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Many years ago there lived in a small village in the State of
Georgia, a pious widow, who was left with an only son and two
daughters. She was in easy circumstances, and managed her temporal
concerns with great prudence; so that her estate increased with
her years. Her son exhibited, at a very early age, great precocity
of genius, and the mother lost no opportunity of letting the world
know it. When he was but six years old, he had committed little
pieces in prose and poetry, which he delivered with remarkable propriety
for his years. He knew as much of the scriptures as any
child of that age probably ever knew; and he had already made
some progress in geography and mental arithmetic. With all this,
he was a very handsome boy. It is not to be wondered at, that his
mother should be bringing him out in some department of science,
upon all ocoasions; of course; she often brought him out upon very
unsuitable occasions, and sometimes kept him out, greatly to the
annoyance of her company. Not to praise his performances, would
have been discouraging to Master William Mitten, and very mortifying
to his mother; accordingly, whether they were well-timed or
ill-timed, everybody praised them. The ladies, all of whom loved
Mrs. Mitten, were not unfrequently thrown into raptures at the
child's exhibitions. They would snatch him up in their arms, kiss
him, pronounce him a perfect prodigy, both in beauty of person and
power of mind; and declare that they would be willing to go beggars
upon the world to have such a child. Others would piously
exhort Mrs. Mitten not to set her heart too much upon the child.
“They never saw the little creature, without commingled emotions
of delight and alarm; so often is it the case that children of such

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wonderful gifts die early.” Her brother, Capt. David Thomson, a
candid, plain-dealing excellent man, often reproved Mrs. M. for parading,
as he called it, “her child upon all occasions.”

“Anna,” said he, “you will stuff your child so full of pride and
vanity, and make him so pert and forward that there will be no
living with him. From an object of admiration he will soon become
an object of detestation.”

“No danger, brother—no danger;” she would reply, “I take
special care to guard him against these vices.”

At eight years of age, William was placed under the instruction
of Miss Smith, the teacher of a female school, into which small boys
were admitted by courtesy. Here he continued until his tenth year,
when Miss Smith told his mother that he was getting too old to remain
in her school, and that she could keep him no longer. Here Miss
Smith whispered something to Mrs. Mitten which drew a smile from
her, but which has ever remained a secret between them. It took
about the time to deliver it, that it would take to say: “the truth
is, he is too pretty and too smart to be in a female school.”

William being now out of employment, his mother took six months
to deliberate as to what was next to be done with him; and in the
meantime she sent him in the country to stay with his grandmother.
On his return she determined to place him under the tuition of Mr.
Markham, one of the best of men, and best of instructors. Accordingly,
she conducted him to the school room of his second preceptor.

“You will find him, Mr. Markham,” said Mrs. M., as she delivered
over her son to the teacher's charge, “easy to lead but hard
to drive.

“If that be the case, Madam,” said Mr. Markham, “I fear that
your son will not do well under my government.”

“Why, surely, Mr. Markham, you don't prefer driving to leading.”

“By no means, Madam—by no means. I much prefer leading;
but no child of his age can be always led. Withal, a teacher must
govern, by fixed rules, which cannot be relaxed in favor of one of
his pupils, without rendering them worthless, or unjust to all
the rest.”

This took Mrs. Mitten a little by surprise; for she supposed that
Mr. Markham would be proud of such an accession to his school as
William. She acquiesced, however, in the soundness of his views;
but flattering herself “that he would never find it necessary to
drive William,” she turned him over to the teacher and withdrew.

