can prevent yourself from becoming useless and unknown to your great grandchildren. You have a son, friend Dust. Dust. Yes, I have, I am sorry to say. Oldbuck. He has given you trouble. Dust, Well, I know it, what then ? Oldbuck. He is to hand down your name, Dust to Dust, as the burial service has it. Dust. Well, what of that ? I know he is a bad fel- low, and does not promise much, but you need not twit me of it. Oldbuck. You have neglected him. l^ you had bestowed half as much time upon him as you have wasted on that old stump of an ancestor, he might have honored the family, and been a blessing to the community, though, as it is, there is a certain kiud of elevation {jrutting his hand under his ear, ivhere the luilter goes) which may keep his name from oblivion. Dust. I feel obliged to you for your sympathy, and plainness of speech. Oldbuck. {Solemnly.) Friend Dust, I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but you have provoked me to tell you a truth, which every one else knows, — that your neglect of your son has brought him to the brink of ruin. You can not help your great grandfather, nor can he help you ; but you can help, and may yet save your boy. Leave your great grandfather with the worms that perish, and save your son from that worm which never dieth. Dust. Well, well. I am sure I did not expect to have the lost link supplied in this way ; but, really, friend Old- buck, there may be truth in what you say, and, instead of delving among the bones of my ancestors, I will look a hltle to my successors. 17G fowle's hundred dialogues. Oldbuck. Do so, and, if it is important that yon should know who your great grandfather was, yon have only to be patient a few years, and Death, who, no doubt, has had the pleasure of his acquaintance, will introduce you to him. LXXiy. THE NEWSMONGER. PETER BRiGGS, the Neivsmonger . messrs. candid and play- ton, his neighbors. Peter. Good morning, young gentlemen, have you heard the news from Turkey ? Great news, great news. Mr. C. What is it Peter ? I saw nothing in the morn- ing papers. Peter. It has not yet been published. The papers are behind the times. Mr. P. Pray let us know it, then. Peter. What will you give ? Come, let us see v^hat value now you set on knowledge, knowledge tViat is knowledge. Mr. (J. I never buy a pig in a bag, Peter. Let us hear the news, and we will pay the worth of it. Peter. Well,* Baron Von Dunderdrum informs me by letter, that after a hard fought battle, the Dutch have taken Holland. Mr. P. You don't say so ! What will the wretched Hollanders do ? Peter. He said they had all emigrated to the Nether- lands. Mr. P Let us see the letter, Peter. Peter. No, 'tis strictly confidential, and must not be exposed. Mr. C. In what language is it written ? tell us that. Peter. In Arabic, the language of those parts Mr. C. As we do not know Arabic, there will be no exposure. DIALOGUES. 177 Peter. I have a rule, and can not make exception, even for you. Mr. P. Have you any other news ? Peter. Yes, I have a letter from the Dragon-man of the Spanish ambassador at the Persian city of Moscow, which assures me that the Sultan has formed a league with the Grand Turk to take Constantinople. Mr. a No I 'Tis dreadful. Is that in Arabic too ? Peter. No, that's in Sanscrit. But I must go and translate the letters for the daily press. (He throws the letters into his hat, and inputting it on they fall to the ground behind hi^n.) Good bye, bless me how I have tarried. {He goes out. ) Mr. C. (Picking up the letters.) See, he has dropped his correspondence. Now, for a good feast. Here is the Arabic letter. Hear it. (Reads.) Mr. Peter Briggs, Sir — Enclosed is your bill for that load of hay, and if not immediately paid, I shall put you to some trouble. Yours, Sam. Saltmarsh. Mr. P. I don't wonder Peter thought the Dutch had taken Holland. But let us hear the Sanscrit letter from the Dragon-man. Mr. a (Reads:) , Sir — Your Cow has been picked up in the road, and you will find her in the pound. Fees, one dollar. George Lock, Pound Keeper. Mr. P. The Sanscrit sounds more like English than the pound looks like Constantinople. But here comes Peter in search of his letters. (Enter Peter, in haste.) Peter. Young men, have you seen any thing of my letters ? Mr. C. (Handing them to Peter.) We found them on the ground, after you left us. Peter. You have not opened them of course. Mr. C. It would have been in vain, for we are ignor* ant of Arabic and Sanscrit both. Peter. Not one person in a thousand would have been so honorable Good bye once more. (He goes out.) 178 FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. Mr. p. Well, he has got us now, as surely as the Dutch have taken Holland. Mr. C. Yes, he has beaten the Dutch. He knows that we are guilty, and I'm sure 1 feel so. 1 can not but smile at his aiFectation of superior knowledge, but we had no right to open his letters, knowing they were his. Mr. P. They must be Arabic and Sanscrit still. We have convicted him of vanity, but we stand self-condennied of base dishonesty. Let us atone by paying for the load of hay, and taking from the pound tlie poor fool's cow. Mr. C. It is the only retreat left to us. You shall write him a letter in Sanscrit as from the Dragoman, enclosing the receipt for the pound-keeper's fee, and I will write in Arabic as from the Baron Dunderdrum, enclosing a receipt for the load of hay. While we wipe out our faults, we may correct his folly. Come, let us lose no time. If he don't understand the Sanscrit, he will the receipts. LXXV. CORPORAL PUNISHMENT. MASTER HICKORY AND HIS PUPJL, JOHN SMITH. [Part of this dialogue is attributed to Wm. Jerdan, but an addition has been made in order to exhibit more fully the danger of requiring concessions and acknowledgements from penitents, whose pride or conscience revolts at the humiliation.] Master H. John Smith ! John. Here, sir. Mr. H. Come from your * here ' hither. {John moves sloivly and reluctantly up to the desk.) John Smith, you have been guilty of throwing stones, which I forbade. {John hangs his head disconsolately.) John Smith, it is of no use to look sorrowful now, you should have thought of sorrow before you committed the offence, {reaching down the can£.) You are aware, John Smith, that those who do evil must be punished ; and you, John, must, therefore be punished. Is it not so ? 179 J. Oh, sir, I will never do so again, Mr. H. I hope you will not, John ; bnt, as you forgot the prohibition when left to your unassisted memory, the renie«ibrance of the smart now to be administered will be the more likely to prevent a relapse in future. Hold out your hand ? ( Whack.) J. Oh, sir I oh, sir ! I will never do so again. Mr. H. I hope not ; hold out your hand again. {Whack, and a screech from John.) Now, John, you begin to perceive the consequence of disobedience. J. Oh, yes, sir, — enough, sir, enough, sir I Mr. II. By no means, John. You are somewhat con- vinced of your error, but yet not sensible of the justice of your punishment, and the quantum due to you. Hold out your other hand. ( Whack and a scream.) J. Mercy, sir, I will never — (Blubb( ring .) Mr. H. It is all for your good, John ; hold out your left hand again. Even handed justice 1 Why don't you do as you are bid, sir, eh ? {A slash across the shoulders.) J. Oh, oh ! Mr. H. That's a good boy I ( Whack on iJie hand again.) That's a good boy! (Whack.) Now, John, you feel that it is all for your good ? J. Oh, no, sir, — oh no ! It is very bad, very sore. . Mr. H. Dear me^ John. Hold out again, sir. 1 must convince you that it is justice, and all for your good. (^1 rain of strijies on Jtand and back, John bcUowtng all the while. )You. must feel that it is for your good, my l)oy. / Oh, yes, sir, — oh, yes-s-s-s-s. Mr. H, That's a good lad ; you're right again. /. It is all for my good, sir ; it is all for my good. Mr. H. Indeed it is, my dear. There ! — Whack, ichack. ) Now thank me, John. {John hesitates — Whatk, whack. ) /. Oh, oh I Thank you, sir; thank you very much. I will never do so again; thank you, sir. Oh, sir, tha-a-a-nks. Mr. H. That's a dear good boy. Now you may go to your place, and sit down and cry as much as you wish, but without making any noise. And then you must learn your les-on Aiid, John, you will not forget my orders 180 fowle's hundred dialogues. • again. You will be grateful for the infliction I have bestowed upon you. You will feel that justice is a great and certain principle. You may see, also, how much your companions may be benefited by your example. Go and sit down ; there's a good boy, John. I might have punished you more severely than I have done, — you know that, John? {Holds up the cane.) J. Oh, yes, sir. Mr. II. You thank me sincerely for what I have given you ? {Holding up the cane.) J. Oh, yes, sir, — no, sir, — I don't know, sir. Mr. II. You don't know, hey ! ( Whack, whack !) I'll teach you. Take that. You don't know whether you thank me, hey? {Whack, whack!) J. Oh, yes, sir, I do I I do I Mr. H. Do what ? /. Do know, sir. Mr. H Do know what? J. Oh, sir, my Sunday school teacher tells me never to lie, and you wish me to say I thank you, when Mr. H When what? Speak out, sir. When what? /. When I don't, I can't, I won't, if you kill me. ikfr. H. You have lied, then, John ; for you told me just now that you did thank me. I must punish you for lying also. {Bxiising his cane.) J. O, sir, I was so frightened I said anything, sir. Mr. H. John, do you know how sinful it is to lie? /. O, yes, sir, my Sabbath School teacher tells me it is. Mr. H. Then, John, you must be whipped till you are sensible of the awful nature of your sin. Take off your coat, John, you will thank rae one of these days for my care of you, John. fowle's hundred dialogues. 181 LXXVI. MANNERS MAKE THE MAN. MR. COMPLACENT AND MRS. TRUELOVE. Mrs. T. Are you the Principal of the United States Manners Reform High School ? Mr. G. I sustain that interesting relation, madam. May I be permitted to know to whom I owe the honor of the'inquiry, which I have just answered in the affirmative. Mrs. T. That will be of little consequence to you, sir, until I have made a few more inquiries. Allow me to ask what branches you propose to teach. Mr. C. I shall at least enjoy the happiness, madam, of worshiping the unknown divinity. The branch, mad- am, to which my attention will be solely and exclusively, and, let me add, conscientiously devoted, is deportment. This has been the study of my life, and, as a prince once said, this is my birthright, the poeta nascitur of my being. ( Smiling complacently. ) Mrs. T. May I inquire on what system of deportment your lessons are based ? Mr. C. I use no text books, madam, preferring, if you will excuse the egotism to which your question drives, — nay, I should rather say, invites me, the egotism of re- marking, that I propose to teach deportment from a living text book, which, if it is not unbecoming, I trust it will be unnecessary to name with more particularity. I have spent my hfe, madam, in the study of deportment, fre- quenting the best company ; appearing at all places of fashionable resort ; attired always in the latest style, and studying diligently the difficult art of killing time. De- portment is the whole of education. Mrs. T. There can be no doubt of the importance of good manners, sir, but I have been accustomed to considei morals of more importance, and I am sorry to say, that the neglect of manners and morals too, in most of our schools, indicates that some importance is attached by the world to intellectual pursuits, also. Mr. C. A mistake, madam, a serious mistake, I will 16 iftS FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. not say {boiving) on the part of the lady who confers a charm and distinction on this interview, but on the })art of the world, which has long wandered from the true the ory of education. We are not, and by using the pronoun ive, of course I cannot offend one whom nature and art have made an exception to my rule ; yes, we are not what we used to be in point of deportment. Mrs. T. Without excepting more than one of the present company, T may be allowed to say that I am not aware that the general manners have deteriorated. Mr. C. Always begging pardon for any apparent dif- ference of sentiment, I would venture to say, tliat tlie present race has sadly degenerated, a levelling age being- very unfavorable to deportment. It developes vulgarity, and true deportment is so rare a virtue, that, as I have passed, I have often heard gentlemen and ladies do me the honor to inquire of each other. Who can he be? How happens it that I do not know him ? Mrs. T, I trust that the race of gentlemen and ladies will not become extinct with the present — generation. Mr. G. Our number is small, madam, but it must be perpetuated. All that can be acquired I shall endeavor to impart ; but, madam, you must have discovered that there are things, which may be worn, by those whom na- ture clothes, but which can not be imparted or acquired. Mrs. T. T trust your efforts will not fail to stop the downward course of manners. Mr. G. Woman, lovely woman, may be allowed to fear ; but, when example is to be the precept, faihirc be- comes impossible. Example, madam, is omnipotent. Mrs. T. It has great power for evil as well as uuod, and if the world are wrong, and their example seen, it may be difficult for one or two, by the most perfect example, to make all go right again. Mr. G. In true deportment there's a perfect charm, which wins the soul ere it is well aware of the enchant- ment. Polish, perfect polish, subdues the rude, and smooths the rough and coarse, as, if I may apply the remark intlie present case, it doth refine, assimilate, and charm Mrs. 1\ Sir! Mr. G. Yes, madam, you can not but have felt an in- fowi.e's hundred dialogues. 183 rtuence passing over, and, as it were, compelling you lo harmonize and imitate, and even aspire to equal the model 1 may not refer to freely, as my argument requires. Excuse me, madam, if I venture on the bold asseveration that your daughter, under the influence that will be exerted here, will so far excel her by whose patronage I now am honored, that Mrs. T. You mistake me, sir, and my intention. My daughter is not yet your pupil, and may I be excused if I declare, that she can never be subjected to any system of deportment, from which, and from the example by which it is taught, modesty, the greatest charm of manners, is excluded. I am sorry you have lost a moment of your time. Mr. C. Excuse me, madam, what is loss to me may prove a gain incalculable unto one who can appreciate and apply it. Mrs. T. I am bound to thank you for the lesson, though it be not what you intended. Good morning, sir, Mr. C. It can not be otherwise, madam, and he who gives, will, as our poet says, be doubly blessed. I wish you a good morning. [She goes out.) What can she mean by my excluding modesty ? It is the basis of de- portment, and the grace that I have practised most, and do most highly prize. She surely lacks discernment and excites my pity. No modesty in my example ! I fear there is too much, and self-distrust may ruin me. {Looks in the mirror adrninng himself, and then goes out affectedly.) LXXVII. LIFE INSURANCE. [Scene. An Insurance Office. Enter an unaccustomed female. J Female. Are you the man of this office. Sir? Clerk. {Seeing a paper in her hand, and supposing it io be a subscription paper for some charitable purpose.) I am a man only, and not the man. F. Sir, I am sorry to interrupt you, but a gentleman told me you are the man that 1 want. 184 fowle's hundred dialogues. * C. I shall be happy to listen to your proposals. P. If you are the man for me, I wish to say a few words to you. C. [Smiling.) We do not transact matrimony here, ma'am, and it is not leap year, but I will hear you, if you will be brief and to the point. F. I am a single woman, sir, with a little property and without a relation in the wide world, and 1 have been reading a circular, — here it is, — which was issued from this office, and I have come to have my life insured. C. O, is that all ? Then, I am the gentleman to at- tend to you. How old are you, madam? F. ( Surprised. ) Sir I C. Your age, if you please, — miss. F. Sir, is this the way you treat aii unprotected fe- male ? No gentleman would ask a lady her age. C. A mere matter of business, madam, it is necessary that we should know your age, or we cannot determine the rate. But, apart from your age, what amount do you wish insured? F. Amount I I wish my life insured, though it seems very much like tempting the Lord, in whose hand our breath is. C. That is your look out, madam. We can do nothing till you determine what amount you wish to insure. F. Amount, amount I What has the amount to do with it? I wish to have my Zz/e insured, for our Doctor tells me the cholera is expected again, and I wish to feel safe. C. To whom do you wish to make the policy payable ? F. Policy, policy I They tell me it is good policy to insure one's life, when one is feeble and unprotected, and without a relation in the wide world. C. Yes, madam, but the debt arising from your demise must be paid to some one. F. I don't see that there is any debt about it. Death is the debt of natur, to be sure, for "it is given unto all men once to die," and I don't see how you insurers get over that Scriptur! C. Madam, if the Office, by your demise, becomes in- debted to the amount of the policy, to whom shall the nmount be paid ? fowle's hundred diat.ogues. 185 F. To me, to be sure, if any thing is coming from the insurance. C. You will not be here, probably, to receive any thing after your death. P. What do you mean? I wish to have my life in- sured, and then, if your insurance is good for any thing, there will be no death ai)out it. C. You are in an error, madam. We do not insure against death. F. Then what do you call it life. insurance for ? Pretty life insurance, if a person can die after it is made. I sus- pected it was all humbug, when 1 first heerd of it. C Let me explain, madam. F. Well, Sir. You may make white black, and black white, but if you insure my life and I die, you cheat me, and I'll prosecute you as long as there is any law in the land. G. If you wish to be insured against death, you must go over to the apothecary's opposite, and he will sell you a bottle of The Elixir Vita3, {amj popular medicine may be named,) and then, if nothing happens, you will live forever. F. That is what I want. Where is the apothecary's ? C. Just across the street, madam. He is the man you want. F. Good morning, sir, you had better take your sign down. Life Insurance with a vengeance I C. Good morning, madam. When you obtain immor- tality, please remember that I put you in the way to ob- tain it. LXXVIII. THE REFORMED WIFE. MRS. IPHIGENIA MYRTILLA FLORETTA TIP, AND MRS. HOMESPUN. Mrs. 21 O dear I I suppose I am to be bored to death with one of my husband's relations. Ah, hum I She is going to spend a week with us, and, as husband is most of the day at his store, I shall have the supreme felicity 186 of entertaining her. I wish he would entertain his own reJatioiis, and take her down to the store with him. {En- ter Mm. Homc'S2')un.) Good morning, Mrs. Homespun. Mrs. H. I am very happy to see thee, for, although I have not had the pleasure of thy acquaintance, 1 can not but love one who is dear to my cousin. Mrs. T. {Aside.) Altogether^too warm, I must give, her tlie pitch. {To Mrs. H.) My husband '\s always hap- py to see his friends. Mrs H. And is not thee happy to see them too ? I love every one my Barnabas loves. Mrs. T. Such simplicity is not always convenient iu the city, where fashion and custom are often more impe- rious than affection, and often supersede the common du- ties, as you would call them. It is impossible for a lady, who makes any pretensions to gentility, to pay any atten- tion to her husband or children, to say nothing of his relations. Mrs. II. So I understand, but surely thee does not run into such an unnatural error. I find my chief delight in attending to the education of my children, and in providing for the comfort of Barnabas. Mrs. T. I let tnij Barnabas take care of himself; and as for my children, I hardly see them once in a week. 1 can not always recall their names. It is as much as I can do to take care of little Platonetto. Mrs. H. Is that the name of your infant? I had not heard it before. Mrs. T. No, it is the name of my little dog. He 's the dearest creature you ever laid eyes on ; and his face is sometimes so thoughtful, that I have named him Plato- netto, after the philosopher Plato. Mrs. H. And thee leaves thy infant with the nurse, and nurses the dog thyself I I like little animals, and al- ways treat them well, but Mrs. T. You need not finish the sentence. I never would let a brat send me to bed before sunset, and drive me up before sunrise. I could aflwrd to be broken of my rest for such a little dear as Platonetto, or Plat, as we call him, but I desire to be spared the trouble of quieting a bawling child. powle's hundred dialogues. 187 M/'s. H. Perhaps thee does not love to rise early ,as I do. Mrs. T. I never rise till noon, and always take the last novel to bed with me. Mrs. H. Is dinner thy first meal? Mrs. T. O no, I take my coffee in bed, I don't know how it would taste in any other place. My husband, poor drudge, gets up early enough, but I never see him till dhi- ner, for it takes me from noon till dinner time to dress. Mrs. H. Do thy children go to school ? 'Mrs. T. O yes, I suppose they do, for Susy has the care of them, and they have an excellent teacher. I should make fine progress if I had to look after them. Mrs. H. Friend Myrtilla, does thee make good progress by neglecting them ? Mrs. T. I find time to attend to myself and to my visitors. It is impossible to receive company and be in- tern 4)ted by children. Mrs. H. Thee sews, perhaps, while thee is conversing wit!> thy friends. Mrs. T. O dear, no I I have not had a needle in my hand so long that I should liardly know one from a bodkin. Mrs. H. How does thee provide for dinner ? Thee di- rects the cook, I suppose, if thee does not help in the nicer matters ; I frequently make the cake and pastry, and always direct the preparation of every thing my husband sends home. Mrs. T. You are literally tied to the spit. I never go near my kitchen, and the cook would dare as soon die as ask me a question about cookery. She knows better. Mrs. H. Does thee never eat any thing? I have heard thy husband say, thee is satisfied with the wing of a pigeon or " the superior portion of a partridge's nethei limb." I understand I must not call it the thigh. Mrs. T. It would be very vulgar to do so, I confess But the truth is, I do eat a great deal, and always lay in a stock of ham and eggs, or some other substantial, be- fore I go to dinner, especially if I dine out. Mercy on us I a lady's eating has almost become a test of gentility. 1 do sometimes taste of the soup, and eat half a chicken's wiiig, but Lady Dribble beats me, for I have seen iier 188 faiiit over one pea, and Lady Cowslip almost died the other day of an overgrown strawberry. Mrs. H. This amuses me, and yet I am pained at such such Mrs. T. Folly, — why don't you say what you evi- dently think. Mrs. H. I would not willingly offend thee, Myrtilla. But, my dear, if thee has no family cares, thee has much time to devote to the great cause of humanity and benevo- lence. Mrs. T. O don't, Mrs. Homespun, don't mention that tlireadbare subject. If there is any thing I supremely hate, it is cant. Mrs. H. Myrtilla, I trust thee has not ceased to be a woman and a Christian. • Mrs. T. I would not be a woman any longer, if I could help it, and as to being a Christian, I sometimes go to church half a day, when I have a new bonnet or a new dress. Besides, Sunday is the only time I find to practise. Mrs H. I should think thee might find opportunity to practise on week days ; for the poor are not sick and necHJy on First day only. Mrs. T. Excuse me for smiling at your simplicity, I referred to practice on the harp and guitar. Mrs. H. I did give thee credit for a different practice, 1 will not offend thee by saying, — a better. Mrs. T. You may say what you please, it will not al- ter fashion. Mrs. H. Do you mean, my dear, that you do certain things because they are fashionable, and not because they are right ? Mrs. T. I do mean to say, that a lady may as well bo out of the world as out of fashion. Mrs. II. I need not say to thee, that I am no votary of fashion, and yet I am not out of the world. Mrs. T. Out of the fashionable world you certainly are. Mrs. II. WiP thee excuse me, if I say that the fash- ionable world is not the world God made, and just as far as we advance in the one, we depart from the other, iSolctnnhj ) Myrtilla ? fowle's hundred dialogues. 189 l^lrs. T. Why do you address me so solemnly ? Mrs. H. Myrtilla, is thee happy ? Mrs. T. Happy, no, I don't know by experience what the word means. Mrs. H. Why does thee persevere in a course of unhap- piness, when thee can leave it at any moment ? Mis. T. I would give the world to leave it. Mrs. H. It will cost thee nothing. Go home with me, and I will insure thee a cure, and charge thee nothing. Thee may yet save thy husband from bankruptcy. Mrs. T. What do you mean ? Mrs. H. Your husband tells my Barnabas what he is afraid to tell thee, his own wife. His affairs are deeply involved, and the world says Mrs. T. Says what r — Let me know the worst. Mrs. H. It lays the blame on thee. Thy husband lovea thee, but he thinks thee find pleasure in the life thee leads, and though he cannot participate in it, nor afford it, he can not bear to pain thee with the truth. Mrs. T. What can I do ? I would do any thing, for I am as sick of it as he is. Mrs. H. Do what your heart and reason dictate. Come home with me, and see the other side of the world. We can then lay a plan that will not only avert the pecuniary ruin, but save thee from that mental and moral ruin, which are just as near, and far more dreadful. Mrs. T. I will go. Do not say a word to my husband of my motive for making you the visit, and, in your quiet village, we will prepare an agreeable disappointment for him in the shape of — a reformed wife. LXXIX. THE TWO POETS. AN EDITOR, MR. SPONDEE, AND MR. CADENCE. Cad, (To the Editor.) Sir, you will excuse my mtru- sion, I did not know that my friend, Mr. Spondee, was here. 190 /owle's hundred dialogues. Sp. My business is unimportant. I merely wish to have a piece inserted in tiie next Gazette. Cad. My friend is a master both of prose and verse. I also have brought a few hues of which 1 should like to have your joint opinion. Sp. Your verses have beauties unattained by others. By the way, have you seen a sonnet to the queen, that is going the rounds ? Cad. It was read to me yesterday, at a party. Sp. You know the author ? Cad. No, but I know tliat he must be a dunce, to write such nonsense. Sp. Many persons think it admirable. Cad. That will not save it. Many persons think the moon more beautiful than the sun, because their eyes are weak. S}>. Few persons are equal to such a sonnet. Cad. Heaven preserve me from writing such I Sp. I maintain that the sonnet is perfect, and the chief reason for my opinion is, that I am the author of it. Cad. You the author of it ! Sp. I. Cad. I don't know how that could happen. Sp. I was unfortunate not to please Mr. Cadence. Cad. My mind must have wandered while i was lis.