Chapter 21

Vacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good showing on “Examination” day. His rod and his ferule were seldom idle now—at least among the smaller pupils. Only the biggest boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing. Mr. Dobbins’ lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle. As the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings. The consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge. They threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief. But he kept ahead all the time. The retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted. At last they conspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore in the signpainter’s boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help. He had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father’s family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him. The master’s wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the signpainter’s boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on Examination Evening he would “manage the thing” while he napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school.

Vacation was approaching. The schoolmaster, always strict, grew stricter and more demanding than ever. He wanted the school to do well on “Examination” day. His cane and wooden paddle were rarely idle now, at least among the younger pupils. Only the biggest boys and the young women of eighteen and twenty escaped beatings. Mr. Dobbins’ beatings were powerful, too. Although he had a completely bald, shiny head under his wig, he was only middle-aged. His muscles showed no sign of weakness. As the great day approached, all his cruelty came to the surface. He seemed to take a spiteful pleasure in punishing the slightest faults. As a result, the younger boys spent their days in terror and pain, and their nights plotting revenge. They missed no chance to play a nasty trick on the schoolmaster. But he always stayed ahead of them. After every successful act of revenge, his punishment was so sweeping and grand that the boys retreated, thoroughly beaten. At last they put their heads together and came up with a plan that promised a dazzling victory. They swore the sign painter’s son to secrecy, told him the plan, and asked for his help. He had his own reasons to be delighted. The schoolmaster rented a room and took his meals with the boy’s family, and had given him plenty of reasons for hatred. The schoolmaster’s wife would leave in a few days to visit the countryside, so nothing would interfere with the plan. The schoolmaster always prepared for great occasions by getting fairly drunk. The sign painter’s son said he would wait until the schoolmaster was drunk enough on Examination Evening. Then he would “manage the thing” while the schoolmaster napped in his chair. Afterward, he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried off to school.

In the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived. At eight in the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers. The master sat throned in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He was looking tolerably mellow. Three rows of benches on each side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils. To his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers’ ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their hair. All the rest of the house was filled with non-participating scholars.

At last, the much-anticipated occasion arrived. At eight that evening, the schoolhouse was brightly lit and decorated with wreaths and garlands of leaves and flowers. The teacher sat like a king in his large chair on a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him. He looked fairly mellow. Town officials and the pupils’ parents occupied three rows of benches on each side and six rows in front of him. To his left, behind the townspeople, stood a large temporary platform. The students taking part in the evening’s program sat there. There were rows of little boys, washed and dressed to the point of unbearable discomfort, and rows of awkward older boys. Girls and young women in lightweight cotton and muslin dresses sat in heaps of white like snowbanks. They were painfully aware of their bare arms, their grandmothers’ old jewelry, their bits of pink and blue ribbon, and the flowers in their hair. Students who were not taking part filled the rest of the schoolhouse.

The exercises began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited, “You’d scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage,” etc.—accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used—supposing the machine to be a trifle out of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired.

The program began. A very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited, “You’d scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage,” etc. He accompanied himself with the painfully exact, jerky gestures that a machine might have used, supposing the machine to be a little out of order. But he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and withdrew.

A little shamefaced girl lisped, “Mary had a little lamb,” etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat down flushed and happy.

A little girl, looking embarrassed, lisped, “Mary had a little lamb,” and so on. She gave a curtsy that made people feel sorry for her, received her applause, and sat down flushed and happy.

Tom Sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into the unquenchable and indestructible “Give me liberty or give me death” speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the middle of it. A ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him and he was like to choke. True, he had the manifest sympathy of the house but he had the house’s silence, too, which was even worse than its sympathy. The master frowned, and this completed the disaster. Tom struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated. There was a weak attempt at applause, but it died early.

Tom Sawyer stepped forward, full of himself, and launched into the unstoppable, indestructible “Give me liberty or give me death” speech. He spoke with fierce passion and waved his arms wildly, but broke down halfway through. Terrible stage fright seized him. His legs shook beneath him, and he nearly choked. True, the audience clearly sympathized with him, but they were silent, too. Their silence was even worse than their sympathy. The teacher frowned, and that frown made the disaster complete. Tom struggled for a while, then left the stage, utterly defeated. A few people tried to applaud, but the applause quickly died away.

“The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck” followed; also “The Assyrian Came Down,” and other declamatory gems. Then there were reading exercises, and a spelling fight. The meagre Latin class recited with honor. The prime feature of the evening was in order, now—original “compositions” by the young ladies. Each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to “expression” and punctuation. The themes were the same that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the Crusades. “Friendship” was one; “Memories of Other Days”; “Religion in History”; “Dream Land”; “The Advantages of Culture”; “Forms of Political Government Compared and Contrasted”; “Melancholy”; “Filial Love”; “Heart Longings,” etc., etc.³

