John Steady and Peter Sly.
A DIALOGUE.
Peter. Ho, John, don’t stumble over that log! I don’t think it a good plan to study my lessons as I go to school.
John. Nor I; but I am in such a scrape!
Peter. What’s the matter?
John. Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson.
Peter. I guess not. Let me see; where did you begin?
John. Here, at the top of the page; and I learned over three leaves, down to the end of the chapter.
Peter. Well, that’s all right.
John. Are you sure?
Peter. Certain, as can be.
John. Well, now! I am half glad and half sorry. Only think; there is poor George Gracie has been getting the wrong lesson. I came by his window, and there he was, fagging away; and, when we came to talk about it, we found we had been studying in different places. But he was so sure he was right that I thought I must be wrong.
Peter. I know it; I know all about it.
John. Why! did you tell him wrong?
Peter. No, no; I never tell a lie, you know. But yesterday, when the master gave out the lesson, George was helping little Timothy Dummy to do a sum; so he only listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he misunderstood what the master said; and then he began groaning about such a hard lesson, as we were going home; I laughing to myself all the time!
John. What! did you find out his blunder and not set him right?
Peter. Set him right! Not I. I scolded about the hard lesson, too.
John. There, that’s the reason he was so positive. He said you had got the same lesson he had.
Peter. But I never told him so; I only let him think so.
John. Ah, Peter, do you think that is right?
Peter. To be sure it is. Don’t you know he is at the head of the class, and I am next, and if I get him down to-day, I am sure of the medal? A poor chance I should have had, if he had not made such a blunder.
John. Lucky for you, but very unlucky for him; and I must say, I don’t call it fair behavior in you, Peter Sly!
Peter. I don’t care what you call it, John. It is none of your affair, as I see; let every fellow look out for himself, and the sharpest one will be the best off.
John. Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great end of the horn, now; for, by one trick or another, you are almost always above the rest of us. But if you don’t come out at the little end, and come out pretty small too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, and I shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter.
Peter. That you may, now, as soon as you please. If he can get the right lesson decently in half an hour, he is the eighth wonder of the world. I shall have him down, I am sure of that.
(Enter George Gracie.)
John. Here, George, stop a minute; here’s bad news for you.
George. What’s the matter?—no school to-day?
John. School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong lesson, after all.
George. O, John, John! don’t tell me so!
John. It’s true; and that sneaking fellow that sits whittling a stick, so mighty easy, he knew it yesterday, and would not tell you.
George. Oh, Peter! how could you do so?
Peter. Easily enough. I don’t see that I was under any obligation to help you to keep at the head of the class, when I am the next.
George. But you know you deceived me, Peter. I think it would have been but kind and fair to tell me my mistake, as soon as you found it out; but, instead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I was right about the lesson.
Peter. But I did not tell you so; you can’t say I told you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie.
John. But you will lie;—you will come to that yet, if you go on so.
Peter. Take care what you say, sir!
George. Come, come, John; don’t quarrel with him. He will get the medal now; and it is a cruel thing too; for I sat up till eleven o’clock, last night, studying; and he knew that my father was coming home from Washington to-night, and how anxious I was to have the medal. But it can’t be helped now.
Peter. Poor fellow! don’t cry! I declare there are great tears in his eyes. Now it is a pity, really.
John. For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him! You are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks so.
George. Come, John; I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. I would rather be at the foot of the class, than take such an advantage of anybody.
(Exit George.)
Peter. The more fool you! Now, he will be in such a fluster, that he will be sure to miss in the very first sentence.
John. There is the master, coming over the hill; now if I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole story!
Peter. You know better than to do that. You know he never encourages tale-bearers.
John. I know that, very well; and I would almost as soon be a cheat as a tell-tale; but the master will find you out, yet, without anybody’s help; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the whole school. There is not a fellow in it that don’t scorn you, Peter Sly.
Peter. And who cares, so long as the master——
John. Don’t be quite so sure about the master, either; he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch you up one of these days, when you little think of it. I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly. You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune.)
Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class; but there’s the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dummy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that, too.
(Enter master, taking out his watch.)
Master. It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school.
Peter. Yes, sir.—What now? he looks rather black.
(Aside.)
Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars?
Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir.
Master. And why do I wish them to study?
Peter. Why,—to please their parents, I suppose, sir.
Master. I wish them to study for the very same reason that their parents do;—that they may get knowledge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor under a considerable mistake about these matters. You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that piece of silver, hanging round your neck; and your mother takes pleasure in seeing it.
Peter. Yes, sir; she does.
Master. And why? What does the medal say to her? Of what is it a sign?
Peter. Why, that I am the best scholar in my class.
Master. Is that what it says? I think it only shows, that you have been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other boy.
Peter. Well, sir; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar.
Master. She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you know, Peter Sly, and I know, that a boy who has no sense of honor, no generous feelings, no strictness of principle, may get to the head of his class, and get medals for a time, without being the best scholar. You know how such a thing can be accomplished, do you not? and how the medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home? (Peter hangs his head in silence.) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done? By base tricks; by purposely leading others into mistakes; by taking advantage of every slip of the tongue; by trying to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy who does these things, is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to get medals, instead of being sent to gain knowledge to prepare him for active life; and, under this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead of the thing itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object, as to care not by what unjustifiable means he obtains it. That shows wickedness,—want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this description?
Peter. Yes, sir; but, forgive me. I did not think you ever observed it.
Master. The artful are very apt to believe themselves more successful than they really are. So you concluded you had deceived me, as well as wronged your companions! Your tears are unavailing, if, by them, you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be publicly disgraced.
Peter. What, sir! when I have not told a lie!
Master. You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I have watched you in silence and closely for the last month, and I am satisfied, that you have not merely yielded occasionally to a sudden temptation, but that deception is an habitual thing with you; that, through life, you will endeavor to make your way by low knavery, if I do not root the mean vice out of you, and so save you from the contempt of men, and the anger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your heart as that of a liar. Go into school; and as I am convinced, from reflecting on several circumstances which took place, that you had no just claim to the very medal you now wear, take your place at the foot of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall be explained in presence of all the scholars. I use the principle of emulation in my school, to rouse up talent and encourage industry; but I watch against its abuse. I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and unwavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feelings; and am happy to say, that, except yourself, I have no cause of doubt of having succeeded. I know not one of your companions, who would not spurn from his heart the base man[oe]uvres which you adopt; and, before this day is over, they shall have fresh motives to value fair dealing. You must be made an example of; I will no longer permit you to treat your schoolmates with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in!