- tening to it, or else the reader spoiled it. But, no matter, let me read my ballad to you. Sp. A ballad is a small affair, in my judgment ; it is no longer fashionable, and smacks of by-gone things. Cad. A ballad, however, delights most folks. Sp. That does not prevent its displeasing me. Cad. It is none the worse for that. Sp. It has wonderful charms for the pedantic. Cad. How comes it that it does not please you, then ? Sp. Begone, you spoiler of white paper. Cad. Avaunt, you waster of black ink. Sp. Get out, you thief that steals from other writers ; Cad Get out, you dunce, from whom nobody steals I Editor. Gentlemen, what are you doing ? 1^. (To Cadence.) Begone, and restore your stolen goods. 191 Cad. My immortality is secure, you cannot touch it. iSp. There is an immortality of infamy. Cad. 1 commend you to it- Sp. The satirists have lashed you, but they never touch me. Cad. They can not see what is so small. Sp. My pen will teach you what I am. Cad. It has already taught me that you are an — ass. Sp. That ass your master is, as you shall feel. Edi. Gentlemen I gentlemen ! it seems to me, that, as I am to be the purchaser, you take strange means to re- commend your goods. The better way will be to leave your poems in my keeping, and it may be well to be recon- ciled, and pray that my poor judgment may not be like yours. Cad. The wretch was never on Parnassus, Sp. The scribbler never had a draft from Helicon. Cad. One line of my ballad would outweigh a dozen of his sonnets. Sp. Dulness is heavy always. Cad. Nonsense is always light. Edi. Gentlemen, I shall only deal with you when each the other's work shall recommend. If you are judg- es, you no poets are ; and if you are poets, you no judges are. Poets are born, not made, 't is said, And you seem neither born nor made. LXXX. THE HYPOCHONDHIAC. mahy roby and her aunt rachel. [Note. — By varying a few words, this Dialogue may be spoken by two males.] M. Good morning, aunt, I am glad to see you looking so well, 192 A. Well ! what do you call well ? I never was so ill in my life. I wish no one to say I am well, when I am almost dead. M. I knew you were indisposed, dear aunt, but I thought I would encourage you as far as I could. A. I want no encouragement that is based on false- hood. I am a very sick woman, and must not be deceived by any false representations of my condition. M. Dear Aunt, I had no wish to deceive you, for J knew you were very, very sick. A. Very, very sick ? Who told you that I was so very sick ? I think people had better mind their own health, and let mine alone. Who told you that I was so very sick ? M. I heard Goody Gossip say that she feared you were in a decline. A. She did, did she? Very well, what else did you hear? M. I heard Madam Babble say that you could not stand it much longer, you had such a complication of dis- eases. A. Could n't, hey I I guess she '11 find I can stand it as long as she can. Well, go on, what else did you hear ? M. I heard Polly Prattler say that you ought to be pre- paring for another world, and not waste any more time in preparing nostrums. A. The wretch ! A nasty meddlesome spinster ! She had better be thinking of matrimony, if ever she means to be respectable. Pretty well, if nobody can be ill with- out being sent to the other world in this fashion. Well, what else have you heard ? M. I have heard a great many say, that it is a gone case with you, if you are a woman of veracity, and suf- fer half you say you do, A. What consummate impudence ! Is that all you have heard ? M. No, aunt, for Mrs. Blab said she thought you could not live more than a century. A. What did the woman mean? More than a centu- ry I well who expects to live more than a century, I should hketo know? FOWLE*S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 193 M. Aunt, do you not like to be told that you aro sick' You reproved me just now for saying yon looked so well. A. I hate hypocrisy. M. It was not hypocrisy, but a desire to please you Jiat led to my remark; and, in the case of the ladies I have named, there was no hypocrisy, for they did not speak in your presence, and never supposed you would know what they said. But, dear aunt, are you sick or well? A. That's none of their business. I am better than some folks wish me to be. M. I am glad you are better, aunt. I have heard mother say you were not so sick as you supposed. A. Hey day? She said that, did she? That is just as much feeling as she has for me. If I were dying, she would not think there was any cause for alarm. M. She loves you so well, I do not think she would ever neglect you ; but she is not alone, aunt, in her re- mark, for 1 have heard father say that you would live to bury most of us. A. Yes, and to Jcill you, too, I suppose ; did n't he add that? M. No, aunt, though he sometimes says he thinks your whims give the family much unnecessary trouble. A. I'll never complain again, if I am so sick as to be motionless and speechless. M. You could n't complain then, aunt. But you must be very sick, though you will not own it, for father says "you have made your will, and folks do not make wills, while they can have them, as you do." A. What does he mean by that ? M. When he said so, cousin Jolm remarked, that *' you had not only made your will, but proved it." A. A villain, he '11 come to some bad end, yet. Made my will, have 1 1 M. Dear Aunt, do tell me whether I must consider you well or ill. If I say you are well, you say you are ill, and if I say you are ill, you declare that you are well. What is your will in this matter ? A. Made my will, have I ? 194 M, Aunt you can 't be angry with me, I know you can 't. A. I have not made my will, Mary, but I 'L now make it, and you shall know how I dispose of my property. M. Well, aunt, I hope you are not offended, we never mean to hurt your feelings. A. First and foremost or imprimis, as the wills run, I give and bequeath all my whims to the winds, M. O dear, Aunt, the winds will be more changeable than ever. A. Next, I give all my physic to the dogs, M. Mercy on us, I hope they will take it, though I shall pity them. A. I give my ill-temper to M. Don't aunt, don't give that to any one, I pray you, A. Would you have me keep it, Mary ? No, I give that to oblivion, because that always loses what is given to it. M. That sounds like yourself, aunt, before you were accustomed to be so sick. A. Well, dear, I have only one thing mere to give away, and that is my — forgiveness. M. And that you will give to me, aiuit, will you not? A. Yes,, and to your father and mother, and Mrs. Blab, and Mrs. Prattle, and Goody Gossip, whose remarks have cured me of a foolish habit of complaining that has made me a nuisance to my friends, I have made ray will. (Offering her hand.) There is my hand ; and {kiss- ing Mary,) there is my seal. M. The will, then, is duly signed, sealed and delivered. A. Yes, and [turnhig to the audience) ^\\ these ladies and gentlemen are the witnesses. 195 LXXXI. WILLIAM TELL AND TIIE CAP. WILLIAM TELL, tkc Swiss peosant. GESLER, the AuUrian gooernor. OFFICER of Ike tyrant and aeveral guards. \ Tell is looking with derision at a cap elevated on a pole, to which every Swiss who passed was required to bow. ] Officer. Bend, fellow, 'tis the governor's cap, — 'tis Gesler's. Tdl. 'Tis bad enough to bow to Gesler's self. I am no worshipper of images. Off. Gesler has given strict command that every man, who enters Altorif, siiall do homage to this symbol of his power. TcU. The fiiiilt is in the order. I bow not unto things. Off. Death awaits disobedience. Tell. 'Twere greater death to bow. Off. How so, rash stranger ? Tell. To him who hath a soul, 'tis a small matter to put off the husk that it inhabits ; for, to him who is not free, such death is sweet release, to be in every advent welcomed. Off. You will taste it soon. Tell. It can not come too soon. But there 's a death more terrible, and he, alone, who can cast down the image of his God incarnate in himself, doth truly die. Off. What mean you ? Will you — dare you refuse obedience to the law, the high command of Gesler ? Tell. I dare, and do. Off. There 's no appeal from Gesler's dread decision. Tell, (smiling,) Oh, yes. Off. To what ? to whom ? Tell. To Heaven ; to God. I feel within my soul a law that tyrants never framed, and cannot supersede. Off. You will not, then, salute this representative of power supreme ? T'ell. Never, so help me God to stand erect. i96 fowle's hundred dialogues. {Enter Gesler.) Off. This mountaineer, though ordered oft, refuses Btill to bow himself and own subjection. Gc^. Who dares to trifle thus with life? Off. He will no name disclose. Ges. Traitor, where dwellest thou ? Off. {After a 'pause,) Speak, fellow, speak, or die a traitor's death. T'ell. He is the traitor who betrays, not he who fain would save. Gcs. Load him with chains I Nay, stof) ! — Villain, there stands the ensign of my power, I give thee yet a chance to pay it due respect. Ttll. Such scarecrows only frighten wrens ; the moun- tain eagle never heeds them. Thus do I show respect to tyrants, {throwing clown the pole) Off. {Drawing fm boiv,) Shall I shoot the traitor down ? G(s. Not so. Let torture wring from him his namo and his accomplices. He does not act alone. — Say, villain, who is leagued with thee in this revolt ? Tell. Heaven, whose alone is vengeance. The hour is hastening on. Ges. You shall not live to see it. Tell. Switzerland will ; and Liberty looks not to mo or any man for life. Ges. Lead him to prison. We must now invent some horrid penalty for such audacious crime. ( The officer lays his hand on Tell, ivho throws it from hinn^ and, 'pointing forward, says : — ) Tell. Lead on ; I'll follow thee. ( The officer goes out, Tell haughtily folkwing him, and the guards closing up the rear. 197 LXXXn. THE ^lANLY VIRTUES. A DISCUSSION. MR. A., Honesty. mr. f., Economy. MR. B., Courtesy. mr. g., Liberality. MR. c, Prudence. mr. h., Caution. MR. D., Perseverance. president, Cheerfulness. MR. E., Courage. A. Mr. President, I understand the question to be, " Which of the manly virtues conduces most to success in hfe ? " If I am wrong, Sir, you will please to set me right. Pres. You are right, sir ; we shall be happy to hear from you. A. I should prefer, sir, to be called on to say, what union of manly virtues should be formed to create a perfect character, for I believe that no one is sufficient of itself to elevate and support its possessor ; but, sir, as I must make a choice, and am only called on to show the superiority of some one over others, and not its ability to perfect' character without their aid, I shall, without any hesitation, select Honesty, for, without this sterling virtue, I do not see how there can be any worth of character, or any foundation for success in any business or profession. The maxim that " Houesty is the best policy," has been universally accepted, time out of mind ; and who can wonder at this ? For, the dishonest merchant is a robber; the dishonest lawyer is a villain ; the dishonest physician is a murderer ; the dishonest clergyman is a hypocrite ; the dishonest politician is a nuisance. 1 consider liouesty and truthfulness one and the same thing, honesty being only truth in action, and, as there is nothing so sacred as truth, I feel safe in declaring that there is nothing so important to success in life as honesty. B. Mr. President, I feel very much disposed to adopt all the sentiments of the gentleman who has just spoken, for I believe, as strongly as he does, in the worth and 198 importuuDe of honesty, but, sir, the question is not, how niucli more vahiable is honesty than otlier virtues, but which will conduce most to one's success in life? It" men were what they ought to be, there would be more reason in my friend's arguments ; but, sir, who does not see that the honest merciiant is rarely tiie prosperous one ; and who does not know that the maxim, " Honesty is the best policy," has refereitce rather to the next woild then to that in which we live. The maxim now" is, that " it is hard for an honest man to get a living." I will not undertake, sir, to prove that all unsuccessful men are lionest men, for this would be undertaking to prove that nine tenths of mankind are lionest, which 1 do not be- lieve. The truly honest physician, sir, would often have nothing to eat but his own pills, and as these would not be bread, like those of the more cunning, he would lead a hard life of it. So the truly honest lawyer will have few fees and few cases, for the larger part of cases would be quashed by an honest lawyer, and most of the others would be such as an honest man could never soil his hands with An honest clergyman, sir, always has more ene- mies than a time-server, and as for an honest politician, why, sir, this is an impossibility. Every one knows that all IS fair in politics, and that honesty is never required in candidates ibr ofhce. It is vain, therefore, for the gen- tleman to preach up Honesty as a means of success, and 1 sliall propose Courtesy. This may seem to you, sir, a tame sort of virtue, but, you will recollect that " Man- neis make the Man," and even the great Apostle of the (j!entiles found it to be his true })olicy ^'to become all things to all men." He, who treats all men with re- spect, carries with him a letter of recomixendation, that rarely fails to give him currency ; but ^ho does not know that a man of rough manners, and unprepossessing exter- ior always appears to disadvantage, and has to remove a prejudice before he can make any progress. It is true, that some boors have succeeded in acquiring wealth, and power, and rank, but so few have done this, that they must be set down as exceptions to the rule, and not its illustrations Courtesy, sir, is a substitute for aLniost every other virtue. He who has it, is presumed to have fowle's hundred dialogues. 199 all the rest ; and he who has it not, will hardly obtain credit for the virtues which he really possesses. G. Mr. President, I wonder not a little at the confidence with which the gentleman, wlio has preceded me, speaks of courtesy and good manners as aids to success in life. Nobody will deny, I suppose, that pleasing and gentle- manly manners are preferable to coarse and vulgar de- portment ; but, sir, it would not require much skill to show that manners are but the trappings of character, and have as little to do with the real worth of the man as his dress does. Nay, sir, I sliould not be afraid to as- sert that dress has more to do with success in life than courtesy can pretend to. Why, sir, who does not know that a poor man, badly dressed, however courteous and polite, would stand no cliance of success in any profession or in any important undertaking. Such, 1 believe, is the general impression, for wlio will deny that most of our rich men, our profound scholars, and most distingaished citizens, are not remarkable for elegance of manners ; who will deny, that, with the fair sex, dress is the great object of desire, and he, who would win then* favor, stands little chance of success, unless he attends to the quality and cut of his coat, and is liberal in his contribu- tions to the toilet of his dulcinea. I venture to assert, sir, that there is one virtue transcendently more important to success in life, and I think I shall need to say little by way of argument, when I have named Prudence. It does appear to me, sir, tiiat, nearly all the failures that we see in business, and in professional and political advance- ment, arise not from the dishonesty or the ill-manners of men, but from their lack of Prudence. Prudence, I need not say to this learned audience, is a contraction of the word Providenc^ which comes from a Latin verb mean- ing "looking ahead," or "seeing in advance." Now, sir, this is the key to success. He who looks forward, and thus", becomes prepared to meet the events that are fore- seen, will seldom be surprised by great mislbrtune. Sa- gacity is but another name for prudence, and what higher compliment can be paid to a merchant, a professional man, or politician, than to say, he is sagacious. I ilo not think, that, if I should speak an hour on this subject, I 200 could add any thing to the evident fact, that, success de- pends on Prudence, and ill-success may almost always be directly traced to Imprudence. D. All that has been said by my predecessors, Mr. President, may seem very specious to a superficial ob- server, but to one who looks at the question a Httle more profoundly, it must be evident, I think, that there is but little judgment in their choice of virtues, and little solid argument in their defence of them. Why, look, sir, at the vaunted Prudence of which the gentleman has just spoken so confidently. What does it amount to ? The day of prophecy, like that of miracles, is past, and human foresight is almost a bye- word. The best of us does not know what a day may bring forth ; and if he did, what good would it do him ? I assert, without fear of contra- diction, that if we could foresee what is to happen, instead of being strengthened for t-!i3 conflicts of hfe, we should generally be weakened and unmanned. While there is doubt and uncertainty as to the future, there is hope ; and while there is ho{)e there will be Perseverance, and, sir, I maintain that Perseverance, the virtue I have just men- tioned, is altogether more reliable than any virtue, that has been named, or can he named by any one who hears me. " Constant dro})ping of water we know will wear away the hardest stone," and what is this but an emblem of perse vera iice? The cause of failure in human und'^r- takings, sir, does not arise so much from ignorance of tiie future, as from want of faith and confidence in the pres- ent, — in ourselves. Lie who undertakes a task should Dot consider an ultimate failure possible ; and if you loek, sir, at the list of successful men, in whatever department of human enterprise, where will you find one, however honest, however courteous, and however prudent, who has not withal been persevering ? The French proverb says, •'It is the first step only that costs," but, I believe, sir, that the first step is of little importance, if it is not fol- lowed up by a steady and unfaltering succession of ste[)s. I think it must be evident to all who hear me, that, al- though a sudden and single effort may occasionally remove an evil or avert it, or may even secure a positive good, the masi of men are entirely unfitted for such efforts, and, if FOWLERS HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 201 ihey ever succeed in their undertakings, must do it by dint of Perseverance. I rest my case here, sir. E. Mr. President, I shall not deny that Perseverance is essential to success, but, sir, who has lived to any pur- pose, if he has not observed that the persevering diggers and del vers seldom become any thing better than diggers and delvers. Men who are remarkable for perseverance, are also remarkable for narrow views and limited under- takings. You seldom see any enterprise among those who tell you that "the constant dropping of water will wear away the stone." Well, suppose it does wear it away, what does it get by that? Who is the better for that sort of labor ? No, sir, he who would succeed in the world, must not only be willing to work, but he must have th(^ courage to go ahead. Courage, sir, is more essential to success than any other mental quality. In that greatest or all human concerns, the selection of a partner for bet- ter or worse, who does not know that " a faint heart nevex wins a fair lady ? " What sends the ships and sons oi^ America to the hiding places of the snn, or to the regions that defy his power? Is it not that indomitable courage, which is increased by obstacles, and which fears no dan- ger? *' While we were holding a Council," says an Eng- lish officer, " and discussing the question, whether it was possible to force a passage through the ice of Wellington Sound near the North Pole, the Yankees had gone thither without holding any Council." While the powers of Eu- rope were sending tribute to the pirates of Algiers, to re- deem Christian men who had been made slaves, the Yan- kees sent a fleet, and blew the wretches who dealt in white slaves sky-high. While Dr. Lardner, the great scientific philosopher, was proving, to the satisfaction of the scien- tific of the old world, that no steamship could ever cross the broad Atlantic, a Yankee steamship was entering the port of Liverpool. Nay, to go farther back, when the Puritans were persecuted in England, did tliey persevere and trust to the final success of their principles ? No, sir, they waited for no dropping of water to soften the flmty hearts of their persecutors, they waited for no rust and no friction to wear away their chains, but they dashed across the wide ocean, and laid the foundation of a free empire 202 in the wilderness. When they were again oppressed, did they wait, as the amiable non-resistants pretend they ought, until the tyrants voluntarily and gracefully yielded the rights which they could no longer withhold ? • No, sir, they declared themselves free and independent, and did the work of centuries in a day. It is well, sir, for a man, who knows he is right to persevere, but how shall he per- severe? Shall he go on in the same routine of duty, like the tanner's horse, who moves in a circle, or shall he boldly rise from one right to another, and not rest, until, by his courage, he has acquired all that nature ever intended for his portion, all that she ever fitted him to acquire ? Courage, sir, moral Courage, is the key to ad- vancement, and the pledge of success. F. Mr. President, my friend has just drawn a glowing picture of Courage, but I think you and this intelligent audience must have perceived, that, like most pictures, it is a work of imagination, pleasant, but not truthful ; specious, and yet very deceptive. It seems to me, sir, that he did not do justice to Perseverance, which certain- ly is a perpetual exercise of the Courage he recommends, and he said nothing of the countless failures, which arise daily from what he calls Courage Look, sir, at the Mer- chants , we are told that more than nine tenths of them fail in business, and pray, sir, what leads to these failures but this very Courage that prompts them to go beyond their depth, and to attempt what is impracticable. E. Mr. President, I am sorry to interrupt the gentle- man, but I would suggest that it is the lack of courage that leads to these failures. If the merchant had the Courage to live within his means, and not to do wrong because others did so, he would not fail. F. I still think, sir, that what the gentleman calls Courage in the merchant, who has no enterprise, is only Perseverance, but I shall not take up your time in discus- sing this point, for my object is to propose a virtue, which will insure success, without the risk which is inseparable,' from Courage, I mean Economy. Now, sir, as far as my observation goes, the trouble with all our merchants who fail, and with most of our unsuccessful professional men, is, that they lack Economy, or, as the homely old proverb FOWLERS HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 203 lias it, they save at the spigot and spill at the bung-hole, I lay it down as an axiom, that the economical man must succeed. If he spends less than he earns, he must amass ; and what but death can prevent his beoorning rich, if he is always adding to his store. This is so self evident, that I presume no one will deny it. Of what uae is Honesty without Economy? Whither would Courtesy lead, with- out proper economy of time and money, both of which it ts apt to waste ? Prudence is very well so far as it walks by the side of Economy, but Perseverance without Econo- my may be eternally laboring in vain. As for Courage, 1 have already shown that its tendency is to lead men into expenses, or into difficulties, which must result in ruin. Our great countryman Franklin was the personification of Economy, and 1 present him as an example of its tenden- cy to secure the highest and best results. G. Mr. President, I am somewhat surprised to hear Economy proposed as a high and elevated means of suc- cess in life, for, su", who does not perceive that Economy has reference only to the savmg of dollars and cents? and Dr. Franklin, whom the gentleman has named as a model man, to my mind is only a walking and talking interest-table. The burden of his songs and his sermons is "Get money." All the maxims of Poor Richard, which have made Frankhn world-renowned, are comprised in the command, "Get money." Now, i am wilhng to allow that money has its uses, but 1 am not willing to al- low that it is more important than every thing else, or that, as some pretend, it can procure every thing else. I dare say, sir, tliat the economical man may become rich, if no accident, no misfortune lia|)pens to him ; but, sir, unless success m life always means getting rich, the end of economy is v^ery limited, and its aid only a secondary concern. The economical man is almost invariably a. mean man, and it rarely happens that his family or his friends, his workmen or his fellow citizens feel any of that enthusiastic regard for him, which is always felt to- wards the man who is distinguished for his Liberality ; and this quality or virtue is wliat I feel bound to propose as the surest means of success in life. He who deals liberally in business is sure of customers ; and the aspirant 204 to honor, who pours out his money -freely, is sure of friends. •' It is the Hbeial soul," the good book assures us, " that is made fat," and, for this reason, probably, we always con- nect the idea of a razor with a miserly or very economical man. Lean and sharp they are apt to be, and of but lit- tle use except for shaving. Liberality is always popular. There is something in the human heart which leaps with delight at every act of generosity, and it is not to be won- dered at, that liberal men so often become favorites. In considering this virtu 3, sir, 1 would not, however, restrict it to the too free use of money. True Liberality may be shown in thoughts, words and deeds, as weU as in money transactions, and the man who " thinketh no evil" of others, who speaketh kindly to all, and who maketh a proper allowance for the actions, and even the failings of others, in additioa to a generous distribution of his wealth, cannot, I think, fail to secure the esteem and love of his fellow men, and, of course, succeed in life. H. Mr. President, I am not disposed to deny, that true liberality is an ornament to character, but, that it leads to success in life may, I think, admit of a doubt. The truth is, sir, it is hard to distinguish between true and false lib- erality. The spendthrift is an example of one kind of liberal man. He never lacks friends while the money lasts, but, when he comes, as he often does, to long for the husks that the swine do eat, he can hardly be called a successful man. The atheist too, and the iufidel are usually liberal men, but it is the kind of liberality men feel, when, being wrong or in disgrace, they think it as well not to condemn their neighbors, whose forbearance they need. One fact is beyond dispute, I think, and tliis is, that the greater part of successful men, I care not whether they be kings or statesmen, professional men or merchants, the greater part of them are not liberal men. It IS a fair conclusion, therefore, that liberality has not conduced much to their acknowledged success in life. We therefore, must look for another motive power, and I propose Caution, or, as some prefer to call it, Cautious- ness. C. Mr. President, I have no objection to receiving the gentleman as an ally, but it seems to me that he does not fowle's hundred dialogues. 