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William made his debut at school in a dress which was rather
tawdry for Sunday, and extravagant for the school-room. The first ten
or fifteen minutes were spent by William and the school boys in inter-changing
looks of admiration, which Mr. Markham indulged, under
pretence of not observing. At length a pretty general titter began
to run through the school at William's expense. Mr. Markham now
interposed, with a sternness that instantly brought all to order but
William, who tittered in turn, at divers persons and things. But
this Mr. Markham happened not to notice. The object of William's.
special regards and amusement was John Brown, whose clothes
seemed to have been made of remnants of old bed-quilts, so numerous
and party-colored were their patches. John's attitude was as
curious as his dress; he seemed to have derived it from the neck of
a crane at rest. His head was flat and bushy, his feet were large
and black, and his face bore a marked resemblance to that of a
leather-winged bat. In all his life, William had never seen exactly
such a thing as this; and he laughed at it, without stint and without
disguise. John soon became indignant, and raising his book between
his face and the teacher, he set his mouth to going as if repeating
all the vowels and consonants of the alphabet in quick time,
and shook his fist at William with a quiver of awful portent. According
to the masonry of the school-room these signs meant:
“Never mind, old-fellow, soon as school's out I'll make you laugh
t'other side of the mouth!”

“Come here, sir,” said Markham who always saw more than he
seemed to see. “Who are you shaking your fist at, sir?”

“Mr. Markham, that fellow keeps laughing at me, sir.”

“And did'nt you laugh at him first?”

“I—I—laughed at him a little bit; but he keeps at it all the
time.” He don't do nothin' else but keep'n' on laughin' at me all
the time.”

“Well, if you laugh at other people, you must let them laugh at
you; and now, sir, go to your seat; and if I catch you shaking
your fist at anybody in school hours again, or using it upon anybody
afterwards, who has only paid laugh with laugh, I'll shake you.”

There was a little spice of equity here, that John had entirely
overlooked; and he went to his seat much cooler than might have
been expected.

“Come here, William!” continued the preceptor. William did
not move; and the whole school was electrified at disobedience to
Mr. Markham's orders.

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“Come here, William!” repeated Mr. Markham but with no better
success. Whereupon he rose, and commenced “leading” him,
in quick time, to his seat. Having stationed him by it he said to
him: “William I know you have been indulged so much that you
hardly know the duty of submission to your teacher's orders, or I
would correct you for not coming to me when I called you. You
must do as I tell you; and I tell you now to quit laughing and get
your lesson—you, John Brown, are you tittering again already?
Put down your feet and come here, sir!” Here Mr. Markham, by
way of parenthesis, gave John three cuts, which sounded like a
whip-poor-will, and made him dance a jig, a minuet and a polka all
in less than a minute. He retired, crying, and limping and rubbing
and shaking his bushy head like a muscovy drake in a pet; and Mr.
Markham proceeded: “I tell you, William, you must obey me”—

“Yes, sir,” said William, pale as a sheet.

“I can have no little boys with me who won't do as I tell them”—

“No, sir.”

“If you will be a good boy, and mind your book and your teacher,
you need not be afraid of me. Go now and take your seat and quit
laughing and get your lesson.”

William obeyed promptly, and hardly took his eyes from his book
until the school was dismissed.

During the recess he begged his mother to take him away from
Mr. Markham's school. He said Mr. Markham whipt his scholars,
and he “didn't want to go to a man that whipt children.”

“But,” said his mother, “you must be a good boy, and then he
will not whip you. I've entered you now, and paid your first quarter's
schooling, and you must go to the end of the quarter.”

William returned to school, and for several weeks did remarkably
well. He was put in a class with George Markham, son of the
preceptor, a promising youth, but equal to William in nothing but
attention to his studies. As William could get his lessons in half
the time allowed him for this purpose, he soon began to neglect them,
until the last moment from which he could commit them, and then
to some time beyond the moment; and here was the beginning of
his bad luck. As he grew remiss, Mr. Markham counseled him,
lectured him, and threatened him; but all to no purpose. At
length he told him that the next time he came to recite without
knowing his lesson, he would correct him. This alarmed William a
good deal; but not quite enough to stimulate his industry to

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continued exertion; and after ten or fifteen lessons he came up deficient
again.

“Why have you not got this lesson, sir?” said Mr. Markham
with terrific sternness.

“I—I—was sick, sir!”

This was William's first falsehood; but it saved him from a whipping
which he awfully dreaded; for though Mr. Markham knew
that he had not told the truth, he deemed it best to admit the excuse,
at least so far as to withhold the rod of correction for the
present.

