Kings, ghosts, sea-nymphs, heroes, heroines, all beings, are made to act and speak in romance just as the exigencies of the plot demand; and yet it is intimated, in the same breath, that “it is all quite natural, just as it would be in real life!” In this story every one certainly acts as the writer pleases, but, so far as he knows, these boys behave as like boys under similar circumstances would behave. In this chapter, however, there is an exception, where a change from nature is necessary; and without a moment’s hesitation, they are made to throw off all restraint, and talk and act as befits the occasion. In a word, the boys are here no longer boys, but the noble beings of romance.
We do not pretend that any boys would carry on a conversation in their high-swelling strains, the narrative being couched under such strains for a particular and well-meant purpose. The object being, throughout the story, to cast ridicule on all sorts of things, this freedom to write in whatever style is most pertinent to the matter under discussion is our prerogative, and we use it. In short, we act here on the principle, that a writer should be hampered by no conventionalities or restrictions that interfere with the plan of his story.
It seems to be a well-established principle, that love cannot be expressed in romance except in a poetic form. We do not believe this holds good in real life, yet, wishing this story to be accounted a romance, we have thought it well to abide by the rule in this instance. After a short deliberation, we have decided to write their passionate colloquy as though it were only prose; but the intelligent reader can easily read it as verse—in fact, if he chooses, he can set it all to music.
After digesting this preamble in connection with what goes before, the reader of mature years, if not entirely witless, will be able to grasp our meaning and discern our motive—or motives, for in this chapter the aim is to kill several birds with one stone. But the boys—for whom, after all, the story is written principally—had better skip this turgid preamble, because a boy always likes to believe a story is more or less true, and we should be grossly insulted if any one should insinuate that this story is true.
Considered in this light, the chapter appears to be only a piece of foolishness, after all. But, in a measure, it may be considered logically also. For instance, there seems to be a “vein of reason” running through it all, and if the reader is on the watch, he will see that this “vein of reason” crops out frequently. After this preamble it opens very rationally.
“Considered logically,” says the reader, “how could this Henry, a veritable lover, stoop to play the fool, as he did? How could he do this, if he had any respect for his passion, or for the one whom he loved?”
Considered logically, gentle reader, Henry was a boy; his heart was sore from fancied slights; he was desperate; it occurred to him that, placed as he was, he might “view the question from the other side!” Furthermore, although he and Stephen had conspired to torment Marmaduke, it is plain that almost everything he said, he said extempore.
As for Marmaduke, he had no sisters, was scarcely ever in the society of young ladies, and knew nothing of their ways.
“These are but sorry excuses,” sighs the reader, “unworthy of even a school-boy!”
Very true. But they are the best that we can trump up, and therefore it would be better for you to consider this chapter as founded on the opposite of reason and logic.