205 perceive that the Caution he proposes, and the Prudence, which I advocate, are about the same thing, and operate in the same way. H. By no means, Mr. President. Prudence, if I un- derstand it, always looks ahead, but Caution deals with objects around us. The prudent man lays up a stock of provisions for winter, but the cautious man buys the lock that is to keep them from the thief The prudent man prepares to meet the commg evil, the cautious man avoids the evil altogether. C. J still think that Caution is included in Prudence, Mr. President ; for, altliough Prudence may look ahead and regard the future, as the gentleman says, it only looks to the future to know what to do with the present. Tiie prudent man avoids temptation and danger as much as the cautious man. H. I believe that Caution may arise from fear, or from past suffering, and the very meaning of Prudence or Provi- dence, as tlie gentleman has told us, implies the opposite of looking back. C. Not at all, Mr. President. The prudent man looks back to past experience, and then looks forward that he may profit by it. Pres. I am sorry to say that the hour allotted to the discussion has expired. In summing up the various points that have been presented by the speakers, the first thing that strikes me is, the relation between all the virtues that have been proposed, and the great evil that must arise from their separation. No one can ever doubt the importance of Honesty in word and deed, but what a charm is thrown around it, when honest words are Cour- teously spoken ; and when honest deeds do not, as is too often the case, involve a. breach of good manners. Who does not feel the necessity of Prudence and Caution, which I think are sisters, if not identical, and how blind and fruitless would be the labor of Perseverance without tliem. How essential is moral Courage to all the virtues. We must have Courage to be honest, to be civil, to be prudent, to be persevering in unpopular concerns, to be economical in an extravagant community, and we must have Courage to be liberal wlnm our lil;erality is sure to 200 reduce our wealth, to produce envy, and to incur the sneers of the parsimonious and narrow-minded. Economy too, though not a very showy virtue, is a very useful one , and the disposition to prevent w^aste, and to use all things to the best advantage, must not be confounded with that meanness or parsimony, which pinches, and spares, and grudges even what is necessary and convenient. If I miglit be allowed to add one to the goodly company of virtues that you have named, I should name Cueerful- NEss, which, although not always conducive to what is called success in life, certainly adds much to the hapi)i- ness, not only of its possessor, but of all with whom he has to do. When I see teachers severe and solemn, set and precise, in whose presence even the spirits of a child are frozen ; when I see parents morose and sour, and curdling thus the bounding blood of their offspring ; when I see professors of religion frowning upon sportive child- hood, and giving the hateful name of sin to innocent amusements, I feel the importance of a cheerful spirit ; and, as you have named but eight, I will propose Cheer- fulness as a ninth, that the number of the Virtues may equal that of the Graces ; and, that, through the influence of my favorite all the rest may be uniformly clothed with smiles, — The discussion is now ended. LXXXIII. NATHAN AND DAYID. Nathan. {Kneeling.) All hail, the Lord's anointed ! David. Lift thee up.- It ill becometh me, an eiring man, To see a servant of the Lord of Hosts, Faithful and true, as thou hast been, Upon his knees before me. Say, what would'st thou ? iV. Justice, my lord the king. I come to lay Before thy throne a case that cries to heaven. D. Speak, then, that no waste of words may lengthen out fovvle's hundred dialogues. 207 The impunity of him, who thus has dared To affront higli heaven. Let the tale be brief, And to the point, as thou knowest well to shape it. JV. My lord, in the same city, near each other, lived Two men, the one exceeding rich in flocks And herds, the other destitute of all Save one pet lamb, which he had bought, and which Had nourished been, and reared with his children. It did eat from his hand, drink from his cup, And lay its head upon his lap, as if It was to him a daughter. D: Well, go on. iV. There came a traveller to the rich man's door, And he to entertain him, spared to take Of his own vast flocks and herds, but subtly seized The poor man's lamb, and dressed it for the stranger. D. As the Lord liveth, he who this hath done Shall surely die. iV", Thou art thyself the man 1- — Thus saith the Lord : I thee anointed king over Israel, And saved thee from thy foes, and gave thee wealth, And wives, and countless subjects, and to these I would have added all tb.ou should 'st have asked, And yet thy lustful eye fell on the wife. The loved one of Uriali, thy tried friend, "Whose all she was ; and thou didst send him ofi' To fight thy battles, while thou staid 'st at home ; And didst so station him, that thou wert sure His very virtue would his ruin seal. Uriah fell as thou ordain'dst, and thou. With many wives, and a wide world, from which To choose at pleasure, took the one pet lamb Of thy poor friend and neighbor. 2). Servant of God, forbear I I feel the weight Of mine offence, and restitution Manifold will make. iV. To whom ? To him Who fell for thee, by thee betrayed and slain? There is no restitution for such wrongs, And retribution stern awaits thee now. £). Let me know any penance that can clear 208 • fowle's hundred dialogues. My sinful soul, and I will pay, or bear It all, so heaven be reconciled again. N. Thus saith the Lord, tiie God of Israel; The child Uriah's wife hath borne to thee Shall die in infancy, and blast thy hopes ; Thy people shall rebel ; thy favorite son Shall lead in the rebellion, and thy house Ere it has numbered three short generations. Shall lose the throne, and all thy glory fade, D. Prophet of God, not so, it is too much. j-Y. Jehovah's self hath said. D. {Humbly.) His will be done. LXXXIV. FASHIONABLE CONVERSATION. [^Y altering a word or two this may be a Dialogue between Hitty Levis and Araminta PufF.] HITTY LEVIS AND TOM CHAFF. Tom. Good evening. Miss Hitty ; how do you do? Hitty. Nicely, I thank you. How do you do? T. First rate. How's your mother? H She 's nicely, too, — how is your sister ? T. First rate, always. What have you new? H Nothing ; you should bring the news. Beautiful weather, is n't it ? T. First rate. Have you walked much to-day ? H. No ; I hate walking alone, and 1 never care for any thing I see, Riding is my dehght. Don't you like riding? T. It 's first rate, but costs more than walking. What have you been reading of late? H. I have just finished " The Hatchet of Horror, or the Massacred Milkmaid ; " have you read it ? T. No ; I have just begtm it. First rate, is n't it? H I call it splendid, thoui^'i not equal to ''The Blue fowle's hundred dialogues. 209 Robber of the Pink Mountain." I don't know wb.it 1 should do without a good novel to drive away tlie hypo. Father says he thinks it would do more good to go among my fellow creatures and benefit them ; but, goodness gra- cious ! one can't look at a fellow creature after reading a good novel. T. I adore a first rate novel. It builds me up for a month. I did n't know what manhood meant till I read " Donald the Ghost of the Gory Locks." H. I prefer " Fanny the P'emale Pirate of the Gulf," it makes one feel so romantic. When I first read it I longed to turn pirate. f. What do you think of " The Gory Locks ? H. It is too sentimental by half. The heroine ought not to have died without revenge. Do you remember the Inurder? T. Yes ; that was first rate. How long you remem- ber what you read I I forget a novel in a week. H. So do 1 ; tliat 's long enough to remember it. Do you mean to see the eclipse? T. What eclipse? //. Of the moon. It is to be total. T. No matter. I shall be engaged every moment from now till sunset. //. It will not happen till after sunset, father says. T. I don't care ; if tliere 's any bore that I particularly des])ise, it is what they call science Deliver me from it II So say I. Have you seen the divine Fanny ? 2\ Yes, several times, and she's first rate. Tliere is more science in one of her pirouettes than in a whole Cyclopedia. //. Have you heard of the engagement? T. What one ? H. What will you give me to tell you ? T. Half a kiss. Who are tlie parties ? H Sarah Pratt, the school-ma'am? T. No ! to whom ? H. To the Squire's son Pveuben. A precious couple' he never has a word in him, — and she is afraid to say her scul is her own. O dear, what a precious pair ! T. They both pretend to despise novels, and yet there i 210 FOWLE'S Hl/NDRED DIALOGUES. is no other key to coiiversatioii, no other door to the kaowJedge of human nature I should die if I could not converse. H. Conversatioi is to life what an oasis is to a desert. Did you go to meeting last Sunday ? T! No ; 1 wished to finish " The Clandestine Anecdote," H. " Antidote," excuse me. It is a glorious tale, worth forty sermons. I never give up my book for the church, and half a day at church is a dose, unless one has a new hoanet or a pencil for billet-doux. T.' Even half a day gives me the headache, when I don't get a nap. H When I saw Sarah Pratt, the other day, she had an engraving that Reuben gave her, and when I asked wliat it represented, she said, a scene from Shakspeare ; and when I asked her who wrote Shakspeare, she blushed up to her eyes, and could not answer. Now I should like to have you tell me who did write it, and I will go and mortify her. Is it a poem or a novel? T. Neither, I guess, or Reuben would not have med- dled with it. It must be some dry history I Is it going to rain ? II. The almanac says it will be fair and cold, and I rely upon the almanac, though father says he prefers his own judgment to-day, to any body's a year ago. T. Fh'st rate I But fair or foul, I must go; for, life would burn out too soon if I indulged longer in such en- chanting conversation. H. Come again soon, for a sober talk of this sort is all that keeps me alive. 2'. I should turn oyster if I did not interchange senti- ments with you once in a while. I should be " like an owl of the desert," as Bulwer says. Adieu I {kissing his hand to her.) Vive la conversation. Adieu I {He goes out.) H. O dear I now I shall have to vegetate agam for a fortnight ; for father can only talk on what he calls use- ful subjects, and mother reduces every thing to what she calls common sense. O dear I I was born a hundred years too soon ; but I will go and write all that Tom has said, in my Album, and Hve upon it till the dear fellow calls again. O what a gift the art of conversation is I fowlb's hundred dialogues. 21 J LXXXV. SCRAPING ACQUAINTANCE. JONATHAN BORER AND A STRANGER. [Scene — In a Missouri Bar Room. J Jona. I say, stranger, what wood is that are cane o' /OLirn made on ? Sir. I don't know, I found it in the road. Jona. I guess it's hickory, but can't say sartin witli- out seeing the bark. Prefer shoes to bojts, don't yon .' So do 1, wlien I travel. Str. I have no choice. Jona. Weed on your hat, I see. Lost a friend, proba- bly. »S/r. We seldom mourn for our enemies. Jofui. Wife, 1 guess, by the wedtli of the crape. Str. No, I never was married. Jofui. Sweetheart, perha})s, or a mother. Str. No matter, you didn't know him. Jona. O, a mau, was it ? Well, I s'pose he was a father or l)rother or some sich. Left you something, I guess, by the wedth of the crape, as I said before. Str. lie died poor. Jona. The deuce he did! Well your case is a perplex- ity. Consumption, hey? Str. W^hat makes you guess so ? Jona. Poor people that have nothing to consume gen- erally die o' consumption. Stranger, I'll bet you a new hat I can guess what State you come from. Str. I never bet, but I'm inclined to stand you, just tc see what State you will guess. Jona. I guess you come from New Hampshire, so hand over the hat. Str. Poh, I didn't come froin New Hampshire, but from Connecticut. So hand over yourself Jona. Wliat for? I bet I could guess, and I did guess, did n't I ? Sti . Yes, but you did n't guess right. 212 Jona. I did ii't say I would. Str. Tell me why you guessed New Hampshire. Jona. They call that the Granite State, and you are a liard customer, that 's ail. Str. Was that the true reason ? Come, be honest about it. Jona. No, I wanted to know, and calc'lated that if I guessed wrong, you 'd set me right. I did n't care for the hat. Str. "Why did you care where I came from ! Jona. I had a kind o' guess in my own mind, you see, and I wanted to be sartin. I thought you could n't be from Connecticut, for you had n't nothin' to sell. Str. How did you know but I came from Massachu- setts. Jona. You'd a told on't without my askin', they are so all-fired proud of their railroads and their schools. Is that your trunk, stranger ? Str. No. I have no trunk. Jona. The deuce you haint ; why, what do you keep your things in 2 Str. What few things I have are in my handkerchief. Jona. What on airth are you doin' so fur from home, without even a carpet bag? Not runnin' away, be you ?• Str. No. I 'm not ashamed of my business. Jona. Schoolmaster, I guess ? Str. Why do you guess so ? Jona. Because they are never ashamed of their busi- ness, and always ready to leave it. Besides, a reg'lar deestrick schoolmaster either has no trunk, or a big one and nothin' in it. Tliat's my judgment on it. Str. Will you bet that I'm a schoolmaster? Jojia. No, I never bet when the other party knows sartin. But, don't be mad, there's no disgrace in keepin' school if you haint wit to do notliin' better. Str. I can guess what you are ? Jona. No, can you ? I bet you two to one you can't come within hailin' distance on it. Come, don't be afeard to guess, I aint afeard to hev you. Str. I guess you are more JoTia. Mormon I No, stranger, you don't guess that. 213 Sir. 1 was going to say you are more inquisitive than polite. Jona. Stranger, this is a free country, and you have a right to answer or not, as you please, But, if it's a fair question, what meetin' do you 'tend? Str. Can you guess ? Jona. Well, I guess I can. You don't swear, you don't drink, you don't bet, you don't lie that I knew on, yon don't guess, and you've no things. You can't belong to any old denomination, and must be a come-outer, only you don't pretend to be wiser than all creation. But now, stranger, to come to business, may I ask what you are goin' to dew in these parts, for nobody don't come here for no thin'. v Sir. What are you doing hero? Jona. Looking out for chaps. You see I have invented a machine for chawing, and out here, where there ain't no dentists, I calc'late to do somethin' considerable. Talk- in' of teeth reminds me that I haint had no dinner, and let's toss up to see who shall treat. Str. I shall re-treat. So good-bye to you. {He goes toward the door. ) Jona. Not mad, I hope, stranger. Str. O no, but I am going to California on foot, and have no time to lose. Jona. You don't say so I Why, I 'm bound there tew, after I have sold a few of my machines. Let 's club and go together. I 'd a sold half a dozen before this, if you had n't been so tight with me. 1 could a pumped a Bos- ton man dry half a dozen times while I have been scraping your acquaintance. I '11 give you a fair commission if you '11 co-operate, as the tarm is. Two is always better than one for co-operation. Str. I have no objection, if there 's no humtug in your machine. Jona. Come along, and let it eat one dinner for you, and then you can judge. 214 fowlk's hundred dialogues. LXXXYL JOHN BULL & SON. JOHN BULL AND JONATHAN. John. {Seated.) Jonathan I Jona. What do you want, sir ? John. Come here, sirrah. Is it true, as they tell me, that you have set up for yourself, over the water ? Jojia. I '11 take my oath on 't, father. John. What do you mean by doing so, you young rascal ? Jomi. I mean to be free, sir. John. Free, yoii young rogue, were you not free enough before ? Jona. Not quite, sir. I wanted an almighty swing, and your lot was too small. John. Too small, you villain, it commands the world. Jona. I could put it into one of my ponds without ob- structing navigation. We do things on a large scale there, sir, John. Was there ever such impudence I What do you do, fellow, that we do not ? Jona. We hatch cities, father, as fast as you do broods of chickens, and every year we set off two or three king- doms, or States, as we call them. JoJtn. What do you make them out of? Jona. Out of strips of my garden, sir. John. Why, how big is your garden ? Jona. It reaches from sunrise to sundown one way, and from one end to t' other end the other way. John. Do you pretend to say your garden is large enough to allow of your cutting kingdoms out of it? Jona. To be sure I do. I have set off thirty-odd king- doms, some of them ten times as big as your old home- stead, and have staked out a dozen more, and having more land still than I know what to do with, 1 have coii.- cluded to invite all creation to come over and take a lot " free-gratis-for-nothing," just to get it oiF my hands. John. The deuce is in you. Why, Jonathan, my folks KOWLE'fc HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 215 are all running away from me. Three or four millions of Irish bog-Uotters decanjped all at once, and the Lord knows where they are gone. Jona. So do I, father. They have all squatted on one of my potato patclies. John. You ungrateful dog, what do you mean by steal- ing my hands ? Jona. They said you could n't support them, sir, and I thought it ray duty to help the old man, as they call you. Jo?in. Well, Jonathan, what are you going to do with yourself, when you grow up? Jona. Good gracious, father, what do you mean by growing up ? I could whip two of you now. John. You lie, you rascal ! Jona. I never mean to try, father, but, in answer to your question, what 1 mean to do, I say, I mean to gov- ern all creation one of these days. John. What do you mean ? Do you expect to lord it over me ? Jona. I guess you'll be glad, one of these days, to have me give you a lift. John. What language do your boys talk, Jonathan ? Jona, English, sir, better than you speak it here. One of them has just made a dictionary for you, in order to keep you right. John. The young scape-grace ! Well, Jonty, how do your boys, on the whole, feel towards the old homestead ? Jona. They are proud of it, sir, and will never see the old man want, or let the farm pass into the hands of strangers. John. Give me your hand, Jonty. They told me you were a great lubber that did n't care for me. Jona. They lied, father, and if you will tell me who said so, I '11 make him eat his words without picking out the bones. John. Come, come, you young rogue, you almost beat your old father at boasting, but I gue&s you '11 turn out a clever boy, after all, and, one of these days, when ray gout is easy, I may walk over, and make you a call. Jona. Do, sir. You shall never miss a welc@me froiD 216 fowle's hundred dialogues. Jonathvan, while there is any roast beef or phim pudding to be had this side of t 'other end of any distance. {Jo/m- than goes oiii. ) John. He's my boy after all. Old. John Bull will never die while Jonathan lives. LXXXVII. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. DioNYSius, 77*6 Tyra7it of Syracuse. DAMOJM AND PYTHIAS, Frie7lds. Dionysius. Yonr friend has not returned, and the in- strument of death is ready. What think you now of the traitor Damon ? You will repent the folly that supposed he would return to throw away the life your suretyship prolonged. Pythias. My faith is still unshaken. Damon will re- turn, if possible, and yet I pray the gods to interpose some obstacle that can not be surmounted. Dion. ' T will need no intervention of the gods, for Damon will, himself, create the impossibility, and leave his credulous friend to die for him. Pyth. You know not Damon. Dion. I know human nature. Pyth. You know it mainly as you see it in yourself, and by this imperfect standard you judge others. I have known the meaning of true friendship, and much as I hope Damon may not come, I yet belieVe he will, because I would not fail if I were he. Dion. ' T is never safe to trust the best beyond the line of interest. Pyth. You have not known the best, they all avoid you. Else, why hang a sword above thy head by a sin- gle hair, to show to Damocles and other sycophants thy fragile hold on power. Dion. All power is based on interest or fear. All men are timorous or sordid, and Damon, you will find to your DIALOGUES. 217 cost, is both. He fears to die, and has been bought, by gold or tears, to leave you to your fate. Pyth. I know you wrong him, and am almost recon- ciled to his return, that the false judgment you pronounce on human nature, may be at once refuted. Dion. The officer approaches, and one moment more will make truth manifest. {Enter Officer,) Officer, My lord, the king I Dion. Speak I What from Damon ? Off. Nought. And the offended law now claims the forfeit head of Pythias, pledged for his return. What is the pleasure of your majesty ? Dion. That the penalty be enforced. I warned thee, Pythias, and am blameless if the innocent is made to suffer. Pyth. Damon is innocent as I, and all who but resist a tyrant. I know my obhgation, and do cheerfully submit. Lead me to death, and hasten, officer, lest Damon come before thy work is accomplished. Dion. What mean those shouts ? The people do re- joice that Damon has abandoned Pythias. Off. (Looking out.) No, my liege. I am deceived, or Damon's self is here, and these shouts are only welcome greetings. (Damon rushes in, and, loithout seeing Pythias, falls ex- hausted at the feet of Dionysius.) Dion. By the immortal gods, 'tis he. Pythias, thy life is saved. Pi/th. ' T were better lost. I pray thee now, ere he recovers, let thy will take full effect on me, Dion. Hairk I he revives. (Damon rises on his elbow, and says in a hud ivhisper — ) Damon. Am I in time ? Off. Yes, just in time. Dam. Thajak heaven I (He sinks again.) Dion. Damon, you measure time most accurately to have neither a moment short, nor one to spare. (The of ficer and Pythias raise Damon. ) Dam. The bark that bore me back, was buffeted by adverse gales, and finally was wrecked upon our coast. 