As he dismissed the school, he told William to remain a few moments,
and when they were alone he thus addressed him:

“William, I very much fear you told me a falsehood to-day. I
saw you all the morning before you came to recite, idling, and
whispering, without any appearance of sickness; and since the recitation,
I have seen no sign of sickness about you. Still I may possibly
be mistaken, and I hope I am; but remember, if ever I find you
telling a lie to hide your faults, I will punish you more severely than
I would without the lie.” He then proceeded to counsel him kindly
and affectionately against the danger of lying.

William went home in sadness and in tears, for his conscience gave
him no rest. His mother sought in vain for the cause of his distress.
The next day he went to the school and acquitted himself well for
that and the four sncceeding days, for which Mr. Markham gave him
great credit and encouragement. On the fifth day he got permission
to go out, and as he remained out an unusually long time, Mr. M.
went in quest of him, and found him in the act of concealing his
book among some rubbish near the school house. He was unobserved
by William, and he withdrew to the school room. Just before
the recitation hour William made his appearance. What he had
been doing during his absence, was not known; but that he had not
been studying was manifest from his conduct, and still more manifest
from his ignorance of the lesson when he came to recite.

“What have you been doing, William,” said Mr. Markham, “that
you know nothing of this lesson?”

“I lost my book, sir, and I couldn't find it.”

Mr. Markham passed the matter over until he dismissed his school,
when he detained William, told him where his book was, repeated
his lecture upon lying, and enforced it with a pretty severe flogging.
William had never experienced the like of that before, and probably
would never have experienced it again, but for the imprudence of his

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mother and her friends. He promised his preceptor that he would
never repeat his offence; and he went home with a countenance and
manner indicative of a fixed purpose to keep his promise. He told
his mother nothing of what had happened, nor did she find it out for
four days afterwards. In the meantime, William was all that she or
his preceptor could wish him to be. It so happened, however, that
Thomas Nokes had lingered about the school-house, and seen all
that had transpired between William and his teacher. He went
home where he found Mrs. Glib, one of Mrs. Mitten's most devoted
friends—as she proved by carrying to her all news that was likely to
affect her peace. Mrs. G. had stopped on her way to her brother's
in the country, to bid Mrs. Nokes farewell, and had actually risen to
depart, when Tom stept in, big with the events of the day.

“I tell you, what!” said he, “Mr. Markham give Bill Mitten
jorum to-day!”

“It isn't possible,” exclaimed Mrs. Glib, “that Mr. Markham has
whipt that dear, sweet, lovely boy.”

Mrs. Nokes tried to catch Tom's eye, that she might stop him;
but his whole attention was directed to Mrs. G. and he went on—

“Yes he did—and he linked it into him like flugins. I'll be
bound he made the blood come.”

Here Tom caught his mother's eye, which was darting lightnings
at him, and he concluded, “but I don't reckon he hurt him much
though!”

“Oh, the brute!” muttered Mrs. Glib, as she left the house for
the carriage.

On the afternoon of the fourth day from her departure, she returned
to the village, and immediately hastened over to Mrs. Mitten's.
Mrs. M. met her at the door very cheerfully and very
cordially.

“Oh,” ejaculated Mrs. Glib, “how happy I am to find you so
cheerful! I was afraid I should find you in tears.”

“In tears! For what?”

“Why, for the unmerciful beating which Mr. Markham gave to
your dear, sweet, lovely little William, last Friday.”

“Surely there must be some mistake Mrs. Glib. William never
said a word to me about it: and not fifteen minutes before you came
in, Mr. Markham was here congratulating me on the progress my
child was making in everything that was good.”