“The Boy Stood on the Burning Deck” came next, along with “The Assyrian Came Down” and other gems of dramatic recitation. Then came reading exercises and a spelling contest. The tiny Latin class gave a creditable recitation. Now came the evening’s main attraction: original “compositions” by the young ladies. Each stepped forward in turn to the edge of the platform and cleared her throat. She held up her manuscript (tied with a delicate ribbon) and began to read. Each took great pains with “expression” and punctuation. The subjects were the same ones their mothers and grandmothers had explored on similar occasions. No doubt all their female ancestors had done the same, right back to the Crusades. “Friendship” was one, followed by “Memories of Other Days”, “Religion in History”, “Dream Land”, “The Advantages of Culture”, “Forms of Political Government Compared and Contrasted”, “Melancholy”, “Filial Love”, “Heart Longings”, etc., etc.³

A prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of “fine language”; another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of them. No matter what the subject might be, a brainracking effort was made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind could contemplate with edification. The glaring insincerity of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient today; it never will be sufficient while the world stands, perhaps. There is no school in all our land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the most relentlessly pious. But enough of this. Homely truth is unpalatable.

These essays often featured a carefully nurtured and pampered sadness. Another feature was a lavish, wasteful flood of “fine language”. Favorite words and phrases were dragged in by force until they were completely worn out. And every essay was spoiled by the same stubborn, unbearable sermon, wagging its crippled tail at the end. Whatever the subject, the writer strained her brain to twist it into something morally and religiously uplifting. The obvious insincerity of these sermons was not enough to drive the practice out of schools. It is still not enough today. Perhaps it never will be, as long as the world stands. There is not a school in our whole country where young ladies do not feel obliged to end their essays with a sermon. And the most frivolous, least religious girl in school always writes the longest, most relentlessly pious sermon. But enough of this. Plain truth is hard to swallow.

Let us return to the “Examination.” The first composition that was read was one entitled “Is this, then, Life?” Perhaps the reader can endure an extract from it:

Let’s return to the “Examination.” The first essay read aloud was titled “Is this, then, Life?” Perhaps the reader can bear a short passage from it:

And so forth and so on. There was a buzz of gratification from time to time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of “How sweet!” “How eloquent!” “So true!” etc., and after the thing had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.

And so on and on. From time to time during the reading, a pleased murmur rose, along with whispered cries of “How sweet!” “How eloquent!” “So true!” and so on. And after the piece ended with an especially painful sermon, the applause was enthusiastic.

Then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the “interesting” paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a “poem.” Two stanzas of it will do:

Then a slim, sad girl stood up. Her face had the “interesting” paleness that comes from pills and indigestion. She read a “poem.” Two stanzas will be enough:

“A MISSOURI MAIDEN’S FAREWELL TO ALABAMA

“A MISSOURI GIRL’S GOODBYE TO ALABAMA

There were very few there who knew what “tête” meant, but the poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless.

Very few people there knew what “tête” meant. But the poem was very satisfying anyway.

Next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady, who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to read in a measured, solemn tone:

Next came a young lady with a dark complexion, black eyes, and black hair. She paused for an impressive moment, put on a tragic expression, and began to read in a slow, solemn tone:

A VISION

A VISION

This nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-Presbyterians that it took the first prize. This composition was considered to be the very finest effort of the evening. The mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the most “eloquent” thing he had ever listened to, and that Daniel Webster himself might well be proud of it.

This nightmare filled about ten handwritten pages and ended with a sermon that left no hope for non-Presbyterians. The sermon was so crushing that the piece won first prize. Everyone thought it was the finest piece of writing presented that evening. The village mayor gave the author the prize and made an enthusiastic speech. He said the piece was by far the most “eloquent” thing he had ever heard. Even Daniel Webster himself, he said, could be proud of it.

It may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in which the word “beauteous” was over-fondled, and human experience referred to as “life’s page,” was up to the usual average.

As an aside, the usual number of essays lavished too much affection on the word “beauteous.” They also referred to human experience as “life’s page.”

Now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon. But he made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over the house. He knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it. He sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was more pronounced. He threw his entire attention upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth. He felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased. And well it might. There was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air. The tittering rose higher and higher—the cat was within six inches of the absorbed teacher’s head—down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in an instant with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did blaze abroad from the master’s bald pate—for the signpainter’s boy had gilded it!

Now the master, tipsy enough to be almost genial, pushed his chair aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of America on the blackboard for the geography class to practice on. But his unsteady hand made a sorry mess of it, and a smothered titter rippled through the room. He knew what the matter was and set out to fix it. He erased lines and redrew them, but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering grew louder. He now gave his whole attention to his work, as if determined not to be put down by the laughter. He felt that all eyes were fixed on him. He imagined he was succeeding, and yet the tittering went on. It even plainly increased. And well it might. There was an attic above, with a hatch right over his head. Down through this hatch came a cat, hanging by a string tied around her hindquarters. She had a rag tied around her head and jaws to keep her from meowing. As she slowly came down, she curled upward and clawed at the string, then swung downward and clawed at the empty air. The tittering rose higher and higher. The cat was within six inches of the absorbed teacher’s head. Down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the attic in an instant, with her trophy still in her possession! And how the light did blaze from the master’s bald head, for the sign painter’s boy had gilded it!

That broke up the meeting. The boys were avenged. Vacation had come.

That ended the meeting. The boys had their revenge. Vacation had begun.