218 Unwilling, then, to lose an instant in the search of horse, or other means of haste, I ran unceasingly until so little life is left, its full extinction hardly can be death. Dion. ( To himself.) And tliere is then a bond more strong than interest or fear. How little do I know of man I {Aloud.) Officer, leave us. {Officer goes out.) Damon, I give thee life on one condition. Dam. Name it, so it be not dishonorable. Dion. The condition is, that henceforth Dionysius be to Pythias and Damon, what they are to each other. Dam. It can not be. Friendship 's a sacred sentiment, and not a name, — the growth of years, not minutes ; the fruit of mutual sacrifice ; and obligations such as it im- poses Dionysius never felt, never can feel while he is Dionysius. Dion. What say you, Pythias ? ^Pyth. Damon must speak, the penalty, alas, is his alone Dion Then, since you treat my offer with disdain, /ou shall be made to feel my full revenge. I doom thee, Pythias Dam. No, no ! Not even Dionysius can punish friend- ship such as his. Dion. 1 doom thee, Pythias, to live. Damon is par- ioned unconditionally, and, if Dionysius can not be admitted to your friendship, he will at least take care, tiiat, when the. history of your wondrous faith shall to posterity go down, the future voice shall say that Dionysius duly prized the friendship he was not allowed to share. LXXXVIII. TOBACCO. SAM, an inveterate C hewer. BILL, an inveterate Snuffer. DICK, an inveterate Smoker. JOHN, an intimate friend of the others. (Sam is cheiving ; Bill snuffing, and Boh smoking ) John. I seem to be the only idler of the party, and it seems to be necessary for me, in self defence, to use to- Ijacco. Pray, in what form shall I find it most pleasant and convenient ? Sam. Chew, chew. Don't be so ridiculous as to tickle your nose with it, or befoul the air. Bill. I do not see why it is any more ridiculous to snufF up the powder, than to chew what you can not swallow. I think the ridicule should attach to the smoker, who neither chews nor snuffs, but puffs away his breath and his money, and has nothing to show for it. Dick. Better have nothing to show for it. It is the show that our opponents abhor. I do not fancy a soiled mouth or an inflamed nose myself. I take a deal of com- fort in my cigar. Sam. So do I in my quid. One of the bravest men that ever lived assured me, that he could not fight with- out his tobacco. John. He drew his courage from a high source. I should think a cause that needs such aid were better let alone. Bill. When I feel gloomy, I take a pinch of snuff^ and there 's an end of it, Dick. An end of what, the gloom or the snuff ? When I have the blues, I take a whiff at my cigar, and, yoa know, there are two ends to that. After all, tobacco is tobacco, in whatever form you take it. BiU. Yes, but one way may be neater than another, or more convenient, or less expensive. For my part, I think all these advantages are on the side of snuff. 220 Sam Especially if you are a cook I I still maintain that this tickling of the proboscis is too ridiculous to be 'sountenaiiced by any person of common sense. As to the comfort it affords, that is all "in my eye." BilL Better keep it in your nose. Sam. The idea of being comforted or inspired by tick- ling your nose with snuff, instead of a feather, is perfectly a'')surd. I should sooner scratch my head for inspiration. Bill. It would be more graceful ! But, Sam, pray teli us, why do you prefer the quid? Sam, I first chewed to keep my teeth from aching, and then continued for the pleasure of it. I am never easy without a piece of tobacco in my mouth. It is wife, children, friends to me. John. Is not that the excuse of the toper? He is never easy without a dram in his stomach, and his wife, children and friends are closely connected with his glass. But, Dick, why do you smoke ? Dick. It exhilarates me and settles my food. I feel a deal better for a cigar after dinner. John. So does the toper for his glass of brandy. But, ray friends say that I must use the weed in some form, and I am quite undecided about it. Bill. Take the snuff, by all means, John. I shall wish my future wife to do as I do, and in preparing food BUI. You don't mean to marry a cook, do you ? Sam. You had better chew, John. John. Who ever saw a decent lady chew ? Sam. Hang your wife I John. That would be murder. It would be hard to hang the innocent, and easier to abstain from the abomi- nation. Dick. You will have to come to the cigar. That is neat, and rarely gives offence to the ladies. John. You mean, that polite ladies do not take offence. I believe that no lady could ever excuse any one for com- pelling her to inhale air he has made impure, unless it be a young lady who hopes to catch a beau by smiling at his vices. Dick. You overlook the beautiful sentiment that is en fowle's hundred dialogues. 5^21 forced by the cigar, I never see the smoke ciirUng upward witliout thuikiiig of the ascending spirit, and as I knock tlie ashes off, I always call to miiid the fate of the body, "Ashes to ashes." John. Beautiful ! but going to a funeral might produce the same sentiment. Sam. Chewing has its moral, too ; for, what resembles the lifeless corpse so much as a rejected quid? There is always a smell of mortality about that. John. There is a mortal smell about it, no one will deny. Bill. Let it not be supposed that a pinch of snuff is devoid of sentiment, I never apply the cheering powder to my nostrils without saying or tiiinking, "Dust we are and unto dust must we return." I never sneeze with- out John. Without what? Bill. Without feeling moved by it. John. The sublime morality of Tobacco I never under- stood before, and such reflections must exert such a re- forming influence upon the life and character, that I think I will chew, and snuff, and smoke, and thus make sure of the great salvation that must come from such a source'. LXXXIX. THE STORY TELLER. SQUIRE DOUGHTY, MR. SLIM, MR. DRIP, MR. DRAG AND MR. MEACH. Squire. How are you. Slim? How d' you do? What news have you? Who's dead or married, or going to be ? Slim. I can't say. I mind my own business, and let other people mind theirs. Squire. It does no good to worry. Speaking of good, Slim, did I ever tell you about my meeting with Sara Smiiik ? Sam, you know, is a pretty good sort of a fellow, but the moment he does a good thing, he runs about to 222 HUNDRED DIALOGUES. tell of it, SO that his left hand never needs suffer from over- much curiosity to know what the right hund is about. Slim. Well, what Squire. Wait a minute, I am coming to it. When I met Sam, said I, " Well, Sam, you fulfil the scripture still, do you?" "What do you mean by that?" says Sam. " Why," says I, "you do good and — -communicate, don't you? " Pretty fair hit that, wasn't it? 'Slim. I don't see the pint of it exactly. Squire. You don't ? Why, don't you see — Slim. No matter, sir, now, for I must run to my busi- ness. Good day, Squire. (Ashe goes out, Mr. Drip enters.) Squire. I'll pay Slim for that. How are you, neighbor Drip? I)rip. Indifferently, Squire, but having some informa- tion that I wish to communicate Squire. Talking of communicating, did I tell you of my encounter with Sam Smink, the other day ? Sam 's a clever fellow enough, and always ready to do a good turn, but he can't keep his good deeds to himself So says I, when I met him, "Sam," says I, "are you fulfilling the scriptures still? " "What do you mean by that? " says he " Doing good, and — communicating," says I. Was n't that a keen cut, hey ? Drip. Pretty keen. Squire, pretty keen. Squire. Well, do you think I did n't tell that to Jerry Slim, and he said he did n't see the pint of it ! Drip. (Aside.) Perhaps he had heard the story till it had lost its pint. (Aloud.) Shm is not a Solomon, Squire, and you must not waste your pearls on him. Any com- mands up town. Squire ? Squire. No, I believe not, I shall go up myself presently. [Drag enters.) Drip. Good morning to you. (As Drip goes out, Mr. Squire. How are you. Drag ? What are you drag- ging now ? You are a real drag-on. Drag. Ha, ha, ha I Very good, Squire, very good. I am always doing something or other, to be sure. Squire. Talking of doing, reminds me of a remark I made to Sam Smink. Sam, you know, never does a good thing without telhng of it. So, says I, "Sam, you not . FOWLF/S iiarMDllED DIALOGUES, 223 oii'y fulfil scripture by doing good, but you also conirau- iiioate." Dra^. What did Sam say to that, Squire ? Squire. Why, what do you think Jerry Slim said, when I told the same thing to him ? He said he didn't see the pud of it. Drag. Well, I don't think he did, Squire. Squire. A fellow so dull as that, ought to be put under guardianship. Drag. {Aside.) Any one who could make such a pun has more need of a guardian. (Ahud.) Good morning,* Squire. {As he goes out Mr. Mcack enters.) Squire. How are you, Meach? Mcack. How is the Scjuire ? Squire. Pretty well for an old one. Meach, do you' know Sam Smink ? Meach. Yes, and I heard a good story about him just now. You know Sam never does a good action without telling every body of it ? Well, you see, Jerry Slim met him the other day, and when Sam told him about some widder that he had helped, says Slim, " You do good and communicate," says Shm, says he. Squire. Slim never said so. Meach. He did, he told me so himself, not fifteen min- utes ago. Squire. Slim is a liar and a thief into the bargain. Mcack. How so, Squire, this is hard language. Squire. The fellow has stolen my best story, and is passing it off for his own, before I have told it fifty times myself The dog told me, too, he could not see the pint of it. He shall feel the pint of my boot when I meet him, a villain Meach. That will hardly be "doing good," Squire. S(juire. It will be doing good and communicating too. A mean dog, to steal my thunder after telling me there was no lightning in it. 224 fowle's hundred dialogues. XC, LOVE AND MISANTHROPY. HER-MIT AND MISANTHROPE. Mis If there 's a mountain peak that human foot, Adventurous, hath never dared to chnib; That the bold eagle, seeking for her young A safe retreat, hath hardly dared to scale ; If there 's a cavern in earth's dreary waste, By earthquakes riven deep, tliat the chased wolf Ilath ne'er explored, and that the light Of curs'e'd day hath ne'er intruded in, That dizzy height, or the infernal cave, Would furnish the retreat my spirit seeks, Where human foot may never penetrate To blast the eye, or paralyze the ear. I have foresworn the race, and would consort With beasts of prey, or birds who but consult Their native instinct, when they crush the weak And innocent. tierm. {To himself.) What voice of human tone Harmonious breaks the stillness drear, that long Hatli brooded o'er these silent shades I The sound Of human lips is grateful to my ear As pardon unexpected to the ear That sin has brought to the awful precipice Which human legislation spreads beneath The foot of crime. Here I have hved alone, Unseen by man, obedient to a vow. In evil hour assumed, the world and all Its pleasures, prospects, promises, to renounce And utterly abhor. But I have learned That the narrow path by truth enjoined Lies not through solitude or wilderness. But wmds its way through all the crowded marts Of the busy world, where heart to heart can speak, And where the thoughts, all occupied, can ne'er Find time or opportunity to shrink, And be concentrated vn self. {To the Misanthrope.) 2^ Say why society you shun, young man. And choose the unvarying scene these solitudes Present- Condemned of God or man, I know No greater punishment than may be found In doing nothing, or in preying on One's sickly self, and losing evermore The sentiments that intercourse alone With human kind can quicken or perfect. Mis. Speak not to me of man or of his works ; But, if thou know'st a fearful cavern dark, Or inaccessible crag, where one may hide Forever, then, in mercy to this heart But designate the spot, and I will rush To embrace the only rest despair can know. Herrn. The rest the weary, world-tossed heart desires, Or that the guilty conscience asketh for, Can not be found in idleness, nor in The solitude you covet thus. The gifts Of Providence ne'er cause disgust, but when They are abused ; and to renounce them then Creates a void more dreadfid than before Existed, to be filled anon with ills More keen and wearisome. The world is vile, But in the wilderness the furies rave With tenfold power, and a retreat secure From all their scourging never can be found In negative virtue, or in idle grief Mis. Thou ne'er hast felt the raging pains, that now Wring my torn bosom, lacerate my soul, And make me hate not only all my kind, But all things else, and even my very self Hertn. 'T is rare to find, in one so young, such deep Misanthropy ; and much it doth me move • To inquire into its cause, that I, perchance, May consolation give, or balmy hope Administer. Mis. O holy man, for such thy kindly words Betoken that thou art, thou canst not gauge The depth of misery in which, plunged and sunk Beyond deliverance, I must ever lie. Thy love hath no prescription, and thy life 226 FOWLt'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. Hath 113 experience to enable thee To comprehend the ills that crush me down, And shut out every hope of earth, and all Concern for heaven. llerm. Did I consult my heart, and all that stern Experience I have known, I should suspect That thy fond heart had drunk the bitter cup Of unrequited love. Mis. Sure nought but love divine, discernment deep, And superhuman, could have thus revealed The fearful mystery that shrouds my fate. True, I have loved as never man hath loved. Herm. All men do so. I too have deeply loved As never man before. Mis. And I have borne such griefs as never man Hath borne and Uved. Herm. And so have I, And yet survive, prepared by sufferings keen, Resembling thine, to now prescribe a cure That shall restore thee to thyself, the world, And all the duties thou would'st rashly spurn. Mis. O holy hermit, speak ! before high heaven I promise to obey thy dictate, for To live is death, and freedom is to die. Herm. Nay, rather live, let her whom thou adorest Die to thee, and as I once renounced The world, and sought the caves, and found No remedy, let my experience serve For both, and both return to the world, and seek Mis. Seek what ? the scornful dames that cast our hopes Down headlong to the abyss of dark despair ? Herm. O no, — let us return, resolved to seek— Each a new love. None dwell in this dull waste, And our researches can not fail to prove The only cure for hopeless love is love. Mis. Come on ! I '11 try the recipe for spite. Adieu, O cavern, farewell mountain height, Eagle and wolf, the eyrie and the lair, Farev/ell, farewell I she lives, and I don't care fowle's hundred dialogues. 227 XCI. NEVER TOO OLD TO LEARN MR. GINSENG, a iicwlij Retired Trader. PROFESSOR. EMPTiNGS, a Fashionablc Scholar. Mr. Ginseng. You understand my case, I trust. My whole life has been spent in acquiring wealth, und now I have it, I find it necessary to have something more, be- fore I can take rank with the genteel and respectable. I have, therefore, determined to learn every thing that is to be learued, and have sent for you to place myself under your instruction. Professor. What do you wish to learn ? Mr. G. Every thing, I tell you. I have kept books these forty years, but I never studied one in my life. Frejf. Yes, but what shall we begin with ? Mr. G Begin with every thing, I need one thing as nuich as I do another, I might have inherited something, if the oldfolks had died young, but they outlived all their faculties. Prof. Shall we begin with Latin? I think that is the basis of all education. Mr. G. What is the use of Latin, Doctor ? Does it make one better understood ? Prof. O no, it prevents you from being understood, and so gets you a reputation for wisdom. When you are with plain people, and wish to make tlieiu feel your supe- riority, you have only to throw a Latin quotation at them, and they are overwhelmed at once Mr. G. Then, Doctor, it seems to ma there can be no use in studying Latin ; for, if I speak to those who don't, understand, 1 may as well make my Lutin as I want it. If they push me hard in an argument, I can say, " Iwpirutaris in oaknomis. In mudeelis in claynoneisr or whatever else comes uppermost, and, as they can't an- swer what they don't understand, there will be an end to the argument. Prof. But Latin has other uses. It is necessary \o theologians, lawyers and physicians. 228 fowle's hUx^dred dialogues. Mr. G. Well, I am neither. I am only a gentleman. Prof. Perliaps, you would like to commence with Logic. Mr. G. I don't know what it is. Prof. It treats of the three operations of the mind. Mr. G. Three, I thought tliere were thirty. Prof There are but three, Conception, Judgment, and Conclusion, that is Universals, Categories, and Conse- quences. Mr. G. What is the use of it all ? Prof It is indispensable if you wish to convince an opponent. Mr. G. Poh, poh ! I'll do it in half the time with my purse. There is no argument like the dollar. Doctor. I '11 have nothing to do with Logic. What else have you 1 Prof What do you think of Philosophy ? Mr. G, What is it good for? Prof It has two great branches, Moral Philosophy, which treats of happiness, and teaches us to moderate our desires and passions. 3Ir. G. Money does all tliat. There is no happiness without money, and desires and passions are effectually moderated when there is no money to pay for their indul- gence. Prof The other branch is Natural Philosophy, which explains the properties of bodies. Mr. G. Poh, I know all about the property of every body in the city. I was a Bank-director more than thirty years, and 1 know to a dollar what every merchant is good for. Prof You misunderstand me. Philosophy treats of falling stars and comets ; rain, hail and snow ; wind and storms ; thunder, Hghtning and hurricanes. Mr. G. Will a knowledge of this Philosophy enable me to regulate all these things ? Prof O no, you will understand them all, and know their cause. Mr. G. Don't God cause tliem? Come, I'll put my old Dr. Scribbletext against you or any man on that point. Prof What do you say to Grammar ? Mr. G. What is the object of Grammar 1 229 Prof. It teaches how to speak correctly, Mr. G. How does it go to work to do tl is ? Prof. It teaches the analysis of language, so that the subject may be readily distinguished from the object, and both ii[om the predicate, however qualified by modifiers and adjuncts. Mr. G. Any goose may tell the subject of conversation, and guess at the object of it ; and, as to the predicament, I must judge of that when lam in it. Now, you see, if I wished to learn to swim, I should swim ; if I wished to learn to run, 1 should run ; and, if I wish to learn to speak, I shall speak, and I don't believe there is any other way to learn. What else have you to offer ? Prof. Perhaps you would prefer some of the lower branches. What do you think of Orthography ? Mr. G. I never heard of it before, what is it all about? Prof It teaches the power of letters, and Mr. G. Pshaw I I own the Complete Letter Writer, and as for the power of letters, I tell you, Mr. Professor, that one talk, face to face, is worth a dozen letters, any time. Prof. I mean the letters tiiat enter into the composi- tion of words ; thus p-e-a we say spells ^^ert. Mr G. Don't P alone spell Pea? Prof Yes, surely, but we make use of three. Mr. G. Does Orthography teach you to put three let- ters when one is enough ? 1 '11 have none of it. I have 60 much to learn that I prefer some science that will re- duce three to one. Prof Suppose you try Chronology and History '' Mr. G. What- do you mean by Chronology ? Prof A record such as History more particularly des- cribes. Mr. G. Does it describe facts that are to come ? What is past can't be helped, what is future is far more import- ant, and, if known, might be prepared for. Prof Chronology and History refer only to the past. Mr. G. Then I wouldn't give a straw for them. Do tell me, Doctor, if you have spent your whole .life upon the foolish subjects you have mentioned. What I want, is a science that will cause me to be respected by those who 20 230 claim to be my superiors ; one that will make me feel lessj awkward in genteel society, and will make people point me out as a good citizen, and not merely as a rich one. Does any ology, ography or osophy teach this ? Prnf. Not that I know of. There 's an old book, called the Bible, that is said to deal in such matters, but it is a vulgar affair, and will never qualify you for genteel and re- spectable company. Mr. G. I think I'll take some lessons in that. Doctor. Prof. It says, it is hard for a rich man, like you, to be saved. Mr. G. Does it? then I'm sure I'll study it, because there never was a truer word spoken ; and, if there is so much danger, I '11 give away every cent by way of insur- ance against it. Truly, I have found a pearl of great price. Prof. And I have lost a pupil of great promise. XCII. THE POPE AND THE INDIAN. [Note. In 1493, Pope Alexander VI, one of the most vicious of abandoned Popes, published a Bull or proclamation, in wliich, "Out of his pure liberality, infallil)le knowledge, and plenitude of apostolic power ; in consideration of the eminent services of the Spanish mon- archs in the cause of the church ; and to aiford them still wider scope for the prosecution of their pious labors," he formally ^ave them " all lands discovered or to be discovered, west of an imaginary line drawn from pole to pole, one hundred leagues west of the Azores and Cape de Verd Islands.'' The Styx was an imaginary river over wliich it was necessary for the spirits of the dead to pass before they could enter the abode of the dead. The ferryman, Charon, required the small fee of one penny from every passenger, and some ancient nations, believing this fal)le, were careful to put a small coin into the mouth of every corpse before burial. This Pope and an Indian Chief, meeting after death on the bank of the Styx, are supposed to hold the following dialogue while wait- ing for the boat.] THE POPE, INDIAN AND CHARON. Indian. 1 -din right glad to meet the man who, it is said, enslaved my country. 231 Pope. Enslaved ! I christianized it. I. You gave my country to the Spaniard, when it was no more yours to give than Italy was mine. P. It was stipulated that the Gospel should be given you in return. /. We did not wish to pay so dearly for it. What is the Gospel without independence ? P. You were all heathen, and all lost. My purpose was to save you. I. To save ! From what ? P. From sin and death. *• '/. Sin! We knew not what it was till seen in you. And as for death, it has increased a thousand fold. The Indian knew -of no such crimes as thou, the head of those who sell the Gospel, didst freely perpetrate. Methinks we might have given thee a Gospel with more reason. P. Thou speakest freely, but I must listen, for we all are equal here, and must be judged by the same law. /. No, not by the same law, but by the light we had. P. ' T is true, and all the light in you was darkness, when I gave the western world to faithful men, who should instruct and save you. /. They did neither. The light they gave but blinded us ; the instruction lay in bad example. Their tree of knowledge bore to us a fatal fruit. P. They did convert you. /. Yes, into gold, to glut their avarice. P. The Gospel was above all price. I. Even so, and all we had, land, goods and liberty, did not suffice to purchase it ; it cost our lives. P The Holy Spirit was made known to you. /. We judged of that but by its fruits in you. ' T was not a holy spirit seized our lands, enslaved our race, and thinned our tribes, as war and pestilence and famine ne'er had done. P. All this ill was for the greater good. The end most fully sanctified the means. The evils you complain of, in- cidental were to civilization. /. Better be uncivilized than to lose home, and equal rights, and all the charms of liberty and hope. The Indian's Great Spirit authorized no such injustice and oppression. 232 fowle's hundred dialogues. P. You worshipped him in ignorance. I. 'T is true, but our poor service was sincerely offered, and received with due allowance for infirmity. Another spirit that you brought was all material, and debased our race far more than all tlie natural sin you gave us credit for. This spirit took away our brain, destroyed our self- respect, unstrung the red man's bow, and dimmed his eye. You claim no merit, sure, or gratitude for such a gift. P. There is some show of reason in your tauntings. When I gave your land to the discoverers, I meant it for your good, but Crod hath ordered otherwise. /. The Indian does not, do a wrong, and then attribute its result to the Great Spirit. Enter Charon. Charon. Who goes next in the boat? I. I go, provided he {pointing to the Pope) does not. I will not go where he goes. C. Where is your passage money ? I. Here is a mite a widow gave me whom this wicked Pope burned at the stake for reading the Word of Life herself. C. 'T is well. And thou, {to the Pope) where is thy penny? {The Pope gives a coin, and Charon, after exam- ining it carefully, says) Sure this is counterfeit. P. 