Here Mrs. G. looked as if she had taken an emetic which was
just about to operate; and after a short pause she proceeded:

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“Well, I hope it is a mistake; but it came to me from an eye
witness. You know I don't send my children to Mr. Markham; because
I don't choose to have my children cut and slashed about like galley-slaves,
for every little childish error they commit—breaking down
their spirit, and teaching them sneaking and lying, and everything
that's low and mean. Mr. Toper never whips; and I don't see but
that my children get along under him as well as other people's children.”
(Here Mrs. M. covered her face with her handkerchief,
either to hide her grief, or a smile which grief could not extinguish,
or blushes of conscience; for she had warned her son against ever
associating with the Glibs.) “But you know how strict Mrs. Nokes
is with her children; one of them would as soon put his head in the
fire as tell a lie—specially before her. Well, Thomas told me, right
in her presence, that Markham whipt William till he drew the blood
from him!”

“Mercy on me!” groaned Mrs. Mitten, “why didn't William tell
me of it!”

“Oh, that is easily accounted for. My George Washington
Alexander Augustus says that John Brown told him, that `if anybody
went to carrying tales out of Mr. Markham's school, he'd
make'em dance juba.' Poor William dare not tell of it. John said,
moreover, that Markham dragged him from his seat the first day that
he went to school, and would have whipt him then, if he had been
in school a little longer.”

“I fear,” said Mrs. Mitten with streaming eyes, “that I offended
Mr. Markham when I placed William under him, by telling him
that William was easy to lead but hard to drive. He immediately
showed some reluctance at receiving him. But I only meant to apprise
him of the child's disposition. Poor child, with all his talents,
I fear he is doomed to bad luck.”

“Oh, no, madam; I can explain the matter better than that.
George Markham was given up on all hands to be the smartest boy
in school. Now everybody knew what a prodigy William was; and
old Markham knew that as soon as William entered the school, his
beloved darling, precious George, would have to come down a notch.
All the boys say that William is smarter than George, and yet that
old Markham is always pecking at him. Who can't see the reason?”

Just at this moment William made his appearance with a bright
and joyous face; and holding up a most beautiful edition of Sanford
and Merton. “See, ma,” said he, “what Mr. Markham gave me
to-day for keeping head of George three days. And he says if I'll

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keep head of him eight days more, he'll give me a book worth twice
as much, and I mean to do it too.”

“What hypocrisy!” exclaimed Mrs. Glib. “He's got wind
of it!”

“William,” said his mother, “did Mr. Markham whip yon last
Friday?” In an instant his countenance fell, and his eyes filled.

“Yes, ma'am,” whispered William. “But I don't think he will
whip me again, for I mean to be a good boy.”

“Poor, blessed, little innocent angel-lamb!” sighed forth Mrs. G.
with honest sympathy.

“And haven't you always been a good boy, my son?”

“Ye-e-s m'm.”

“Then what did he whip you for?”

“He said I told a lie, and wouldn't get my lesson!”

“Oh, shocking, shocking—worse and worse!” vociferated Mrs.
Glib. “I'd stake my salvation on it, that child never told an untruth
in all his life.”

It was very unlucky for William, that Mrs. G. made this remark;
and still more unlucky that his mother did not suspend her examination
here, until Mrs. G. retired.

“William, it would break my heart to discover that you had told a
lie; but if you have told one, confess it, my child, to your mother!”

William paused and pondered, as well he might; for having Mrs.
Glib's salvation and his mother's heart in one eye, and Mr. Markham's
awful lie-physic in the other, he was in a most perplexing dilemma.

“Don't you see, Mrs. Mitten, that the child is actually afraid to
deny that he told a lie? He knows that if it gets to Markham's
ears that he denied it, he'd beat him to death. Didn't he whip you
very severely, William?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Where did he whip you?”

“On the calf of my legs.”

“Well, now, do let us examine them! I lay the marks of the
whip are upon them to this day.”

William's pants were rolled up, and at the first glance, his legs
seemed as white and as spotless as pure alabaster. But a glance did
not satisfy Mrs. Glib. She was confident that William had received
“jorum,” and that marks of it might yet be found. Accordingly,
she put on her specs and squatted down to a close examination of
William's legs, beginning at the left.”

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“Look here, Mrs. Mitten,” said she, after a short search, “isn't
this the mark of a whip?”

“N-no,” said Mrs. M. carelessly, “I believe it's nothing but a
vein.”

