But the time approaches to engage in an entirely different kind of contest, one neither mean nor brutal, but most honorable and ennobling.

Helen Mar. Before the tocsin sounds for that struggle, may I ask whether the desire for victory, which must be the chief motive in all contests, is not in itself purely selfish? The expressions "magnanimous foe," "generous rivalry," and the like, which we so often hear, have always seemed to me somewhat paradoxical. Even in our studies, the desire to stand first involves the desire that some one else shall stand second. How can that justly be called magnanimous or generous?

Dr. Dix. The question does you great credit, Miss Mar. But we are none of us accountable for the possession or lack of natural endowments. To make the best use of those we possess is a solemn obligation which must be evident to all. If we outstrip others in the race, it is strong presumptive evidence that we are faithfully fulfilling that solemn obligation, and we are justly entitled to the satisfaction which always rewards the performance of duty. This is the only satisfaction resulting from victory which is really magnanimous or generous. If we desire either that the endowments of others shall be inferior to our own, or that they shall neglect them for the sake of our triumph, we are not merely selfish, but actually malevolent.

But the desire to do something better than has yet been done is neither selfish nor malevolent. It is grand, noble. It is the lever which has lifted the race of men throughout the generations of the past to higher and higher planes of being, and which will continue to lift them throughout the generations to come.

IX.

THE BATTLE.

Dr. Dix. Scholars, it is not my intention to appropriate any part of this short period to individual discipline. The time is to be kept sacred to the purpose originally announced. One of the most effective means, however, of accomplishing that purpose is to take advantage of passing occurrences in school life, and I shall begin with the very unpleasant occurrence of yesterday.

In last week's Talk I hoped I had impressed you all with not only the wickedness, but the vulgarity also, the low brutality, of pugilistic encounters. I learn this morning, however, that after school yesterday two young men, from whom I had every reason to expect better things, committed the very fault I had so recently condemned. [Hisses, which the Doctor's raised hand instantly checks.]

I can account for the unpleasant circumstance only in one of two ways: Either it was due to a deliberate defiance of my expressed opinions and sentiments, and in deliberate opposition to the influence I was trying to

exert

Geoffrey Jenkins. Dr. Dix, I beg you will not think that.

Archibald Watson. And I, too, Dr. Dix. I assure you it was not so.

Dr. Dix. I am very glad to hear so much from you both. The only other supposition, then, I can entertain is, that our Talk suggested and actually led to your committing the offence which was its subject.

Although, as I have implied, your formal trial and punishment must be reserved for another hour, yet you may, if you are willing, state whether this supposition is correct or not. Jenkins?

Geoffrey Jenkins. Well, it came about in this way : We got to talking after school about what you said about fighting. Watson said he believed every fellow that was not a coward would fight if he were insulted. I told him I did n't believe anything of the sort. He insisted upon it, and said that I would fight myself if I were insulted badly enough. I said I would n't, and I was no coward either. He said he would like to see it tested. I said I couldn't be insulted, any way. 66 Oh," said he, 66 so that's the kind of fellow you are, is it?" Well, this made me pretty mad; but I kept quiet.

I

only explained that anybody who insulted me would be too low to be noticed. He said all that was very grand talk, but if the trial really came I would n't find it so easy as I thought. Well, the talk went on in that style, when all at once, before I knew what his game He may tell the rest.

was

Archibald Watson [hanging his head]. I slapped him over the mouth. I only wanted to see if he was the saint and hero he pretended to be.

Dr. Dix. And you, Jenkins?

Geoffrey Jenkins. My fist struck out before I could help it. He did it so quickly he did n't give me time to think. [Applause, which the Doctor does not check.]

Dr. Dix. And you, Watson, having satisfied your curiosity, having found out that he was n't "the saint and hero he pretended to be," took the blow in good part, laughed, and asked his pardon?

Archibald Watson [coloring with shame]. N-no, sir. He hurt me a good deal, and-and I struck back, andDr. Dix. Well, what then, Jenkins? Geoffrey Jenkins. Then we had it.

Dr. Dix.

Yes, your appearance indicates pretty plainly that you both "had it." [Laughter.] Your senseless quarrel is a fair type of quarrels in general. Very rarely are both sides equally to blame; still more rarely is one side altogether blameless. Perhaps in the present instance one of the parties is as near an approach to

Archibald Watson. Dr. Dix, may I say something more?

Dr. Dix. Go on.

Archibald Watson. I have been thinking about the affair ever since it occurred, and I want to say that I was entirely to blame [Voices. "Yes." "That's true."]and I want to ask his pardon here and now. [Applause.] Geoffrey Jenkins. No. I was partly to blame. [Voices. "No!" "No!"] Yes, I ought to have carried out my boast.

Archibald Watson.

But he could n't. I did n't give him time to think. His fist struck out almost of its own accord. He could n't help it. And he served me right, any way. [Applause.]

Geoffrey Jenkins. It is not quite true about my not being able to help it. A sort of half-thought flashed through my mind, "Now is the time to prove my boasting true. Now is the time to do what Dr. Dix talked about; " – but with it came the other thought, “I'd like to do so well enough; but I'd rather show him that he can't slap my mouth without getting his own slapped a good deal harder," and I want to ask his pardon for that.

Archibald Watson. Well, any way, I was the most to blame. Was n't I, Dr. Dix ?

Dr. Dix. Your schoolmates evidently think you were; and, since you ask, I have no hesitation in pronouncing you very much the more to blame. According to the account, in which you both agree, you were the entirely unprovoked aggressor.

Archibald Watson. And he was not at all to blame, was he?

Dr. Dix. That does not concern you so much as it concerns him. He insists upon it that he was. Well, boys, in spite of me and my plans, you seem to have pretty nearly settled the whole affair between yourselves. So I will say what little remains to be said about it now. You were both to blame, though in very different degrees: one of you for his uncalled-for, his utterly unjustifiable insult to his friend and schoolmate; and the other for not yielding to the noble impulse of his higher nature, which, though feeble and momentary, he acknowledges he felt. Both of you are grievously to blame for the unrestrained rage to which you afterwards gave way. The actual physical pain you inflicted upon each other was the least part of your offence, and I will allow it to stand for a part of your punishment. Not only this, but so far as that physical pain cleared away the angry clouds from your brows and from your hearts, and led you to the magnanimous confessions you have publicly made this morning, I consider it a positive good. It certainly was far better than an outward peace preserved at the cost of bitter wrath and hatred rankling in secret.

So now you may shake hands in token of your mutual forgiveness and the renewal of a friendship which, I hope, will be strengthened by the wrench it has received. We will consider the purely personal part of this discussion at an end.