'Tis St. Peter's pence, no coin so current on the earth. C. It is not current here. P. I have no other. C. The more's the pity. How did 'st thou obtain this ? P. I took it of a sinner for the absolution that I grant- ed him. C. Not only counterfeit, but gotten under false pretences ! You can not go in the boat. P. I have some golden keys that, upon earth, opened or shut the gates of Heaven. Wilt take them for thy fee ? C. False keys too ! Sirrah, thou must be a rogue, or appearances belie thee. Get thee gone ! Let me not see thee on this bank again. Come, Indian, the Great Spirit waits thee on the other bank. 933 XCIII. IRISH IMMIGRATION. MICHAEL AND PATRICK. [_Scene, in Ireland,'^ Michael. Well, Patrick, you have been to Ameriky, tliey tell me ; and how do you like the counthry ? Patrick. Sure you ax me two questions in one, and ny- ther yis nor no will fit both on 'em. Will you jist be af- ther axing one at a time, now, and don't bother me. M. Botheration! canH you answer then one afther the t'other as I axed them? Which was the first ? Sure wasn't it whether you had been to Ameriky, and how you liked the counthry ? P. Faith, it's an Aden of a place, that, Michael, M. Sure you don't mane that they go naked like bastes, and live out of doors for want of housen, as Adam and Ave did! P. By no manes, Michael ; they build houses on pur- pose for us, and the poorer we are, the more sure we are of getting intil the great house, Michael. M. Do they fade you too ? P. Indade they do, Michael, and clothe us intil the bar- gain. They understand the mattlier intirely, do they. M. Do they work you hard, Patrick ? P. Not at all. Don't they do- all the work theyselves for the sake of intertaining us. M. Sure they make you pay something for the inter- tainment ! P. Sure you're a blockhead. They're so glad to re- save us that they make no charges at all, at all. M. Tell me the whole thruth now Patsy dear, and do n't desave your own flesh and blood. P. Howld your prate then, and mind what I 'm afther tolling you. The very moment our vessel landed, and long before, a gcnthleman came on board, and made the most tinder inquiries afther our health and circumstances. You niver in your born days heerd so kind a genthleman. M. May the Virgin bless him, and all the like of him. P. Have you any money ? says he, amiable-like to Kit- 20* 234 FOWLE'S HUI^DRED DIALOGUES. ty O'Jarnegan. Not a blessed ha'penny, your honor, says Kitty, says she. How is your health ? says he again, as tinder-like as her own mither could ha' pit the question. I'm va-ry sick, your honor, says Kitty, as lady like as a quane. You must go to the hospittle and be cared for, says he. If your honor plases, says Kitty, says she ; and he helped her intil his coach, that stood in waiting, like a genthleman as he is. M. You don't mane that she rid for nothing. Patsy. IS jw, don't desave us with any of your blarney. P. No blarney but the thruth, Michael ; and, when it corned my turn to be introduced to the genthleman, he axed me the same questions only different you see. What is your name ? says he. Patrick McCarroty, says I, of Kil- lingomalley, your honor. Have you any money ? says ho, — not at all imperthinent nyther. Divil a ha'penny, says I, — in my pocket. M. But you had money, Patrick, a dale of it. Did n't you sell your cow and all your furniture afore you went ? P. To be sure I had the money, but not in my pocket, Michael. You see none but them as have no money are allowed to ride in the coach, be they. How is your health ? says the genthleman, says he. Bad, indade, says I, and I gave one or two coughs, you see, like as Kitty. You must go to the hospittle, says he. God bless your honor, and all your childer, says I. Step intil the carriage, says he, as he held open the door, did he. Sure and I will, with God's help, says I, as if I was sick like and wake, you undher- stand. M. By the Virgin, you did n't chate him so asy. Patsy, did you ? P. Well, Miky, to make a short story long, we rid to the hospittle, and a palace of a building it was, and no dispar- agement to any counthry sate in old Ireland, nyther. And there we lived like pigs in clover, only they bothered us with what they called soap and warther ofthener than was convanient, and they would n't allow us to kape a soul of a flay about us, which did n't seem to be altogether natheral, you know, Michael. M. What did they give you to ate. Patsy dear ? F. Sure did n't they give us mate in abundance, and 235 tbb bes>^h of it too. Did n't I ate more mate there in a week than the Squire of Ballarney himself ates in a year r M. And they let you live so for nothing, and kape ail your money ? P. To be sure they did. And when we got well, did n't they promote us to another beautiful building,"^' close by, that w as croAvded with the like of us ? M. AVhat did you do there ? P. Ate and dhrink too, Miky, and not a blessed thing besides. All the inmates, as they call the company, are trated like genthlemen and ladies, and out of respect to them, to save their faleings, you undherstand, because idle- ness is no recommendation in that counthry, the palace is called the House of Industhry, though the divil a bit of work they do but slaps or sit still in it. M. 1 '11 go right away, will I. But this blessed minute I remimber that I have n't a ha'penny in my pockets, nor out of 'em nyther. Sure don't I wish there was a long bridge from 'Meriky to owld Ireland, that that blessed coach, and the genthleman behind it, might come all the way here, and take us over for nothing ! * Engravings of the Hospital, House of Industry, and other build- ings erected expressly for paupers by the City of Boston, are displayed by Emigrant agents in Liverpool, Cork, and elsewhere, as induce- ments for the poor creatures to come over. One letter spoke of tlie Aims-House wagon, as a beautiful carriage, kept entirely at the ser- vice of the inmates. XCIV. NATURALIZATION. PATRICK, A RETURNED EMIGRANT, AND MICHAEL. \_S. ( ilH in Ireland.'] Michael. — Tell me some more about that blessed coun- thry, Patrick. Sure it does me good to hear about it, if I may never partake of their hospitality. You towld me they stand waiting for us on the wharf, and board and 236 fowle's hundred dialogues. lodge us for notliing, and work hard to intertain us, and all this is beautiful, Patrick, saving the soap and warther that you tell on. But Patsey dear, didn't you go abroad and see the countliry and the paiple ? Patrick. I didn't set fat outside of the public house for many a long month. But when the winther was over, th^y towld me that the State had orthered all the towns to resave me, and I must go and visit some other place, and so, you see, they giv me a suit of clothes to make me da- cent like for company, and I set out to oblige the paiple of rtome other town. M. Well, what success did you mate with ? P. Fust rate, as they say in Ameriky. I had hardly left the House of Industhry, as I towld you tney call the place where ladies and genthlcmen are intertained, when a smiling genthleman comes straight up to me, and shakes hands with me, as sociable like as if we had sucked the same cow. How are you, my good fellow ? says he. None too well, says I, just coughing a little you see, to kape up appayrencies. Are you natheralized .^ says he. O yis, says I, God bless the bread and the mate and the praytees. But, are you natheralized ? says he again. What do you mane ? says I. Are you a vother ? says he. Divil a bit of one, says I. And would you like to vote r says he. To be sure I would, says I, if 'twill oblige you. I'm your man, says he, and here's an agle for you if you vote just as 1 tell you to. It's I that '11 do the thing, your honor, says I. And what's your name ? says he. Patrick McCarroty, your honor, says myself. And how do you spell it r says he. Just as your honor plazes, says I, I never quarrels about the spelling nor the rading nyther, says I. M. 'Tis the divel and all, that same spelling, Patrick. P. Well, you see, he shows me a paper, and says, can you rade that ? says he. To be sure I can, says I. M. But you can't read a word of writing or print, Pat- rick, and how could you chate the genthleman so ? P. Would you have me own my blessed ignorance, when there was no more nade of it than of tayching the pig to cypher. Can you rade that paper? says he. To be sure I can, says I. Rcide away then, says he. I looked at it kind of wise-like, you see, and then 1 said to him, will fowle's hundred dialogues. 237 you just rade it to me, your honor, for as I'm a christhian I have no spectacles about me, not a pair of them. This is a gtificate of natheralization, says he. It belonged to Bill McGriglicnickery, of Ballymachooly. Him that died last week ? says I. The same, says he, but you must swear that you are Bill, says he, and that you have been in the counthry five years, says he, and then you must put in this vote, says he, and I will give you the blessed agle for your own, says he. I'll do it all, this blessed minute, says I. M. Did you swear on the blessed book that you was Bill ? ah. Patsy, what will become of your sowl if the priest hears on't ? P. Sure wasn't an agle twenty half dollars, and would'nt one of them quiet the priest and lave me nineteen intil the bargain ? Get into this carriage, says he, and we rode to the place where the paiple exercise the right of suffering as they call it, and I was introduced to the officer, you see, as Bill McGriglicnickery. The genthleman then took the stif- icate, and tried to pronounce the name, but not sucsading very well, is this your name ? says he. Indade your honor may belave that, says I. You have been five years in this counthry ? says he. As sure as your honor says so, was my very answer. Who are you going to vote for ? says he. Divil a bit did I know, Michael, and so you see I said, for the right man, to be sure, says I. It's the wrong vote you have there, says he. Will you jist be afther setting it right, says I. And so he gave me another, you see, and I put it intil the box, you see, and then felt in my pocket to see if the agle of the other genthleman was quiet there. M. And so they paid you, Patrick, to become a Native of Ameriky, did they ? I'm thinking I'd like to be a na- tive of that blessed counthry myself, true blooded Irishman that i am. P. To be sure, and you will. Didn t I come over to invite all the bhoys I could find to go back with me, and choose the next President for the 'mericans. M. Sure can't they choose a President for themselves ? P. Not at all ; they are too busy at worrk intertaining the like of us. Besides, you see, they have two great parties so matched that nyther can bate the other, and so iiJS fowle's hundred dialogues. they call on us to settle the matther agreeably between them, and we are to choose all the Presidents afther this blessed moment. 31. I'll go, I will, right away. But, Patsy dear, I wish J could rade and write a little, jist for dacency's sake, for you say they all rade and write there. P. Botheration! wouldn't that spoil all entirely? If you could rade and write at all, wouldn't they make you work or taiche, or do something as bad ? and how could you swear that McGarrotty and McGriglicknickery was all one to you ? And how could you vote to plase the gen- thleman, if you could rade the vote you put in to oblige him ? No, Michael dear, we must let them do all the writ- ing and rading, and we'll do all the voting, will Ave. M. It's the manes I want, Patrick, or I'd go to-mor- row. P. Sure haven't I the manes. The priest paid my passage both ways, you see, and he towld me over and over again to promise to pay for all the vothers I could bring ; for, you see, the struggle is to be a hard one next time, and he wishes us to save the counthry by all manes. M. What is the religion of the 'mericans, Patsy ? P. They're all Protestants, Michael, and haven't any. And they've no fradom at all, at all, for if one of them should chate or stale, divil the bit of a priest have they to confess to. But why will I be wasting my time in talking to you, Michael, when you know all about the matter. Now go, and tell the thruth to all you mate, and let them get ready to lave owld Ireland by the first blessed vessel that eails. JOWbH'o 11..\DR):D DIALOtiUwS. 239 XCV. THE VIRTUES AND GRACES. BElilGION. PEACE. SINCERITY. FAITH. J.. MEEKNESS. ^-^ NEATNESS. HOPE. G. _ PRUDENCE. :; MODESTY. CHARITY. '<-' JUSTICE. PATIENCE. M [Ea3h may be dressed in white, and bear some suitable emblem,— Religim, a cross; Peace, a dove; Sincerity, a small mirror, &c., or eai ;h may wear a flower indicative of the sentiment she repre- sents. ^,,, iJi C RELIGION. Welcome, daughters, every one, What each, now the day has run. Has of good or evil done. Briefly be, and truly, said, That the record may be made. Faith, my eldest, please to say ^ What you encountered on your way. 'iWvi y^^J'-^'^ FAITH. 7 Holy mother, in the street *^ I chanced an infidel to meet ; Denying God, and boasting loud Of this, his shame, unto a crowd Of youths, who drank the poison in, And found apologies for sin. I seemed a youth, and so displayed The proofs that all by God was made ; — The infidel knelt down and prayed, And every youth upon the sod With bended knees, acknowledged God. RELIGION. 'T was well, my daughter ; better far Is kindly argument than war ; The faith that is compelled by force, Is mere hypocrisy, of course. And now, dear Hope, we '11 hear you say What you encountered on your way. Hs 9^ J^'^^^lr^ NEATNESS. J J Dear mother, in a little cot, That might have been a fairy grot, I found a slattern wife, unneat Her dress, her hair, her teeth, her feet ; Unwashed the children were at play, Her husband, sad, had gone away, Though hungry, yet afraid to eat The bread, the butter and the meat. I tidied every thing I saw. Showed her her fault, and told her, more Than all things else, unneatness chills A husband's love, and teems with ills. She wept, acknowledged her mistake, And to her failing seemed awake. RELIGION. She will her happiness secure, For neatness husbands will allure. Neglect of it 's a source of strife. And often curses married life. Now, Modesty, your turn has come, >y^ For you the world has ample room. a ^^'^ ^^ ' — I L; MODESTY. I found a maiden in a crowd Of strangers laughing over-loud ; I saw her standing in the place 244 fowle's hundred dialogues. AVhicli others better far could grace. Her dress exposed her ; I could see That others blushed, though blushed not she. Double-entendres she v/ould hear Unfitted for the virtuous ear. Immodest spectacles she sought, *' They do not hurt the pure in thought," She vainly says, nor once perceives The serpent underneath the leaves. I threw a kerchief o'er her neck, As if I would her bosom deck ; I taught her as a sister dear How she must train her eye and ear, And, ere I left, a charming flush Assured me she had learned to blush. RELIGION. Indelicacy will not do ; The virtuous must be modest too. Immodesty man's lust may move, But ne'er commands respect or love. Well, Patience, you have waited long I hope I have not done you wrong, To leave you last. Now tell us true Whate'er has happened unto you. k Q* ^^u''» ''^S^'Ci '..'•■. PATIENCE. ■^|Lcu)U«Q young gentlemen, as they call themselves, I heard one re- mark, " There goes-a Greek." " Yes," said another, " and in her native Grease. "" Dian There is another more serious disadvantage aris- ing trom our devotion to the classics. In inverse propor- tion to the court we pay to them, is the court paid to us by the gentlemen. Min. It is true, they all avoid us, as if the mere sight of Helicon created Hydrophobia. Dian. I am sometimes inclined to think, that their aversion to learned ladies does not proceed so much from liatred of the classics, as from the slatternly habits which almost always distinguish learned women. Min. I have thought sometimes, that, if women should Study and enjoy the classics without attempting to " show off," as one is tempted to do, we should not forfeit the es- teem of the men, any more than if we excelled in drawing or painting. Dian. What shall we do, then ? Min. Wear blue stockings no longer! Dian. Pay attention to dress, and ask Mrs. Vincent to help us with a little of her taste, which is classic, if her tongue is not. Min. Let us not make a quotation in Greek or Latin for a twelvemonth. Dian. Nor go into extasies at any allusion to the clas- sics, by whomever made. 'Min. I will learn to put on my shawl, so that it shall not look as if thrown at me. Dian. I will no longer allow my honnet to hang down my back, like the head of a cardinal. Min. I %vill have neat shoes not a mile too large for my foot. Dian. And I, stockings that shall be at least of some shade of white. Min. That will do ; but let us not attempt too much. If we do half we promise, we may say, " Exegi monumen- turn.'" Dian. Take care ! the suppression of the propensity tc show off by quotations, will be the " hoc opus.'' Min. Take care, yourself ! 260 FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. Dian. dear, a last quotation is like the last glass a bacchanal takes before he abjures wine forever. cm. THE YOUNG POETS. FRED AND HAKEY. (or, by altering a few words, kate and lizzie.) Harry. Fred, have you written your composition ? Fred. No, I can't write poetry, and the teacher says he will take nothing else, you know. Besides, I don't like the subject. I should as soon think of writing a poem upon an old apron, as upon Industry. H. There is not much room for imagination, but I'll tell you what, we can put our heads together, and write a poem between us. You know there's the Ant and the Sluggard, we can bring that in. F. Good, good, so we can. Well, now start us with the first line. H. No, you may do that. It is easier to begin, because I must match your rhyme, you know. F. Well, how will this do ? " An ant upon an ant-hill sot.'* H. Sot, Fred, why a sot is a drunkard. F. Well, then, " An ant upon an ant-hill sat.'* H. That is a good line, but what in the world would an industrious ant be sitting on an ant-hill for ? F. To rest herself, to be sure. Come, now match my line, will you. " An ant upon an ant-hill sot — sat.'* II. " / wonder what she can be at.'' You must account for her being seated, you know, for you seated her. F. How will it do to say, — " She thought of this and then of thal."^ fovvle's hundred dialogues. 261 H. She must have been a wonderful ant to dc so ; but, no matter, here is another line, — " And then, as lazy as a cat^'' F. How do you know a cat is lazy ? and who is lazy as a cat ? H. Who ever knew a cat to do any work, unless watch- ing for dinner is called work. But you interrupted me, or you would have known who was lazy. Hark ! *' And then as lazy as a cat, A sluggard came to have some chat." F. Good. Now for a dialogue. We must imagine the scene before we can describe it. H. Well, there's the ant sitting flat, and there's the sluggard standing. Good. Now, the ant being a female, and, of course the greatest talker, would begin. *'0 sluggard, said the ant, consider T^ F. That will never do, Harry ; there's nothing on earth to rhyme with consider but widder. H. Well, who knows but she was a widder. She was djQ. Aunt, wasn't she? Then she was a woman; and as loidders work hard to keep their babies from starving, she must have been a widder. F. That'll do, and we can put the explanation in a note. Now, suppose we say, — " Sluggard, said the ant, consider, Tm a poor, industrious widder.'' H. Good, now push on, and finish her speech. F. No, it is your turn. H, Well, how will it do to make her say, " And now you may depend upon it,'' F. Depend upon what ? Gracious, Harry, there's noth- ing to rhyme with on it but bonnet, and what has an ant to do with a bonnet ? H. Poh, that is easily got over. You see this is per- sonification, and she has a right to wear a bonnet, but there is no need of it, for, I propose to make her say, — " And now you may depend upon it. Sure as my head's without a bonnet," F. {Solemnly.) Is not that an oath, Harry? H. An oath ? no, she dont swear by her bonnet, fjr she has n't any. Suppose we make her say next, 262 FUWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. " Until you learn to work and labor ^^^ F. That'll never do. What can you get to rhyme with labor ? JT. There's tabor. F. It is not to be supposed the hard working ant ever played. H. Well then, take sabre. F. Much less did she fight. Besides, work and labor is what the teacher calls tortuology, or something else ; the words mean the same thing. H. Don't stand for trifles. Go on, Fred. F. I've caught a grand rhyme, hark ! Until you learn to work and labor. As I have done ever since I was a little babe uh ! H. Your line is too long, Fred ; you must cut off both the feet of your baby, or the line will limp dreadfully. F. Better have the line limp than the baby. So go on and let the baby alone. What else does the widder say to the sluggard? H. " U7itil you learn to work and labor. As I have done ever since I was a little babe uh /" Now, we go on, — " You never can be rich or wise. Which with mankind the same thing is.^* F. O, Harry, is can never rhyme with wise, and, besides, to be rich and to be wise don't mean the same thing. H. Yes they do. All the ant ever did was to hoard up ; and all the sluggard had to do was to consider her ways. So, you see, there's scripture for it, and wealth must be wisdom, for who ever heard of a poor man's being wise. F. Well, it is time for the sluggard to say something now. Suppose we say, — " The sluggard yawned and raised his head,'^ H. Better say scratched his head, that is more natural for a sluggard. F. Very well, so be it. *' TJie sluggard yawned and scratched his head, H. Well, are you going to make him reform or not ? because every thing depends upon the cat-a-cata-something, what is it? FUWLK't; iiLNLRKD DL^LOUUES. 26^ F. Catastrophe, I suppose you mean ; but I have a line that dodges the reform question, and leaves the field open for my successors. *' The sluggard yawned and scratched his head. And no reply for sometime made.'^ There now, go it, and make him say something smart. H. He's too lazy to he smart. You must tell what he said, and I will only say, — " Then^ yawning, as if his under jaw Would never close up as before, — What did he say ? now wind it up in style. jP. " iiZe stared the widder in the face, And said. Old pismire,^ go to grass ! '* CIV. THE SCHOOL EXAMINATION. Examining Committee. KEY. DB. OLDWISE, " SQUIliE SHARP, DR. PITRGE, DEACON TURNSOIL, JOHN SMITH, Applicant for a School. Dr. O. What may your name be, young gentleman ? Mr. S. Smith, sir. Dr. O. Aye, but the other part of it ? Mr. S. John, sir. Dr. P- Though a proper name, it is a very common one. Squire. Very fair, Doctor, very fair. As you and I both deal in cases, we naturally take to grammar, Mr. Smith, please to let us know how the case stands in regard to your education. What advantages have you had ? Mr. S. None, sir, unless it be one to educate one's self. I never went to school. Dr. O. I am sorry for it ; a self-educated man generally means an uneducated one. Have you studied Latin, sir ? * Pronounced pizmire. 264 FOWLe's hundred DIAIiOOUES. Mr. S. I have, sir. Dr. O. Where, pray ? Mr. S. At home, sir. Dea. T. Famous Latin, 1 guess. No man can learn a foreign language, except from natives, and you have never been to to Mr. Oldwise, in what country do thf Latins live r Dr. 0. " The other country," Deacon. Latin is now a dead language. Dea. T. Then why don't they bury it ? My Bible says *' A living dog is better than a dead lion." Dr. P. I find it very useful in my profession, Deacon. Squire. Yes, you contrive to make the dead kill the living. But I think the less we say about Latin, the bet- ter, for there is not much difference between those who never learned, and those who have forgotten. Dr. O. Are you a good speller, Mr. hem ! what did you say your name was ? Mr. S. Smith, sir. Dr. O. Ay, John Smith, ahem ! I wonder I should for- get so common a name. My wife is distantly related to the Smiths, too. But no matter for that. Are you a good speller, for I consider this an important point. Mr. S. You can try me, sir. Dea. T. Let me put him a word. How do you spell keowcumber ? {Pronouncing it Yankee fashion.) Squire. Deacon, you mean cow-cum-her^ probably. Dr. O. Hem ! I have been accustomed to pronounce it '".oo-cum-her. Dr. P. I believe the true way is cuc-um-ber, is it not, Mr. Smith ? Mr. S. I have been accustomed to pronounce it cu-cum- her^ but I should not dare to differ from every member of the committee. I spell it cu-cum-ber. Dea. Mr. Smith, how would you go by land to China ? Mr. S. I should hardly attempt to go, sir. Dea. Why not ? You have only to go to California. Squire. There would be a little pond of water to cross, even then. Deacon, before you got to China. But, Mr, Smith, which way does the Nile run, up or down? Mr. S. Down, sir. ^65 Squire, But on all the maps it runs up. Mr. S. North is not synonymous with up, sir. On the real earth, or even on the artificial globe, things appear as ^hey are. Dr. 0. Hem ! Do all rivers run down hill, Mr. Smith ? Mr. S. I believe there is no exception, sir. Dr. O. Well, hem ! The Amazon is several thousand miles long, and the earth is round, so that between the source of the Amazon and its mouth, there must be a con- siderable swell. Now, how does the water get over that swell without running up hill ? Mr. S. It must fall from its source to its mouth, by the force of gravity, and what we call a level cannot be a straight line, but only a curve, equally distant from the centre of the earth. Of course the apparent swell may be nearly a real level. This is the way it strikes me, but I am no authority on the subject, and can cite none. Dea. You say the river runs by the force of gravity ; now, as I am a deacon, I cannot see what gravity has to do with running water ? It would be inconsistent with my gravity to run. Dr, 0. He means gravitation, Deacon. Dea. Young man, what denomination do you belong to? Mr. S, None of them, sir. Dr. 0. Which of the churches in your town, do you attend. Mr. S. All of them, sir. I am forbidden by law to teach sectarianism in school, and so I go to all the churches to learn what they have in common. Squire. Well, what is the result of your search ? Mr. S. I find they agree more nearly than they think they do. There is much good in every one. Dea, Dr. Purge, are you going to sell your keow ? Dr, P. Yes ; do you want one ? You may have it for ten dollars. Dea. It can't be good for much, if that is all you ask for it. I want a good keow or none, and I am willing to pay for one. But Mr. Smith, what are you going to ask us a month ? You must be reasonable, now. Mr. S. I expect fifty dollars a month. 23 266 Den. Goodness gracious ! Why, we only paid tlie last teacher twenty, and he would have been glad to stay. Mr. S. Why didn't you keep him, sir ? I think of teachers as you do of cows, " a good one or none." But I would suggest that it will be better to finish my examina- tion before settling the terms. D>\ 0. Dr. Purge, will you put a question in physiol- ogy, for the law requires teachers to know something about that ? Dr. P. Mr. Smith, what is the chief use of the spleen ? Mr. S. To puzzle the doctors, I believe, sir, for they have never found any use for it. Dea. T. Do you say, Mr. Smith, that any of God's works are useless ? My Bible says God hath made all things good, and nothing in vain. Mr. S. So does mine, sir, but still he has made many things that the doctors cannot explain. Dea. T, That's true. But Mr. Oldwise, will you put a question in grammar ? I don't know nothing about that. Dr. O. Mr. — uh — I can't think of your name again — Mr. S. Smith, sir, John Smith. Dr. O. Ah ! Mr. Smith, in the sentence, " John reads history.,''^ whrt is the subject? Mr. S. History, sir, Dea. T. I could have answered that. ' Dr. 0. But if history is the subject, pray what is the object ? Dea. T. The object of reading ought to be improvement, but goodness gracious ! there is not one book in a thousand that is fit to be read by a rational being, to say nothing of a religious and accountable one. Dr. O. Morals and grammar. Doctor, are diff'erent things, and we are in danger of blending them. What grammar have you studied, Mr. Smink — Smith, I mean } Mr. S. English grammar, sir. Dr. O. I guess you have, and heard yourself recite. Pray, young man, have you any isms ? Mr. S. Any what, sir ? Dr. 0. Any isms ; are you an abolitionist, a teetotaler, a peace-man, a radical ? 