“It's no vein, my word for it; it's too straight for a vein. I'm
told that whip-marks, just before they disappear, can hardly be distinguished
from veins.”

Proceeding from the left leg to the right, she examined for some time
with no better success. At length, however, on the right side of the
limb, she found the palpable marks of “jorum.” For reasons that
need not be given, I hold myself perfectly competent to explain this
matter with unquestionable accuracy. Jorum is always administered
with a scarificator; and in receiving it, it is almost impossible for the
patient to keep his legs still. The consequence sometimes is, that
the scarificator, which is made and intended to act simultaneously
and equally upon both limbs hardly scratches one, while it spends all
its force (double force) upon the other. William had obviously
“danced juba” under the operation, and in three of his movements
he had so distracted the instrument, that the end of it pressed much
harder upon the flesh in these places than the operator intended, and
of course it left its most permanent mark where it pressed hardest.
Nor is it true, as Mrs. Glib was informed, that its mark retire in likeness
to a vein, but with a greenish, straw-color, as the case before her
proved.

Mrs. Glib had no sooner discovered these marks, than she went
through divers evolutions of horror, better suited to the Inquisition
than to this occasion. At length she became composed enough to
speak.

“Oh, Mrs. Mitten, see what your dear lovely, brilliant boy has
suffered. Think of when it was done!”

Mrs. Mitten looked and burst into tears afresh. Just at this point
her daughters made their appearance, and the matter being explained
to them they burst into tears; and William seeing his mother and
sisters weeping, he burst into tears. In the midst of this affecting
scene, David Thompson, Mrs. Mitten's brother, made his appearance,
and he didn't burst into tears.

“Why, what's the matter—what's to pay?” enquired he, with no
little alarm.

The ladies all answered at once, with different degrees of exaggeration,
but all to the same point, namely, that Markham had beaten
William most unmercifully.

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“Why, nothing seems to be the matter with him that I can see.”

“Look at his legs!”

“Well, I see nothing the matter with his legs.”

“Look at his right leg.”

“Well, I see nothing the matter with his right leg.”

“Look on the right side of his right leg.”

“Well, I see nothing on the right side of the right leg.”

“Look here, Mr. Thompson,” said Mrs. Glib—“bend down a little—
do you see these marks?”

“Psh-e-e-e-t! Why surely you have all run crazy! Is it possible
you're making all this fuss over these three little specks?”

“Those specks as you call them, brother, are the remains of what
was put on my child's tender flesh four days ago.”

“And have you all just made up your minds to cry about it!”

“We did not know of it, brother David, before.”

“Why, didn't William tell you of it?”

“No, poor child, he hardly dare talk about it now. He is completely
cowed. Since he went to school he seems to have been
buried; nobody notices or speaks of the child any more than if he
were dead.”

“Yes, there it is! you have been feasting upon his praises so
long, that you cannot live without them. What did Markham whip
him for?”

“The charge was, telling a lie, and neglecting his lessons.”

“Well, are you sure he did not tell a lie?”

“Oh, brother, how can you ask such a question right before the
child's face! Yes, I'm just as sure of it as I can be of anything.
I never detected William in a lie in all my life.”

“No, nor you never will, the way you're going on, if he told a
thousand. Now, if Markham whipt him for lying, I vouch for it he
told a lie, and Markham knew it; for he never moves without seeing
his way clear.”

“I think he has a prejudice against William, and I think I
know the reason of it.”

“Prejudice! He's incapable of prejudice against anybody, much
less against little silly children. I'll go over and see him and learn
the whole truth of the matter.”

“No, you needn't trouble yourself, brother, I shall not send
William to school to him any longer.”

“Why, Anna, you surely are not going to take your child from

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school without hearing from Mr. Markham the particulars of this
matter?”

“I don't want any particulars, more than my own eyes have seen.
Suppose the child actually did tell a lie, (which nobody who knows
him will believe) it wouldn't justify Mr. Markham in beating him to
death.”