267 Mr. S. I have considered all those subjects, sir, and am not without an opinion. Dr. O. Did you say, just now, that you expected fifty dollars a month ? Mr. S. I did, sir. I mean to make myself worth that to my employers. Dr. O. I can get as many teachers as I can shake a stick at for twenty-five. Mr. S. No doubt, sir ; but none but such a? will need to have a stick shaken at them will teach for such wages. Dr. 0. Your mind is made up, is it, Mr. — ei — Mr. S. Fully, sir. I have been at great pains and ex- pense to prepare myself for the work, and I mean to leave my mark upon my pupils. Dea. T. You don't mean to whip unmercifully, I hope. Mr. S. You misunderstand me, sir, I mean that every child who looks to me for instruction shall get it ; shall gel such as he needs ; such as he can use in after life ; such as he will never wish to forget. I may have strange notions! on this subject, gentlemen, but they are the result of much thought, and to carry them out will require much self-denial, much patience, much long-suffering ; but I have made up my mind to all this, and, by the help of God, I will act up to my convictions. Dr. O. Mr. Smith, — there, I have hit your name at last, — will you be good enough to retire a moment .^ {Mr. Smith goes out.) Gentlemen, I think he stands examina- tion better than we do. Squire. I like the little fellow's spunk, and I'm for try- ing him. Dea. T. What will the Deestrick say at our extrava- gance ? ijJThe See-lec-men will oppose it. Dr. P* Every man and woman in our district is sick. Dm. T. You don't say so. Doctor. AVhat is it, the chol(^ ? Dr. P. No, Deacon, they are sick of something worse than cholera ; — they are sick to death of cheap teachers, men who have no minds, and who will prevent our children from ever having any. I go for Mr. Smith. Dr. 0. If you are agreed to try Mr. Smith, gentlemen, you will say, ay. 268 ' kowle's hundrkd dialogues. All. Ay. {Dr. O. calls Mr. Smith.) Dr. O. Mr. Smith, we have unanimously agreed to give you our school at your own terms. Mr. S. I shall be happy to serve you, gentlemen, if your Bchool-house is a good one. Dea. T. Why, what has the school-house to do wdth it ? Mr. S. I do not wish to go to a prison or a hospital. I value my health at more than fifty dollars, and I think the health of fifty or more children must be worth some- thing. Squire. What shall we do, Doctor ? Dr. P. Mr. Smith is right about it. Half my practice comes from that mean old school-house. We must have a better ; that's the long and short of it. Dr. 0. We must, and must all work to get it. I will preach a school-house sermon next Sunday. Squire. I'll have the old one presented by the Grand Jury as a nuisance. Dr. P. I'll tell the truth about my practice. Dea, T. What can I do ? Let me see. I'll offer to buy the old house for my keow, and the old critter will hardly thank me, I fear. Dr. O. So be it, then ; put your wives up to the work, gentlemen, and introduce Mr. Mr. there, I've lost it again. Mr. S. Smith, sir. Dr. O. Yes, introduce Mr. Smith to them, and perhaps he can stir the district up as he has us. Come, Mr. Smink, go home with me to dinner ; my wife expects you. i. 269 CV. GENTILITY. A DISCUSSION. The Lady President. Mrs. Level. Mrs. Lease. Mrs. Newton. Mrs. Drab. Secretary. Mrs. Ingot. Mrs. Place. Mrs. Cleanly. Black Sarah. Mrs. Straiter. Mrs. Herald. Mrs. Delver. Mrs. Morley. President. Ladies, we are assembled, as you know, for luutual instruction, and for the discussion of such matters as are of interest in this community. The Secretary will be good enough to read the question which is to occupy our attention. Secretary. The question for the consideration of the Society is, " Gentility, in what does it consist r " President. Ladies, you have heard the question, and I trust will freely express your thoughts. The question is certainly a very important one, for, although it may seem at first that gentility is a city concern, with which, in this remote village, we have nothing to do, I think your obser- vation must have convinced you, that there are few villages where the question of gentility is not raised, and where the intercourse of society is not, to a considerable degree, affected by it. If there is really a just standard by which our inter- course may be regulated, it is desirable that we should know it ; if any rules have been adopted to regulate the free in- tercourse of all the members of a community, it is proper that the rules should be examined and confirmed or regula- ted, as they may approve themselves or not to a sound understanding. Nay, if barriers have been erected to check, or entirely to prevent the intercourse alluded to, every one has an interest in ascertaining whether the barriers aie necessary, and rightfully established, or whether they a.re set up by pride or caprice, and ought to be removed. I hope the ladies will fully express their views upon the subject. Mrs. Straiter. It seems to me, Mrs. President, that before we can discuss this question in anything like order, it will be necessary to define our subject, with some degree of precision. Your own remarks, madam, evidently show that there are two senses, at least, in which gentility may be 270 FOWLERS HUNDRKD DIALOOTTKS. received ; the first as a series of rules to regulate the con- duct of every one, to the exclusion of none ; and the second, hs a line of separation, above which it is presumption for certain persons to attempt to rise, and below which it is debasement for certain other persons to descend. Now, these two acceptations of the term require a different course of remark. No lady, I presume, will deny that there are certain rules which should govern the intercourse of virtuous, refined, and well educated people, and such will command 'respect, and almost necessarily draw a line between them- selves and the immoral, unrefined and vulgar. But, then, who does not see that the law of kindness does not allow this line, however distinct, to become impassable. On the other hand, is it not evident, that what is called gentility, is a mere assu-nption of superiority, arising from birth, for- tune, office, or some other accident, which has little to do with personal worth, and which may exclude from its com- panionship persons of the most cultivated intellect, and the most polished manners. As it is this latter sort of gentility which is injurious to a community, I move that our discus- sion be, as far as possible, confined to the question not what is gentility but what ought it to be. President. Ladies, you have heard the proposal of the lady last up, if you think it best that the discussion be so restricted you will please to say ay. {All the Ladies say ay, and the President adds — ) The ladies will now please to proceed with the discussion. Mrs. Level. Madam, the manner in which this question is now proposed seems to imply, that there are two portions of every community, unequal in some respects, and in some measure opposed to each other. Now, madam, I am pre- pared to say, that there is no just foundation for any such division, not even in England and other countries where tlie accident of birth, or wealth, or rank, by law authorizes one to assume a certain degree of superiority. Why, madam, what constitutes the true dignity of human nature ? Is it a title ? this is often held by the worthless. Is it wealth ? the most mean and I'ulgar may amass that. Is it knowledge ? this is a means of mischief unless controlled by religion. Is it manners ? Some of the most finished gentlemen have been the most accompli.-^hed villains. I maintain, therefore, FOWLERS HUNDRED DIALOGUES. 271 madam, that all distinctions are unjust, and ought to be discountenanced. Our Creator made all men equal, and any attempt to exalt one above another is in direct oppo- Bition to his will. I hope,madam, no body in this village will for a moment tolerate any such notion. Mrs. Ingot. Madam, at the risk of incurring the dis- pleasure of the lady who has just taken her seat, I shall venture to say a few words in favor of what I consider the only true ground for any distinction among the members of a community. I consider Pkoperty to be at the foun- dation of all human action. Where there is no property there is no civilization ; and where there is no civilization there can be aothing worth living for. If property, there- fore, is the mainspring of human action, and the evidence of civilization, it is clear that the acquisition of it should entitle a man to honor and distinction. Besides, madam, you can not prevent its doing so. I thirxk no one will deny that wealth can command all the comforts of life ; and, as every man is in pursuit of wealth, he who has the most, has the means of controlling all others. Wealth always has done this, and, in my opinion, it always will continue to do so. You can not destroy the distinction between riches and poverty, and, therefore, I maintain that wealth is the best criterion of gentility. Mrs. Level. It appears to me, madam, that, if wealth is to make a distinction between us, it ought not to be the pos- session of wealth but the use of it. The miser, who hoards immense sums, is often times less seiviceable to men than the active man, who never accumulates more than he im- mediately expends. If we must have a nobility, I pray diat it may be based upon some thing that the robber or the elements cannot at any moment supply with wings ; some thing that affords at least presumptive evidence that its possessor is a man. Mi's. Herald. Madam President, I rise to say, that, although I do not agree with the former lady, in her high estimate of wealth ; nor with the latter, in her apparent con- tempt for it, still I am not insensible to its advantages, and wo aid make it, if possible, one of the ingredients of gentility. The chief objection I see to making it the only ground of distinction, is the fact alluded to by the lady last ^/^ FOWLE S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. up, — that it lacks permanence, — and the person who may be the pink of gentility to day, may be a beggar to-morrow, not only stripped of his rank, but unfitted to live in a state of poverty. I would, therefore, propose that, instead of wealth, we should take Birth for our ground of distinction, for whatever honor there may be in this, is permanent, and can neither te lost by the injustice of others, nor by any misconduct of our own. Besides, madam, is it not true, that, ever since men began to acquire property, they have felt the insecurity of it, and have endeavored to sustain the elevation to which wealth may have raised them, by claim- ing distinction for their children merely on account of their biith. Mrs. Lease. I am sorry, madam, to differ from any lady on any subject, and especially in regard to what shall con- stitute the basis of social intercourse, but it does appear to me that the proposal of the lady, who last took her seat, would only aggravate the evil she wishes to remedy. There may be some merit in accumulating wealth by industry and honest means, but there is none at all in being born to an estate, or in being the heir of a person who has lost his estate. It will be necessary for the lady to go one step further, and make it a condition of gentility, that the pro- perty once acquired shall never be lost ! This, you know, madam, is the case in some countries, where, to keep the property in the family, they have what is called the law of entail, which prevents a man from parting with his family estate, even to pay his honest debts. But the establish- ment of a nobility, such as exists in certain countries, is not, I suppose, the subject before us. In this country, no such distinction can be established by law, and we have nothing to fear or to hope from it. Still, we have our dis- tinctions, and there are some among us who Avould willingly draw the line. Every city has its upper circle, and every village has its select families, which, for some reason or other, feel a little better than some of their neighbors. Any distinction in this country must be one of general con- sent, and the question before us is, I suppose, shall there be any such distinction, and what shall be the basis of it. President. You are right. I was aware that the ladies were not sU'ictly adhering to the question, but, where per- 273 sons are unused to discussions of this sort, it oftsn happ ens, as in this case, that we come to the truth much sooner if we are allowed to come in our own way, and persons unused to debate, often deliver what they have to say much more easily, and in much less time, even if they wander a little from the subject, if they are not interrupted by calls to or- der, and subjected to what are called parliamentary rules. These rules, I sometimes think, are less necessary to guide those who may ignorantly wander, than to restrain those who wilfully do so, that they may gain some advantage. Excuse this digression, ladies ; I shall endeavor to allow all reasonable freedom in the discussion, since we are as- sembled for mutual improvement, and not for victory. Mrs. Place. I thank you, madam, for your indulgence, for I am sure I shall need it. I surely should not attempt to speak, if I were confined to rigid rules which I have never studied. I hold it to be every member's duty to say something, and, aware that ease in speaking comes only by practice, I compel myself to say a few words, though, as you must perceive, it is somewhat of an effort. The re- marks of the ladies who have preceded me, have led me to think, that, as official rank is a gift of the people, and the very selection of a man to fill an office implies superiority to his associates, and gives him a sort of pre-eminence, the true ground of distinction must be this very office. The officer so selected will have advantages while in office, and it is reasonable to expect that his family will be improved in gentility, and take rank as he does. We see this tenden- cy at large, in the respect that is shown to the families and relatives of our Presidents and public men, and we can generally discern it in the remote villages, where the Se- lectmen, and especially the Representative, are often "looked up to," as our New England expression is. I think, therefore, if we must have a line, it had better be that which the people seem to draw for themselves, the line attached to office. Mrs. Delver. It strikes me, Madam President, as they call you, that, as all elected officers are but the servants of the people, it is hardly worth while for their masters to fall down and worship them. My husband is a farmer, and an honest nj in > and I don't believe he will allow any body to 274 fowle's hundred dialogues. draw a line, and say he shall not step over it. I have no opinion of these lines. Why there are the Gripes on Meet- ing House Hill, as rich as Croesus, and as mean as dirt. Their children, too, think they are something more than mortal, but I guess nobody else thinks so ; and, as to keep- ing their money, I guess the boys will make it fly when they get hold of it. Now do you suppose I am going to bow down to them, because the old man is reputed rich, and has held all the town offices, and been to the General Court ? or, do you suppose I care whether they invite me to their parties or not ? No, not I. President. I hope the lady will not allow herself to make any such personal remarks. Mrs. Delver. I have said all I had to say. Gentility, huh ! Here's my black girl ; Dinah, get up here ! ( The Mack girl stands up.) There, tliis girl was the daughter of a king in Guinea, who held all the offices in the kingdom, and had more money and servants than aJl of you together, and ten times as many more, and which of you will take her for a pattern of gentility ? Dinah, don't you wish to be a lady ? Dinah. (Shonnng her white teeth.) No, missis, I don't know enough for that. Mrs. Delver. You need not know anything to be gen- teel. I dare say you know as much as half the young ladies that are manufactured by the dress-makers and mil- liners. Dinah. I hope missis will excuse me. I have no wish to change my sitiwation, or extend the circle of my acquaint- ances. President. This conversation is a little out of order. Mrs. Newton, you were rising, I thought, to address the meeting. Mrs. Newton. The remark of the colored girl suggested to my mind that, after all, the true "basis of gentility must be KNOWLEDGE. I think it must be evident to you, madam, and to the ladies, that wealth, and birth, and rank, with- out knowledge, will only expose their possessor to mortifi- cation. I think your observation must have shown you, that knowledge, without any of the aids that have been mentioned, will often advance its possessor to the highest 275 society, and a scholar is generally considered an equal in the richest families. Mrs. Level. I have often heard our school-masters and mistresses complain that they were treated with neglectj and I fear that, as a body, they have not been received with all the respect which the lady claims for knowledge. Mrs. Newton. Perhaps the teachers, as a body, have not been so well informed as their vocation would imply ; but [ think it will be allowed, that such of them as are good scholars, are generally welcome to the best society in vil- lages, if not in the cities. But, whether this be the case or not, there can be no doubt,' that the families of professional men, throughout the country, take a very respectable rank in society, and are at least as genteel as the rich and the office holders ; nay, I am not sure that they do not consti- tute a majority of those who hold office, and wealth, and distinction. I know there is no more merit in being' born with talents, than in being born with wealth ; but the world has always been swayed by talent, and I know no line more distinctly drawn than that between knowledge and ignorance. Mrs. Clearly. I have attended very closely, madam and ladies, to the discussion, and I hope no lady will be offend- ed if I remark, that we have rather been considering the standards of gentility which exist, and which, probably are defective in some respects, instead of ascertaining what should be the true basis of gentility. Now it appears to me that refinement of taste and good manners constitute true gentility, and these are, in a great measure, independ- ent of the other grounds that have been mentioned. Sui-ely no lady will allow that the richest man, if his conversation is unpolished, his taste unrefined, and his manners vulgar, can be called a genteel man, or be entitled to any respect beyond that lowest degree of it which is paid to mere money. So, no one, I think, will allow that the scholar, however learned he maybe, can be called a real gentleman, unless his conversation, habits, tastes and manners, are pure and refined, polished and dignified. It was long ago established as an axiom, that " manners make the man," and I am inclined to believe that they do more towards it ':han all things else. It is a pleasing consideration in our 276 fowlf/s hundred dialogues. search for a basis of true gentility, that there is no situa- tion so high or so low that he who occupies it must neces- sarily be destitute of good manners. We may lack birth and wealth, office and talent., and we may never be able to obtain them, but the poorest of us can be civil and respect- ful ; the humblest of us can be courteous and gentle, decor- ous and well bred, without much effort, and without any expense. Mrs. Morlay. It would seem, Madam President, as if nothing could be added to what my friend has just said, but it does appear to me that the main element of true gen- tility has not yet been named. It has been clearly shown, that wealth, birth, place, and even talent, are insufficient without manners, but is it not a fact that manners are no- thing Mdthout MORALS, without virtue, without religious principle. I believe few have passed through this world as far as I have, without often seeing persons of graceful man- ners and graceless character. Some of the most courteous and gentlemanly men that I have ever seen, have been no- toriously lax in morals, and deficient in principle. It is not, therefore, enough {or a man to be rich, of elegant man- ners and refined taste, unless his morals are pure, his con- science tender, and the will of God his rule of life. It is possible that all the ladies who have spoken, took it for granted that this element of character would exist, — that no true gentility could exist without virtue and religion ; but, as nothing was said on this point, I hope I shall be excused for calling attention to it. Mrs* Drab. I think, friends, that this conversation has been profitable, though I could wish a few harsh words that droppea from thee, Mary, {turning to Mrs. Delver,) htid not been said. But thee did not mean ill, I know thee didn't. Thou wilt be surprised, Elizabeth, (turning to Mrs. Morlay,) to hear me «ay that I do not entirely agree with thee ; but, really, if thee will consider a moment, thee will see that the purest morals, the firmest principles, and the most conscientious obedience to the will of God, may exist without true gentility. I have known religious men withc^ut taste, without refinement, without politeness, with- out knowledge, and what is far worse, without charity. Now it appears to me, that all the elements that have been fowi.e's hundred dialogues. 277 named may be united in a perfect gentleman. It surely cannot hurt him to be born of virtuous or distinguished pa- rents, for, if he is a true man, he will try not to disgrace them. It cannot hurt him to be born with wealth, for, with a disposition to use it well, his means of usefulness will be increased ; and, if he holds office, he will seek to benefit the community, as, perhaps, no private individual can. He must have knowledge, if he is to be a model and a guide to others ; and, without knowledge, even of a sec- ular kind, the world can not go on. Then how important are good manners to every man, in every condition of life ; and if, instead of being the result of habit, or calculation, they are the result of that Christian charity which treats all kindly, and loves all sincerely, I do not know what more the true gentleman can want. Now, if we can make such gentility as common as it is rare, there will be no danger of any lines being drawn so as to offend any one. The most elevated would be anxious for the welfare of the humblest, and the humblest would respect those who love them, and who only wish to do them good. I was moved to say what I have said, and I will not trespass any fur- ther. Mrs. Place. I move, madam, that this meeting be ad- journed. Mrs. Delver. 1 second the motion, for it is time I was at home to look after my husband's supper. Gentility, forsooth ! (tossing her head.) President. Ladies, the question of adjournment takes precedence of every other, but may I ask whether you in- tend to adj ourn without taking a vote on the question you have discussed. Mrs. Drab. I think thy votes will not settle the ques- tioa. Mr'i. Delver. I shouldn't care a fig for a thousand of them. A fig — no, not a potato paring. Diiiah, wake up there ! Dinah. (Grinning and springing up.) Yes, missis. President. The question does not admit of debate. Ladies, it has been moved and seconded that this meet- ing be adjourned If this be your wish, you will please 34 273 fowle's hundred dialogues. to say ay. (All say ay, and the President adds,) The discussion is ended accordingly. Mrs. Delver. (To her black girl.) There, Dinah, you can't be a lady quite yet. Now run home, and make a genteel cup of tea for your master. Dinah. (Grinning.) Yes, missis, after de latest Par- ishoner fashion. If gentility consist in making the best cup of tea, old Dinah {grins and shakes her head,) tip top genteel, aha! CYI. WILLIAM TELL AND THE APPLE. GESLER, TELL, OFFICEK, AND BOY. Gesler (alone). The Mountaineer is safe in prison, but refuses to declare his accomplices. Death would but seal his lips, and shut the secret up forever. We have exposed him to the gaze of many thousands who, no doubt, do know him well, but no one recognized him by look, or sign, or word, so thoroughly this people understand each other. Enter an Officer. Officer. Good news, my lord ! We found just now, in the market place, a mountain boy, inquiring for his father, who returned not home as he is wont. Inquiry led to the suspicion that the mountaineer in prison was his sire ; but, when confronted, he did not betray any amotion, though the lineaments of both betoken kindred, Ges. Lead them hither. {Officer brings them in from different sides.) Who art thou boy ? Boy. My father's son, I've heard my mother say. Ges. Who is thy father ? Boy. Gesicr does not know. He ne'er shall know from me. Ges. If this were not thy father, then would'st thou deny at once. 279 Boi/. Not so. I own no father, but (pointing upward) Him. Ges. Thou hast a mother, boy, say where is she ? Boy. Here {looking round) and here (striking his breast J. Ges. Her name ? I promise not to harm her. Boy. You have already harmed her beyond bearing. Ges. Boy, 'tis false. Her name, thy mother's name is Boy. Switzerland, I own no other parent. Off. Audacious brat ! Thy father (pointing to Tell) dies for this. Boy. My father cannot die, he is immortal and beyond your power. Ges. You are not so safe. Officer, bind him to the stake, and let a slow, sure fire teach him respect for power. He evidently is quite apt at learning lessons. Tell. You will not punish him for what his parent taught, Ges. We will not ? Tell. You can not. E'en cruelty respects a noble child. Ges. Officer, do your duty. Such noble youth would make too noble men. Tell. You surely are in jest, and can not burn a child. Ges. No, I will spare his life on one condition. Tell. Name it, if it be not dishonorable. I pledge myself to do whate'er is possible in his behalf. Ges. Thou art an archer. Tell. True. My skill is hardly equalled on the hills. Ges. I'd see thee exercise it on this boy. Tell. (Looking at him with amazement). I'm not an executioner. Off. My lord, let him not kill the boy at once, but let him aim to strike an apple from his head. Ges. 'Tis well. I do adopt thy thought. There's mercy in it, too. Tell. Mercy ! God of mercy, did'st thou hear the word ! Ges. No matter, so thou did'st. (To the Officer), place the boy, and to encourage skill, we promise life to both, if he the apple fairly hits. Boy. Father, you will not shoot ! I'd rather burn than die by thy dear hand. Tell. Be silent ! Close ^.hine eyes that thou may'st start not. T never miss, you know. Fear not, [the child 280 fowle's hundred dialogues. goes out). Forgive me, heaven, 'twere kindness to de teive him. (To Gesler). How many shots am I allowed ? Ges. But one. Tell. Childless monster, spare the boy and I will bow me in the dust before thy image ; nay before its shadow, I will do aught the meanest worm can do, and thank thee for the grace. Ges. Pick thy arrow, and parley not. {He holds out the quiver to Tell, who takes one arrow^ and pointing with it at something behind the tyrant^ Gesler turns his head to look, and Tell quickly takes a second arrow and conceals it in his dress. While Tell is trying the bow and arrow, Gesler says,) There is the mark ! Tell. Heaven guard it, and forgive the desperation of the act. God of the innocent, direct the shaft ! {He shoots.) Ges. The apple's cleft, by heaven ! Tell. To heaven all thanks. {As he raises his hands to heaven the co^vcealed arrow falls ; Gesle^ picks it up and says sarcastically) — Ges. Dost use two arrows for a single Jiot ? Tell. The second was for Gesler, had the first one failed. CVn. TIIE PRINTER AND THE DUTCH- MAN. (The Dutchman sitting at the door of his tavern in the far West, is approached by a tall, thin Yankee, who is emigrat- ing Westward, on foot, with a bundle on a cane over his shoulder.) Dutchman. Veil, Mishter Valking Shtick, vat you vant ? Printer. Rest and refreshments. D. Supper and lotchin, I reckon. P. Yes, supper and lodging, if you please. D. Pe ye a Yankee peddler, mit chewelry in your pack to sheat te gals ? 281 P. No, sir, I am no Yankee peddler. D. A singin-maister, too lazy to work ? P. No, sir. D. A shenteel shoemaker vat loves to measure te gals foots and hankies better tan to make te shoes ? P. No, sir, or 1 should have mended my own shoes. D. A book achent, vot bodders te shcool committees till they do vat you vish, choost to get rid of you ? P. Guess again, sir. I am no book agent. D. Te tyfels ! a dentist preaking the people's jaws at a dollar a shnag, and runnin off mit my taughter ? P. No, sir, I am no tooth-puller. D. Phrenologus, den, feelin te young folks heads like so many cabbitch ? P. No, I am no phrenologist. Z>. Veil, ten, vat te tyfels can you pe ? Choost tell, and you stiall have te besht sasage for supper, and shtay all night, free gratis, mitout a cent, and a chill of wishkey to start mit in te mornin. P. I am an humble disciple of Faust, — a professor of the art that preserves all arts, — a typographer, at your ser- vice. D. Votsch dat ? P. A printer, sir, a man that prints books and newspa- pers. D. A man vot printsh nooshpapers ! O, yaw ! yaw ! ay, dat ish it. A man vot printsh nooshpapers I Yaw, yaw ! Valk up ! a man vot printsh nooshpapers ! I vish I may pe shot if I did not tink you vas a poor tyfel of a dishtiick shcool-maister, who verks for nottin, and boards round. I tought you vas him. 285 fowle's hundred dialogues. CVIII, THE YANKEE IN FRANCE. A FKENCHMAN AND YANKEE. Yankee. This is a funny country as ever I saw. I don't gee how they contrive to make things look so different from any thing I ever saw at home. I hope the folks are not as strange as the houses, and the other things. But here comes ons of them, and I'll question him a little. {Enter a Frenchman, who raises his hat to the Yankee, who forgets to touch his, but says) — Yank. Sir, can you inform a stranger what place this is ? Frenchman. Je n'entend pas. Yank. Nong-tong-pah. Ah ! that must be a Chinese name. O dear, what will become of me if I have been wrecked on the coast of China ! I shall never see home again, that's as clear as city milk. But I'll inquire further. Mister, who's the king of this country .'' Fr. Je n'entend pas. Yank. Nong-tong-pah ! Why that's the same as the name of the country, isn't it? Well, that's funny enough. Pray, friend, where does the king live ? Fr. Je n'entend pas. Je n'entend pas du tout. Yank. At Nong-tong-pah, too, does he ? Well that's funnier still ! I guess he likes the name. But look here, stranger, I'm plaguy hungry, and should like some victuals. What do you have to eat in this funny country, hey : 1 don't mean, do you eat hay, but what do you eat ? Fr. Je n'entend pas. Yank. The dogs you do ! Eat nong-tong-pah ! Look here, I say, what do you mean by telling me these, I wont call them lies, because they may be mistakes, for even a school- master may make a mistake in the matter of geography. Pray mister, what do you think I am ? Fr. Monsieur, Je n'entend pas du tout. Yank. No, there you missed it. I'm not a nong-tong- fah, too, by a good deal, but a true blooded Yankee. Do you ko 3w what a Yankee is ? Tell me that. Fr. Monsieur, Je n'entend pas. DIALOGUES. 283 Yank. No, be isn't. A true-blooded Yankee is no more like a nong-tong-pah tban a tootb-pick is like a crow-bar. Pray, what sort of schools have you in this country r Who's your School Agent or Prudential Committee ? ( The French- vian shaking his head.) What, haven't you got any ? Well I s'pose you haven't, nor anything else that's decent. But look here, what denomination do you belong to, hey ? What's your minister's name ? Fr. Je n'entend pas. Je n'entend pas. Yank. Nong-tong-pah. I don't believe it, I don't be- lieve it, by gracious ! You must think I'm green as grass, if you expect to come over mo in this fashion. But I'm too hungry to lose any more time. Who keeps the tavern in your place ? I'll try to beg a meal's victuals at any rate. Fr. Monsieur, je n'entend pas. Yank. Don't tell me that again. I don't believe the king keeps tavern. But look here ! There goes a funeral. Who's dead ? Do you know that ? Fr. Monsieur, Je n'entend. pas, je n'entend pas. Yank. What ! is he dead ? Well I should think it was enough to kill any man to be a king, a school committee man, a parson and a tavern keeper. Who was his doctor ? Do you know that? Fr. Je n'entend pas. Yank. Nong-tong-pah his own doctor! Well, no won- der he died. But, I say, why don't you ask me some ques- tions about 7713/ country ? I could tell you every thing about it. I know everybody, from Squire Jones down to Jim Doolittle. We don't heap all our offices on the same man as you do, 'cause, you see, if he dies, as Nong-tong-pah has done, there's nobody to carry on things, O dear, how hun- gry I am ! Come, old fellow {taking him hy the arm) sllo^\ me where the tavern is, for if old Nong-tong-pah is de^td, I 'spose the widder '11 carry on the consarn. Come, come along. t84 HUNDRED DIALOGUES. CIX. MONSIEUR ATsD HIS ENGLISH jMAS- TER. Frenchman. No sair, I nevair skall, can, will learn your vile langue. De verbs miglit — should — could — would put me to death. Master. You must be patient. Our verb is very simple compared with yours. F. Sample !*' vat you call sample ? When I say que je fiisse, you say, dat I might-could-would-should-have-been. Ma foi, ver sample dat ! Now, sair, tell to me, if you please, what you call one verb I M. A verb is a word that signifies to be, to do, or to suffer. F. Eh bien ! when I say, 1 can't, which I say, I be, I do, or I suffare ? M. It may be hard to say in that particular case. F. Ma foi, how I might-could-would-should am to know dat? But tell to me, if you please, what you mean when you say, " de verb is a word." . M. A means one, and it is the same as to say, the verb is one word. F. Eh bien ! Den when I me serve of I might-could- would-should-havc-been-loved, I use one verb. Huh! {with a shrug.) M. Yes, certainly. F. And that verb is one word ! I tinks him ver long word, wiz more joints dan de scorpion have in his tail. M. But we do not use all the auxiliaries at once. F. How many you use once ? M. One at a time. We say I mig^i-have-been-loved, or I cowZrf-have-been-loved. F. And dat is only one word ! What you mean by I could 7 M. I was able. F. Ver well. What you mean by have 1 M. Hold, possess. It is difficult to say what it means ipart from the other words. ^Sani as in Samuel. 285 F. Why you use him apart den ? But what you mean by been ? M. Existed. There is no exact synonyme. F. Ver well. Den when I say, 1 could-have-heen loved, that wills to say, I was-ahle-hold-existed-loved, and dis is one word. De Frensh shild, no higher as dat, (hold- ing his hand about as high as his knees,) he might-could- would-should-count four words, widout de pronoun. Bah! I shall nevair learn de English verb ; no, nevair, no time. M. When you hear me use a verb, you must acquire the habit of conjugating it, just as, I love, thou lovest, he loves ; and believe me, you can't become familiar with the modes and tenses in any other way. F. Well, den, I shall, will, begin wiz can't. I can't, zhou can'test, he can'ts ; we can't, ye or you can't, zey can't. M. Xt is not so. Can't is a contraction of the verb can- not. ' F. Well zhen. I cannot, zhou cannotest, he cannot- eth or he cannots ; we — M, No, no ! Cannot is two words, can and not. F. Den what for you tie him togezzer ? M. I see I ain't careful enough in my expressions. F. Stop ! hold dere, if you please, I will-shall once more try. I ain't, zhou ain'test, he ain'ts ; we — M. Ain't is not a verb, it is only a corruption. I wont use it again. F. Ma foi ! it is all one corruption. May or can I say I wont, zhou wontest, he wonts ? M. No, you can't say so. F. What den? I might-could- would-should-don' t- ain't- wont-can' t ? M. No, you can't say any such thing, for these verbs are all irregulars, and must not be so used. F. Mnss, what you call muss ? I muss, zhou mussest, he musses. You say so ? M. No, no no. F. Well den, I might-could-would-should-have-been- muss, — how d it ? M. Must is irregular. It never changes its termina- tion- 286 fowle's hundred dialogues. F. Den what for, why you call him irregulaire, if he no shange ? Ma foi, he might-could-would-shonld -be ver regulaire, ver regulaire indeed. Who makes degrammaire English ? M. Nobody in particular. F. So I tinks, I might-could-would-should-guess so. I shall-will-muss-can-understand nevair one grammairc, which say de verb be one word when he be four, five, six, half-dozen, and den call irregulaire de only uniform verb dat nevair shange. Scusey moi, Monsieur, I will-may- can-might-could-would-should study such horrible gram- maire nevair, no more. ex. THE MODEL SCHOOL. [The piece may be used for boys or girls, or both, by merely chang- ing the names. ] ./ 1; ;iiEBEccA, a large £irl. THE COMMITTEE, 'a Zarfr^ //?' SARAH, ^^^fSUSAN, ' f HOPE, ,„. ^^JiUTK, , MARY, .TANE, ., JOSIE, KATE, ^ y>>ANNA, ^LIZZIE, ^,: ELLEN, ,, ,- ^KITTY. / r ', ^ AN^P ANY NUMBER OF OTHER PUPILS. Sarah. Come, girls, let's play school. Ma'am has gone a visiting, I guess, and we may have some sport before she returns. Becky, you be mistress, will you ? Rebecca. {Rings the small bell.) Take seats, all, and put your hands behind you. Sarah. Ma'am, may I whisper ? Rebecca. No, all whispering is forbidden. Mary. I guess you can't hinder it. Rebecca. {Solemnly.) Mary Jones, stand out in the middle of the floor. {She does so.) Children, attend all. {Very solemnly.) Mary Jones, you have been guilty of a serious misdemeanor. Mary. Miss who, Ma'am! FOWLH'i^ 11UNDKJ:D DI^LOGtnS^^ 287 Uebecca. You have been guilty- of a-jenot^ offence, and you must say you are sorry for it bef re \k^ whole school. Whispering in sehool is an offcuRi that ocp not be forgiven. You see itlinterrupts order,^p^iTuptb ir^anners, and lays the foundation for every^evil. .4^^iT ^ones, are you sorry for your conduct? ^^-"-^-7^^^ -*,',, ,. ^ , ' Mary. No, nja'aj*^ J- t«^r it, for any child who sings in school betrays such a-d^piavVi heart, that she should never oe allowed to grow up. .. I £i>i-™xiily lyarn you all against such immorality. Rviih, Marm, Lizzie wants 'to kn^^v if she may sneeze Rebecca. No, sneezing is for>>i^a:e^ 'iStm hold your tongues, all, ( The children all take hold of their tongu^^ \ Rebecca. O dear ! you simpletons. "F-t „„^ l^ands be- hind you. Sarah spell Projntiation. '' Sarah. . p-r-o, pro, p-i-s-h, pish, — Rebecca. Wrong. Next. Sarah. Please, Missis Rebecca, don't p-i-s-h spe- pjgj, y / Rebecca. Don't be pert. Mary spell Propiitattp (^ / Mary, p-r-o, pro, p-e, pe, s-h-e, she — -^ ' Rebecca. Next, Propitiation, Anna. Anna. P-r-o, pro, p-e-e, pe^ pro-pe, s-h-e-s-h-a-s-h _^ . please, ma'am, what's the word? Rebecca. The word is pro, py, ty, a, ty, on, nciw s^jj it, Ruth. \ Ruth. P-r-o, pro, p-y, py, t-y, ty, o s-h-y ; pto, p: she, a, she, o, she, shun. / Rebecca, Kitty Snow, can you spell it ? Kitty, Yes, marm, i-t, it. Rebecca. Go off I you are all marked for neglected les- sons. Let the Jography class come out. ( WJicn they are formed, Rebecca says,) Rebecca. Sarah, what is a Cape ? Sarah. A sort of shawl, fastened to the collar of a cloak when it don't happen to be loose. Rebecca. Don't be pert, Miss. Susan, where is Ire- land? Susan. 1 don't know. Father says it has all come over to New York. Rebecca. Kate McNary, can, you tell ? Where did you | live before you came here ? Kate. In the city of Corrk, marrm, dear. Rebecca. Mary O' Carroty, where did you live ? Mary. Next cellar to Kate McNary, please marrm. 7 / 289 Rebecca. ' O dear! Sarah, what does your book say? Sarah. It doesn't talk, marrm dear. Rebecca. If there's any more such conduct, I'll send for the School Committee, and then you'll get it. Mary. Get what, marrm ^ Rebec. Get your nefeks^^hroken, some of you. Josie, what do you mean by leaving your place ? Do you not know that you break the law, and set a bad example ? 1 must have a solemn talk with you on the influence of ex- ample. Hope Smith, what are you doing ? Hope. Nothing, ma'am. r^:.?^sBfc. Rebec. Come here and let me do nothing to you. (Hope comes up and Rebecca, pinching her, says) — How do you like to have nothing done to you ? Kitty Snow, come here and be whipped. Kitty. ^^ I wont, I don't like to be whipped. Rebec. You wont ? Why, Kitty, do you know that the sin of disobedience will never be forgiven. Come here or I shall come to you. {She goes to her and slaps her.) There, now thank me for punishing you. It is all for your good. Do you thank me ? Kitty.' No, I don't, I wont lie to please anybody. Sarah. Marm, I can't get my Jography lesson. Rebec. You got It when I gave it to you. Sarah. I mean I can't learn it, ma'am, I don't under- stand it at all at all. Rebec. You need not understand it to learn it. The book tells you what to say, don't it ? Sarah. Yes ma'am. Rebecca. Then what do you bother you teacher for ? Lizzie. Ma'am, may I hear the lowest class read ? Rebecca. No, no child can teach another. You taught the little ones to disobey me. Lizzie. I thought you said children couldn't teach others, ma'am. •• Rebecca. You will stop after school for impertinence, Miss. Ruth^ Please ma'am, the Committee is coming. Rebecca. Silence all ! Sit still. Now if any one whis- pers or leaves her place while the Committee is here, she 35 t 290 fowle's hundred dialogues. shall be whipped as long as lean stand over her, {One of the scholars with a cloak and hat on enters.) Rehecca. Please to be seated, sir. Committee. Hem ! hem ! hem ! Rebecca. What exercise will you please to hear, sir ? Com, You may call out the highest reading class, hem ! hem ! I will examine them myself. Hem ! {Sarah, Mary, Jane, Hope, Lizzie and Josie, stand up.) Com, Have you studied Rhetoric, scholars ? Hem ! ATI. Yes, sir. Com. Tell me, young woman {speaking to Sarah) what is meant by pitch ? Sarah. Pitch, sir, pitch is not tar. Com. Next, What is the difference between the up- ward slide and the downward slide ? Hem ! Many. One slips down and the other don't! Coju. What is an infliction of the voice ? Jane. Reading too loud or too long, sir. Com. What is meant by figurative language ? next scholar. Hem ! hem ! Hope. Ciphering, sir. Com. Next, you may read — Lines on a Grave Yard, page 377. Hem ! Lizzie. (Reads.) " How frightful the grave ! how deserted and drear^ With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of the bier. And the white bones all clattering together." Com. Analyze now. Next, " How frightful the grave ! " What slide is there at the grave I hem ! Josie. The downward slide, sir, I should think. Com. What is meant by " The creaks of the bier I " hem I Sarah. A creek is an inlet, sir, and beer is ale. Inlets of drink, sir. Co7n. In what tone must this passage about the grave be read ? hem ! Mary. In the grave tone, sir. Com. Very well. Have any of your scholars learned to sing ? Rebecca. Yes, sir. 1st class sing the Cobbler. {The teacher may introduce any song she pleases.) fowle's hundred dialogues. 291 Com. Have they learned to declaim, Miss ? Reh^ifSL' Yes, sir. Com. Let me hear one, hem ! {All the children give one loud Hem ! ) Rebecca. Kate, come here, and speak the Ode to the Committee, Kate, " August and reverend Sir, long erst This beauteous world from chaos burst, And light and order had began, There wasn't no Committee man. No dee-strick school, no school-hus, nor Nothing that is our eyes before. And still the world in clouds had lived Had not the Yankee mind contrived, By force of its creative skill, The glorious office you now fill. And when the sky shall up be rolled, And time's last solemn dirge be tolled, Thy office mightier still shall grow, And kings and emperors shall bow, And own, that, since the world began, There's nought like a Committee man. Rebecca. Children, all rise, and attend to the remarks of the honorable Committee. {All rise and the Committee says.) Com. Hem! My young friends, I am so, hem! over- whelmed by my responsibilities as guardian and overseer of this important, hem ! seminary, that I know not what to say on this occasion. Your lot, hem ! is cast in pleasant places, — or will be when you get a new school-house. We have the best schools in the world, — or hope to have. Our teachers are able, — or ought to be ; and our commit- tee-men, hem! are, hem ! what it does not become me to say. 1 never look on such a school as this, without think- ing, that, perhaps, I am, hem ! looking upon some fu- ture President, Governor, or School Committee-man of this mighty continent, the controllers of manifest destiny, the future rulers of the world. Be good girls, now, and mind your teacher. Hem ! hem ! {He goes out, the children bowing or curtseying with be- coming solemnity.^ i 292 Rebecca, Now, children, you have behaved so well, 1 am going to dismiss you ; but be careful not to rus||i^out all together, as you always do. To encourage you to retire in order, I promise a reward to the one who goes out last. There, you are all dismissed. {No child stirs.) Why don't you go home ! Hope. We are all waiting to go out last. Rebecca. O, I see. I withdraw the promised reward then. {All rush out in great confusion.) ► CXI. THE LADY-MAID. GENTI.EMAN AND LADY. Gent, Is Miss Bartoon within ? Lady. (Smiling at the question) She is so, I believe. G, Can I see her ? L. {Looking at his eyes) I think you can. What would you say to her through me ? G. You know her, then? Excuse the question, if it seem a strange one. L, I know her ? To be sure I do. But pray, why ask me such a question ? G. Because all tongues applaud her, and I fear, if all is true, that I have come in vain. Say, do you know her well? L, I know her intimately, I must own. G, Your — mistress, may I ask ? L. Why y-e-s, I'm subject to her will. G. She treats you well ? L. She is but too indulgent. G. You love her then, of course. L, Yes, as I do myself. G. Say, is she fair ? L. Women are unsafe judges of each other. G. How does yonr mistress with yourself compare? You surely will not overrate her now. fowle's hufdred dialogues. 293 L. It is but faintest praise to say that, in my best es- tate, sl^ never falls below me. G. Good! And now one more strange question. WAX she make me a good wife ? L. She could not say, not knowing how you judge ; and how can I decide ? G. You know if she is engaged ^ L, I think she is, {smiling) unusually so. G. I mean, is she betrothed or free ? L. I can not, sir, betray her secrets, till I know your motive for this singular inquest. G. I'm searching for a wife. L. She is not one, I'll answer you thus far. G. I wish to make her mine. L. She knows, sir, of your wish. G' The deuce, she does ! Who could have told her that .^ L, Yourself. G. 'Tis false ! — Excuse me, miss, I never told my wish but to yourself. L. I never could have told her ; yet she knows. G. What thinks she of it, then ? L. Of what ? G, Of marriage. L. Favorably of marriage in the abstract. G, But what of marrying me ? L. She must speak for herself. G. Where can I see her without more delay ? L. Here. G. And when r L. Now. G. How can I see her now, and she away ? L. You can not. G. Explain these paradoxes, or I shall go mad. Who are you, miss ? no servant, I am sure. L. Yes, her servant, truly, though quite near of kin. *Tis said that I resemble her in many points. G. If she resembles you, I'll take her instantly. L. Whether she will accept or not ? It may take two to make the bargain. Sir, imless you mean to give, and ask for no return. i 294 G. If she refuses me, I'll marry you. L. I should not take her leavings. G. Then let her go. If you accept me first, I'm yours. What say you ? L. But she too will accept, I know she will. G. My bow then has two strings that cross each other. L. Not so, exactly ; for the two may haply e'en be twisted into one. G. These paradoxes craze my brain. You surely are not she I seek ? L. 'Tis now my turn to contradict, or to belie the truth. G. Well twisted, by my faith ! And you will give me your free hand ? L. Yes, both of them. This, for the servant ; for the mistress, this. G. 'Tis gloriously done ! I'll wed the servant for her- self, and take the mistress at the servant's word. I CXn. THE WILL. SQUIRE DRAWIi, FRANK MILLINGTON", MR. SWIPES, a brewer, mr. currier, a saddler. Swipes, A sober occasion this, brother Currie. Who would have thought the old lady was so near her end ? Currie. Ah ! we must all die, brother Swipes, and those who live longest only bury the most. Swipes. True, true ; but, since we must die and leave our earthly possessions, it is well that the law takes such good care of us. Had the old lady her senses when she departed ? Currie. Perfectly, perfectly. Squire Drawl told me she read every word of her testament aloud, and never signed her name better. Swipes. Had you any hint from the Squire what dispo- sition sho nade of her property ? Currie, Not a whisper ; the Squire is as close as an 295 underground tomb ; but one of tbe witnesses "hinted to me that shg has cut off her graceless nephew with a cent. Swipes. Has she, good soul ! has she ? you know 1 come in then, in right of my wife. Currie. And I in my own right ; and this is, no doubt, the reason why we have been called to hear the reading of the will. Squire Drawl knows how things should be done, though he is as air-tight as your beer barrels. But here comes the young reprobate ; he must be present as a mat- ter of course, you know. [^Enter Frank Millington.^ Your servant, young gentleman. So, your benefactress has left you at last. Swipes. It is a painful thing to part with old and good friends, Mr. Millington. Frank. It is so, sir ; but I could bear her loss better, had I not been so ungrateful for her kindness. She was my only friend, and I knew not her value. Currie. It is too late to repent, Master Millington. You will now have a chance to earn your own bread Swipes. Ay, by the sweat of your brow, as better peo- ple are obliged to. You wcPild make a fine brewer's boy, if you were not too old. Currie. Ay, or a saddler's lackey, if held with a tight rein. Frank. Gentlemen, your remarks imply that my aunt has treated me as I deserved. I am above your insults, and only hope you will bear your fortune as modestly as I shall mine submissively. I shall retire. IGoing, he meets the Squire.'] Squire. Stop, stop, young man ! We must have your presence. Good morning, gentlemen ; you are early on the ground. Currie. I hope the Squire is well to-day. Squire. Pretty comfortable for an invalid. \_Coughing.~\ Swipes. I trust the damp air has not affected the Squire's lungs again. Squire. No, I believe not ; you know I never hurry. Slow and sure is my maxim. Well, since the heirs at law are all convened, I shall proceed to open the last will and testament of your deceased relative, according to law. Swipes. [ While the Squire is hreakivg the seal] It is a try- I 296 ing scene to leave all one's possessions, Squire, in this manner. Currie. It really makes me feel melancholy when I look round, and see everything but the venerable owner of these goods. Well did the Preacher say, " All is vanity.'* Squire. Please to be seated gentlemen. \_All sit. The Squire^ having put on his spectacles, begins to read in a drawling, nasal tone.'] " Imprimis : Whereas my neph- ew, Francis Millington, by his disobedience and ungrateful conduct, has shown himself unworthy of my bounty, and incapable of managing my large estate, I do hereby give and bequeath all my houses, farms, stocks, bonds, moneys, and property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, (Samuel Swipes, of Malt- Street, brewer, and Christopher Ourrie, of Fly-Court, saddler," — \_The Squire takes off his spectacles to wipe them.'] Swipes. [ Taking out his handkerchief, and attempting to snivel.] Generous creature ! kind soul ! I always loved ner. Currie. She was always a good friend to me, and she must have had her senses perfectly, as the Squire says. And now, brother Swipes, when we divide, I think I shall take the mansion house. Swipes. Not so fast, if you please, Mr. Currie. My wife nas long had her eye upon that, and must have ic. [_Both rise.] Currie. ' There will be two words to that bargain, Mr. Swipes. And, besides, I ought to have the first choice. Did I not lend her a new chaise every time she wished to ride ? and wiio knows what influence Swipes. Am I not first named in her will? and did I not furnish her with my best small beer, gratis, for more than six months r and who knows Frank. Gentiemen, I must leave you. \_Going. J Squire. \_After leisurely wiping his spectacles, he again puts them on, ana, with his calm nasal twang, calls out,] Pray, gentiemen, keep your seats. I have not done yet. [_All sit.] Let me see — where was I } Ay, [^reads]. " all my property, both personal and real, to my dear cousins, Samuel Swipes, of Malt-Street, brewer," {looking over his spectacles at Swipes) Swipes. {Eagerly) Yes ! 