“Beating him to death! He's certainly a very natural looking
corpse! And when you take him from school, what are you going
to do with him?”

“I'd rather send him to Mr. Toper than have him cut and slashed
to pieces by Markham.”

“Toper! what that drunken booby who hardly knows B from
bull's foot.”

“Good morning, ladies!” said Mrs. Glib—“Good morning,
Captain Thompson.”

“Why, brother! How could you talk so of Mr. Toper? Don't
you know that Mrs. Glib sends her children to him? She'll go
right off and tell him what you said.”

“No, I don't know, nor don't care where she sends them. All I
know about them is, that Toper is a drunken fool, and that her children
are perfect nuisances to the town, and that if you mean to send
your child to the devil, Toper is the very man to carry him for you.
Mrs. Glib may tell him all this too, if she chooses; and then if he
opens his mouth to me about the matter, I'll kick him out of the
town, as a public charity.”

“I only said I had rather send my child to Mr. Toper than have
him beaten so. I think I shall employ a private tutor.”

“And pay ten times as much as is needful for your child's instruction;
and then have him not half as well taught, as he will be, by
Markham! Anna, I beseech you, I implore you for your child's
sake, don't act at all in this matter under your present feelings.
Let the matter rest until I can see Markham and learn the whole
history of it. I know more of boys than you do. They do many
things at school that they never do at home, for the plain reason
that they are under many temptations at school which they are not
under at home. You are probably now at the turning point of
your child's destiny, and a false step here may ruin him forever.”

Strange to tell, William listened to his uncle with a kind of approving
amazement, and as soon as he had concluded, said:

“Ma, I'm willing to go back to Mr. Markham now; I a'nt afraid
of him; I don't think he'll ever whip me again.”

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“That's a brave boy,” said the Captain. “Every word in the
sentence is worth a guinea. No good boy fears Mr. Markham.”

“Ah, poor child!” said Mrs. Mitten—“he knows little of the
world's duplicity. He little dreams of the undercurrent that is at
work against him.”

“What undercurrent? Is it possible, Anna, that after nine years
acquaintance with Markham, you can suspect him of duplicity and
secret hostility to such a child as that—your child—my nephew!”

“Mr. Markham's not perfection, if what I've heard of him is
true,” said Miss Jane.

“No,” said Miss Ann, “and if I was ma, I'd die before I'd send
brother William back to him to be beaten like a dog!”

“And if I was ma, I'd learn you to hold your tongues till your
counsel was asked for.”

“Oh, do, brother, let the girls express their opinions. I should
suppose that one might have an opinion, of even Mr. Markham,
without having their heads snapt off.”

“Well, Anna, I see your mind is made up to take William from
Mr. Markham's school.”

“Yes, I'm resolved upon it.”

“And without one word of explanation from Mr. Markham!”

“Yes; I want none of his explanations.”

“Ma,” said William, “let me go back to the end of the quarter.”

“Bravo, Bill! Go back, my son—be a a good boy, and learn
your book, and you'll be a noble fellow by and by.”

“Brother David, do you think it right to encourage a poor little
ignorant child to run counter to his mother's wishes?”

“No, Anna; but I supposed that the wishes of the child in whom
you are so much wrapt up, might save you from rash resolutions concerning
him.”

“Well, it is not necessary to debate the matter further. I vow he
never shall go back to Mr. Markham's school, and that is the long
and short of it.”

Captain Thompson wheeled off and left the house as if to get
something of importance that he had left in a dangerous place. In
about a half hour he returned:

“Well,” said he, “I have seen Markham, and heard the whole
matter explained”—and he gave it from first to last, just as it
occurred. Still Mrs. Mitten adhered to her resolution. He argued,
he entreated, he implored, he forewarned, he remonstrated, he used
every means that he could think of to change her mind, but to no

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purpose. The truth is, Mrs. Mitten would not place her son where
he was liable to be whipt. Her brother left in a storm. I have
been thus particular in giving this part of William's history, because
it proved in the end, as the sequel will show, to be remarkably
unlucky, and fruitful of wonderful consequences.