297 Squire. "And Christoplier Ourrie, of Fly-Court, sad- dler," {looking over his spectacles at him) Currie. {Eagerly.) Yes ! yes ! Squire. " To have and to hold — IN TRUST — for the sole and exclusive benefit of my nephew, Francis Milling- ten, until he shall have attained to lawful age, by which time I hope he will have so far reformed his evil habits, that he may safely be entrusted with the large fortune which I hereby bequeath to him." Swipes. What's all this ? You don't mean that we are humbugged ? In trust ! How does that appear ? Where is it r Squire. {Pointing to the parchment.) There — in two words of as good old English as I ever penned. Currie, Pretty well, too, Mr. Squire ! if we must be sent for to be made a laughing-stock of. She shall pay for every ride she had out of my chaise, I promise you. Swipes, ' And for every drop of my beer. Fine times I if two sober, hard-working citizens are to be brought here, to be made the sport of a graceless profligate. But we will manage his property for him, Mr. Currie ; we will make him feel that trustees are not to be trifled with. Currie. That will we. Squire. Not so fast, gentlemen ; for the instrument is dated three years ago, and the young gentleman must al- ready be of age, and able to take care of himself. Is it not so, Francis ? Frank. It is, your worship. Squire. Then, gentlemen, having attended the breaking of this seal, according to law, you are released from any farther trouble in the premises. 298 CXIIL THE HAUNCH OF MUTTON. BIB. PETER PUMPKIN, a jolly squire ; billy blewett, his friend ; henry, his nephew. \_Sir Peter present. — Enter Billy.'] Sir Peter. Good day, Mr. Blewett. As you sent me tha haunch, it is but fair that you should see how it is treated. — Rather late, though. {Enter Henry.) I shouldn't have waited for you, Harry. Harry. No occasion, sir ; I am always punctual. Lord Bacon says, the time a man makes a company wait is always spent in discovering his faults. Sir Peter » Does he ? Then he's a sensible fellow ; and, if he's a friend of yours, you might have brought him to dinner with you. But you need not have made yourself such a dandy, Harry, merely to dine with me. Harry. Why, sir, as I expected the dinner to be well dressed for me, I thought I could not do less than return the compliment. Sir Peter. Ha, ha, ha ! Do you hear that, Billy ? Not a bad one, was it .'' Faith, Harry does not go to college for nothing. Hark! there's the clock striking five — and where is our haunch of mutton } Do, pray, Harry, see about it. The cook used to be punctual — and it is now a minute and a half past five. {Holding his watch in his hand.) Harry. It is coming, sir. Sir Peter. Clever fellow, King Charles; they called him the mutton-eating king, didn't they ? Cut off his head, though, for all that ; — stopped his mutton-eating, I guess ! I say, Billy, did I tell you what I said, t'other day, to Tommy Day, the broker r Two minutes gone ! Tommy's a Bristol man, you know. Well, I went down CO Bristol, about our ship, the Fanny, that got ashore there. So, says Tommy to me, when I came back, " Who bears the bell now at Bristol } " " Why," &ays I, " the bell-man, to be sure." Ha, ha, ha! "Who bears the bell 299 at Bristol ? " says he. " Why, the bell-man," says lagain. Ha, ha, ha! Capital, wasn't it: Billy. Capital ! capital ! Harry. By the bye, sir, did you ever hear Shakspeare's receipt for dressing a beefsteak ? Sir Peter. Shakspeare's ? No, what was it ? Harry. Why, sir, he puts it into the mouth of Mac- beth, when he makes him exclaim, " If it were done., when 'tis done, then it were well it were done quickly." iS'ir Fef.er. Good ! good ! But I said a better thing than Shakspeare, last week. You know Jack Porter, the comraon-council-man — ^gly as a horse! — gives famous wine, though. So, says I, " Jack, I never see your face without thinking of a good dinner." " Why so ? " says Jack. " Because," says I, "it's always ordinary f ^^ Ha, ha, ha ! — " Why so ? " says Jack. " Because, " says I, "it's always ordinary ! " Ha, ha, ha ! ah, ha, ha ! Billy. Capital ! capital ! Sir Peter. {Still looking at his watch.) Three minutes, at least ! The best side of the haunch should have been gone before this. Harry. That I beg leave to deny ; for the best side is where there remains most to be got. Sir Peter. Why, Billy, you seem as down in the mouth as the root of my tongue. But — four minutes, by my re- peater ! Harry, did you hear of the conundrum I made when Bill Sinister told me how he lost all his ships, one after another ? Harry. Conundrum ? No, sir. Pray, let's have it. Sir Peter. " Bill," says I, " can you tell me why your misfortunes are like infants ? " " Not because they are small." says Bill. — " Will you give it up ? " says I. " I guess I must," says he. — " Because they don't go alo7ie .'" says I. Ha, ha, ha ! ah, ha, ha, ha ! — " Because they don't go alone!'' says I. Ah, ha, ha! ah, ha, /ha, ha! {Holding his hands on his sides.) Wasn't that capita], hey ? Harry and Billy. Capital I capital ! capital ! Sir Peter. It got into the papers next day. Five min- utes, and There goes the haunch ! Follow me, gen- tlemen — follow me. 300 CXIV. I'LL TRY; or THE YANKEE MARKSMAN. ionD PERCY, with Hs regiment, firing at a target on Bos- ton Common. JONATHAN, an awkward looking country boy, that had j outgrown his jacket and trowsers. Percy. Now, my boys, for a trial of your skill ! Imag- ine the mark to be a Yankee ; and here is a guinea for who- ever hits his heart. (Jonathan draws near to see the trial ; and when the first soldier fires y and misses, he slaps his hand on his thigh, and laughs immoderately. Lord Percy notices him. When the secohd soldier fires, arid misses, Jonathan throws up his old hat, and laughs again.) Percy. i^Very crossly.) Why do you laugh, fellow? Jonathan. To think how safe the Yankees are, if you must know. Percy. Why, do you think you could shoot better ? Jonathan. I don't know ; I could try. Percy. Give him a gun, soldier, and you may return the fellow's laugh. Jonathan. ( Takes the gun, and looks at every part of it carefully, and then says,) It wont bust, will it ? Father's gun don't shine like this, but I guess it's a better gun. Percy. Why ? Why do you guess so ? Jonathan. 'Cause I know what that'll deu, and I have some deoubts about this-ere. But look o' here ! You called that- air mark a Yankee ; and 1 won't fire at a Yan- kee. Percy. Well, call it a British regular, if you please ; only firCe Jonathan. Well, a reg'lar it is, then. Now for free- dom, as father says. {He raises the gun, and fires.) There, I guess that-air red coat has got a hole in it ! ( Turning to the soldiers.) Why don't you laugh at me now as that-aii f(3llow said you might. {Pointing to Percy.) 301 Percy. You awkward rascal, that was an accident. Dt you think you could hit the mark again ? Jonathan. He ! I don't*know ; I can try. Percy. Give him another gun, soldiers ; and take care that the clown does not shoot you. I should not fear to stand before the mark myself. Jonathan. I guess you'd better not. Percy. Why ? Do you think you could hit me ? Jonathan. I don't know ; I could try. Percy. Fire away, then.' {Jonathan fires and again hits the mark.) ^ Jonathan. Ha, ha, ha ! How father would laugh to see me shooting at half gun-shot ! Percy. Why, you rascal, you don't think you could hit the mark at twice that distance ? Jonathan. He I I don't know ; I'm not afeard to try. Percy. Give him another gun, soldiers, and place the mark farther off. {Jonathan fires again and hits as before.) Jonathan. There, I guess that-air reg'lar is as dead as the pirate that father says the judge hangs till he is dead, dead, dead, three times dead ; and that is one more death than Scripter tells on. Percy. There, fellow, is a guinea for you. Jonathan. Is it a good one? {Ringing it.) Percy. Good ? Yes. Now begone ! Jonathan. I should like to stay, and see them fellows kill some more Yankees. Percy ^ {aside.) The fellow is more rogue than fool. ( To Jonathan) Sirrah, what is your name ? Jonathan. Jonathan. Percy. Jonathan what? Jonathan. Yes, Jonathan Wot. I was named arter father. Percy. Do you tlink your father can shoot as well as you do ? Jonathnn. I don't know but I guess he would not be afeard to try. Percy. Where did you learn to shoot? Jonothan. O, father larnt me, when I wasn't knee high to a woodchuck. B02 Percy. Why did lie teach you so young ? Jonathan. 'Cause, he said .^might have to shoot red- coats, one of these days. Percy. Ah ! pray, my boy, can all the farmers in your own shoot as well as you do ? Jonathan. I guess they can, and better teu. Percy, Would they like to shoot at red-coats, as you ;all them? Jonathan, I've heerd them say they'd like to try. Percy. Come, my good fellow, while you are well off, fou had better join us, and fight for your king; for we ihall hang every Yankee we catch. Jonathan. I guess you wont ketch any. Percy. Well, we can try, as you say ; and, since we have caught y-ou, we will hang you for a traitor. Jonathan. No you wont. You paid me yourself for killing them three red-coats ; so I guess you wont hang me for that. Percy. No, my good fellow, I like you too well. I am sorry that my duty to my king obliges me to injure men who show in every thought and action that they are true Englishmen. You may go free ; but the next time you see my troops firing at a mark for exercise, you must not be so uncivil as to laugh at them, if they miss. What say you? Jonathan. I don't know whether I can help it. Percy. Well, you can try, can't you ? Jonathan. I 'spose I can ; for Deacon Simple tried to milk his geese, but his wife didn't make no more butter for his trying, I guess. Percy. Begone ! or I shall have to put you under guard. Officer, give him a pass to Charlestown ; but never let him come among our troops again. His example is a bad one. -303 CXV. THE FEMALE EXQUISITES. MRS. KERSEY. BECKY, her Daughter. KATY, her Niece. MADGE, the Servant Girl. Mrs Kersey. Tell me what you have done to the gen- tlemen who have just left the house in such a rage ? Did I not request you to receive them as your destined hus- bands ? Becky. How could we t^sat them civilly, mother, when they oiFered themselves at d\Q first visit ? Mrs. Kersey. And what was there improper in that ? 1 told them to do so. Becky. O, horrible ! If the afi'air were managed in this vulgar manner, a romance would soon have an end. Katy. Aunt, my cousin is perfectly right. How can one receive people entirely unacquainted with the delicacies of gallantry ? Becky. Does not their whole appearance indicate this ? Come to make a formal visit, and expect to be admitted the first time ! Katy. And then, to wear a plain coat without braids, and hands without gloves ! Besides, I noticed that their boots were not in the newest style Becky. And their pants were full an inch too long. Mrs. Kersey. You are both crazy ; — Katy, and you, Becky Becky. O, for goodness' sake, mother, do leave off call- ing us by those outlandish names ! Mrs. Kersey. Outlandish names, miss ! are they not your true and proper Christian names ? Becky. Heavens ! how vulgar ! What astonishes me is, that you should ever have had so intellectual a daughter as myself. Who ever heard of Becky or Katy in refined conversation? and either name would be enough to blast the finest romance that ever was written. Katy. It is true, aunt ; for it is distressing to an ear of 304 " fowle's hundred dialogues. any delicacy to hear such names pronounced. And the name of Seraphina Cherubina, which my cousin has adopted, and that of Celestina Azurelia, which I have bestowed upon myself have a grace that even you must perceive. Mrs. Kersey. Hear me — I have but one word to say. I will hear of no other names than were given you by your godfathers and godmothers ; and as to the gentlemen, I know their worth, and am resolved that you shall marry them. I am tired of having you upon my hands. Becky. Allow us to breath awhile among the fashiona- bles of the city, where we have hardly arrived. Give us time to weave the web of our romance, and do not hasten the catastrophe of our being with such unrefined precipita- tion. Mrs. Kersey. You are a finished pair of fools, and shall be married or go to the mad-house immediately ! {She goes out.) Katy. Mercy on us ! how completely material your mother is ! How dull her understanding, and how dark her soul ! Becky. I can. hardly persuade myself that I am really her daughter, and I am satisfied that some adventure will hereafter develope a more illustrious parentage. {Enter Madge.) Madge. There is a man below, who says his lady wishes to speak with you. Becky. Dolt ! Can you not deliver a message with less vulgarity ? You should say, " A necessary evil wishes to be informed whether it is your pleasure to be accessible." Madge. I don't understand French, ma'am. Becky. . Impertinent ! How insupportable ! And who is his lady ? Madge. He called her the Marchioness Quizilla. Becky, {to Katy.) O, my dear, a marchioness ! — a marchioness ! It is, no doubt, some intellectual lady, who has heard of our arrival. Think of it — a marchioness ! my dear. Katy. Let us adjust our dress, and sustain the reputa- tion which has preceded us. (To Madge.) Run and bring us the counsellor of the graces. Madge. Gracious, ma'am ! 1 don't know what sort of a 305 critter that is. You must talk Christian, if you wish me to understand you. Katy. Bring us the mirror, then, ignoramus .'' and t .ke care that you do not sully the glass by letting your ugly image pass before it. {Madge going out, meets Mrs. Kersey, as the Marchioness, entering, veiled.) Madge. Ma'am, these are my mistresses. Marchioness. Ladies, you will be surprised, no doubt, at the audacity of my visit, but your reputation has brought it upon you. Merit has such charms for me, that I break down all barriers to get at it. Becky. If you are in pursuit of merit, you must not hunt for it on our domain. Katy. If you find any merit here, you, must have brought it Becky. Madge ! Madge. Ma'am. Becky. Approximate hither the sedentary aids of con- versational intercourse. Madge. Ma'am I Becky, Bring some chairs, dolt ! Katy. (Affectedly.) Come, madam, do not be inexora- ble to that chair, which is stretching out its arms to em- brace you. {The marchioness sits most affectedly.') Marchioness. Well, ladies, what do yau think of the city ? {Exit Madge. Becky. We have not yet had an opportunity of seeing its ineffable attractions. Marchioness. Leave that to me. Hearing of your ar- rival, I have come to do you the homage of presenting you an impromptu that I made upon myself yesterday. I am unequalled in impromptus. Katy. An impromptu is the touchstone of wit. Marchioness. Listen, then. Katy and Becky. We are all attention. Marchioness. You will understand that I suppose a gentleman to make the verses upon receiving a glance from my eyes. Katy and Becky. What an ingenious device. 306 fowle's hundred D1AL0GUE&'. Marchioness. Listen : — ( With much affectation, ) •* Ah, ah ! suspicionless of smart, And seeking in your charms relief, Your eye, cataceous, stole my heart. Stop thief ! stop thief ! stop thief! stop thief I " Katy. O, heavens! desist; it is too exquisite. Marchioness. Did you notice the commencement — " All ! ah ! " There is something fine in that " Ah ! ah ! " as if a man suddenly thought of something — " Ah, ah ! " Becky. Yes, I think the "Ah, ah ! " admirable. Katy. I should rather have made that " Ah, ah ! " than Paradise Lost. Marchiojiess. You have the true taste, I see. Katy and Becky. Our taste is not the most corrupt. Marchioness. But did you not also admire " suspicion- less of smart? " — innocent, you understand, as a sheep — not aware of danger ; — and " seeking in your charms re- lief,'" — expecting, you understand, that I should smile him into life. " Your eye, cataceous : " what do you think of the word cataceous ? was it not well chosen ? Katy. Perfectly expressive. Becky. Cataceous, that is, slyly, like a cat. I can al- most see the feline quadruped watching its prey. Katy. Nothing could be more superingeniously con- ceived. Marchioness. " Stole my heart / " — robbed me of it — carried it right away. " Stop thief ! stop thief I stop thief ! " Becky. O, stop ! stop ! — let us breathe. Marchioness. Would you not think a man was crying after a robber to arrest him ? Katy. There is a transcendental spirituality in the idea. Becky. Do repeat the " Ah, ah I " Marchioness. "Ah, ah ! " Becky and Katy. O ! O I Marchioness. " Suspicionless of smart. '^ Becky. " Suspicionless of smart." {Looking at Katy.) Katy. " Suspicionless of smart." (Looking at Becky.) Marchioness. " And seeking in your charms relief^ Becky and Katy. O ! "In your charms relief." Marchioness. " Your eye, cataceous." Becky. " Cataceous," — J 307 Katy. O ! " Cataceous." Marchioness. " Stole my hearC^ Becky. Stole his heart. Katy. Stole his heart ! O ! I faint ! Marchioness. " Stop thief f stop thief! stop thief! " Becky. O ! " Stop thief! stop thief! " Katy. " Stop thief ! stop thief! stop thief ! " All together. " Stop thief! stop thief! stop thief! " (Enter Madge.) Madge. Stop thief ! What is the matter ? Who has been robbed ? Becky. O, how your material presence brings us to earth again. {Mrs. Kersey uncovers her face.) Madge. Why, ma'am, what trick are you playing the young ladies ? Mrs. Kersey. I am only teaching the silly exquisites, that some folks may make as refined fools as some folks, and that affectation is not learning. (Affectedly.) " Ah, ah ! Cataceous! Stop thief! stop trdef ! stop thief !^' Becky. I am imperturbably petrified. Katy. And I indiscriminately confounded. Mrs. Kersey. Becky Seraphina Cherubina, and Katy Celestina Azurelia, my advice to you is, to aim at nothing above common sense, and not to suspect that all the world are fools, because you happen to be so. CXVI. THE GRIDIRON. THE CAPTAIN, PATRICK, AND THE FBENCHMAN. Patrick. Well, captain, whereabouts in the wide world are we ? Is it Roosia, Proosia, or the Jarmant oceant } Captain. Tut, you fool ; it's France. Patrick. Tare an ouns ; do you tell me so ? and how do you know it's France, captain dear? 308 FOWLE'S HUNDRED DIALOGUES. Captain. Because we were on the coast of the Bay of Biscay, when the vessel was wrecked. Patrick. Throth^ and I was thinkin' so myself. A.nd now, captain jewel, it is I that wishes we had a gridiron. Captain. Why, Patrick, what puts the notion of a grid- iron into your head ? Patrick. Because I'm starrving with hunger, captain dear. Captain. Surely you do not intend to eat a gridiron, do you ? Patrick. Ate a gridiron ^ bad luck to it ! no. But if we had a gridiron, we could dress a beef-steak. Captain. Yes but where's the beef-steak, Patrick ? Patrick. Sure, couldn't we cut it off the porrk .^ Captain. I never thought of that. You are a clever fellow, Patrick. {Laughing.) Patrick. There's many a thrue word said in joke, cap- tain. And now, if you will go and get the bit of porrk that we saved from the rack, I'll go to the house there beyent, and ax some *of them to lind me the loan of a grid- iron. Captain. But Patrick, this is France, and they are all foreigners here. Patrick. Well, and how do you know but I am as good a furriner myself as any of 'em ? Captain. What do you mean, Patrick ? Patrick. Parley voo frongsay ? Captain. O, you understand French then, is it ? Patrick. Throth and you may say that. Captain dear. Captain. Well, Patrick, success to you. Be civil to the foreigners, and I will be back with the pork in a minute. (He goes out.) Patrick. Ay, sure enough I'll be civil to them ; for the Frinch are mighty p'lite intirely, and I'll show them I know what good manners is. Indade, and here comes munseer himself, quite convaynient. {As the Frenchman enters ^ Patrick takes off' his hat, and making a low bow, says,) God save you, sir and all your childer. I beg your pardon for th 3 liberty I take, but its only being in distress in regard of ateing, that I make bowld to trouble ye ; and if you 309 could liiid me the loan of a gridiron, I'd be intirely ob- leeged to ye. Frenchman. {Staring at him.) Comment! Patrick, Indade it's tbrue for you. I'm lathered to paces, and God knows I look quare enough ; but it's by raison of the storm, that dhruv us ashore jist here, and we're all starvin. Frenchman. Je m'y t {Pronounced zhu meet.) Patrick. O ! not at all ! by no manes ! we have plenty of mate ourselves, and we'll dhress it, if you'll be plazed jist to lind us the loan of a gridiron, sir. {Making a low bow. ) Frenchrtan. (Staring at Mm, hut not understanding a word. J Patrick. I beg pardon, sir ; but may be I'm undher a mistake, I thought I was in France, sir. An't you all furriners here ? Parley voo frongsay ? Frenchman. Oui, monsieur. Patrick. Then, would you lind me the loan of a grid- iron, if you plase ? { The Frenchman stares more than ever, as if anxious to understand.) I know it's a liberty I take, sir ; but it's only in the regard of bein' cast away ; and if you plase, sir, parley voo frongsay ? Frenchman, Oui, monsieur, oui. Patrick. Then would you lind me the loan of a grid- iron, sir, and you'll obleege me. Frenchman. Monsieur, pardon', monsieur Patrick. {Angrily.) By my sowl, if it was you in dis- thress, and if it was to owld Ireland you came, it's not only the gridiron they'd give you, if you axed it, but somelhing to put on it too, and a dhrop of dhrink into the bargain. Can't you undherstand your own language ? ( Very Slowly. ) Parley — voo — frongsay — munseer ? Frenchman. Oui, monsieur ; oui, monsieur, mais Patrick. Thin lind me the loan of a gridiron, I say, and bad scram to you. Frenchman. {Bowing and scraping.) Monsieur, je ne I'entend (Pro/zowwce^zhunulahn tahn.) Patrick. Phoo ! the divil sweep yourself and your long tongs ! I don't want a tongs at all at all. Can't you lis- ten to rason ? 310 Frenchfnan. Raison oui, oui, monsieur, mais Patrick. Then lind me the loan of a gridiron and howld your prate. (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if to say he did not understand ; but Patrick thinking he meant it as a refusal, says in a passion,) Bad cess to the likes o' you ! Throth, if you were in my counthry, it's not that-a-way they'd use you. The curse of the crows on you, you owld sinner! The divil another word I'll say to you. (The Frenchman puts his hand on his heart and tries to express compassion on his countenance.) Well, I'll give you one chance more, you owld thafe ! Are you a Christhian at all at all.' Are you a furriner that all the world calls so p'lite. Bad luck to you ! do you undherstand your mother tongue. Parley voo frongsay? (Very loud.) Parley voo frong- say ? Frenchman. Oui, monsieur, oui, oui. Patrick. Then, thunder and turf ! will you lind me the loan of a gridiron? (The Frenchman shakes his head, as if he did not understand ; and Pat says, vehemently,) The curse of the hungry be on you, you owld negarly villain ; the back of my hand and the sowl of my fut to you ! May you want a gridiron yourself, yet ; and wherever I go, it's high and low, rich and poor, shall hear of it and be hanged to you. CXYII. THE LETTER. SQUIRE EGAN, and his new Irish servant, andy. Squire. Well, Andy ; you went to the post-office, as I ordered you? Andy. Yis, sir. S. Well, what did you find ? A. A most imperthinent fellow, indade, sir. 5. How so ? A. Says I, as dacent like as a genthleman, " I want a letther, sir, if you plase." " Who do you want it for ? " FOWLe's hundred DlALOCiUES. 311 said the posth-masther as ye call him. " I want a letther sir, if you plase, said I, " And whom do you want it for ? " said he again. '* And Avhat's that to you?" said I. S. You blockhead, what did he say to that r A. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell what letther to give me unless I tould him the direction. S. Well, you told him then, did you ? A. " The directions I got," said I, "was to get a let- ther here — that's the directions." " Who gave you the directions ? " says he. " The masther," said I. " And who's your masther ? " said he. " What consarn is that o' your's ?" said I. S. Did he break your head, then ? A. No, sir. " Why, you stupid rascal," said he, " if you don't tell me his name, how can I give you his let- ther ? " " You could give it if you liked, said I ; " only you are fond of axing impident questions, becase you think I'm simple." " Get out o' this ; " said he. " Your mas- ther must be as great a goose as yourself, to send such a missinger." S. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy ? A. "Bad luck to your impidence ; " said I. "Is it Squire Egan you dare to say goose to ?" " O, Squire Egan's your masther ? " said he. " Yis," says I. " Have you any thing to say agin it ? " 6*. You got the letter, then, did you ? " A. " Here's a letter for the squire." says he. "You are to pay me eleven pence posthage." " What 'ud I pay 'leven pence for ? " said I. " For posthage,^^ says he. " Didn't I see you give that gentleman a letther for four- pence, this blessed minit ? " said I ; " and a bigger letther than this ? Do you think I'm a foo-l ? " says I. " Here's a fourpence for you — and give me the letther." S. I wonder he did not break your skull, and let some light into it. A. "Go along, you stupid thafe ! " says he, because I would not let him cJiate your honor. S. Well, well ; give me the letter. A. I haven't it, sir. He wouldn't give it to me, sir S. Who wouldn't give it to you ? A. That old chate beyent in the town. 312 fovvlk's hundred dialogues. S. Didn't you pay him what he asked ? A. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when he was selling them before my face for fourpence apace ? S. Go back you scoundrel, or 111 horsewhip you ? A. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him about the letther ; he swore he would. »S. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less than half an hour. (Exit.) A, O that the like of me should be murthered for de- fending the charrack'ther of my masther ! It's not I'll go to dale with that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let the letter rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him 1 VHB SUD. ■l!k^ YB 36886 ^-^fSr' • 9S4180 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY .^