“There,” exclaimed my father, exultingly, “you see the effect of his
education thus far.”
“The effect of his education thus far!” retorted my aunt Betsey, who did
not relish my father’s remark; “he has been taught to say his prayers,
and to love his parents and tell the truth. You see the effects in him
now,” and she pointed to me, seated on a stool by my mother.
All this made no impression upon my father. He was resolved that I
should go to Belle Air, the county town, situated twenty-five miles from
Baltimore, where the school was, the next week, and he so expressed
himself decidedly.
The condemned criminal, who counts the hours that speed to his
execution, scarcely feels more horror at the rush of time than did I.
One appalling _now_ seemed to possess me. I was deeply sensitive, and
the dread of my loneliness away from all I loved, and the fear of the
ridicule and tyranny of the oldsters, haunted me so that I could not
sleep, and I have lain awake all night, picturing to myself what would
be the misery of my situation at Belle Air. In fact, when the day
arrived, I bade my mother, aunt Betsey and my little sister Virginia
farewell with scarcely a consciousness, and was placed in the gig by my
father as the stunned criminal is assisted into the fatal cart.
This over-sensitiveness—what a curse it is! I lay no claims to genius,
and yet I have often thought it hard that I should have the quality
which makes the “fatal gift” so dangerous, and not the gift. My little
sister Virginia, who had been my playmate for weeks, cried bitterly when
I left her. I dwelt upon her swimming eye with mine, tearless and stony
as death. The waters of bitterness had gathered around my heart, but had
not yet found an outlet from their icy thrall, ’neath which they flowed
dark and deep.
Belle Air, at the time I write of, was a little village of some
twenty-five or more houses, six of which were taverns. It was and is a
county town, and court was regularly held there, to which the Baltimore
lawyers used to flock in crowds; and many mad pranks have I known them
play there for their own amusement, if not for the edification of the
pupils of Mr. Sears.
My father drew up at Mr. Kenny’s tavern, and as it was about twelve when
we arrived, and the pupils were dismissed to dinner, he sent his card to
the principal, who in a few minutes made his appearance. Talk of a lover
watching the movements and having impressed upon his memory the image of
her whom he loveth!—the schoolboy has a much more vivid recollection of
his teacher. Mr. Sears was a tall, stout man, with broad stooping
shoulders, he carried a large cane, and his step was as decided as ever
was Doctor Busby’s, who would not take his hat off when the king visited
his school, for the reason, as he told his majesty afterwards, that if
his scholars thought that there was a greater man in the kingdom than
himself, he never could control them. The face of Mr. Sears resembled
much the likeness of Alexander Hamilton, though his features were more
contracted, and his forehead had nothing like the expansion of the great
statesman; yet it projected very similarly at the brows. He welcomed my
father to the village with great courtesy, and me to his pupilage with
greater dignity. He dined with my father, with me by his side, and every
now and then he would pat me on the head and ask me a question. I
stammered out monosyllabic answers, when the gentleman would address
himself again to his plate with renewed gusto.
Mr. Sears recommended my father to board me at the house of a Mr. Hall,
who had formerly been the sheriff of the county, and whose wife and
daughters, he said, were very fine women. He repented, he said, when he
first took charge of the academy, that there was not some general place
attached to it where the pupils could board in common, but after
reflection had taught him that to board them about among the
towns-people would be as well. He remarked that I was one of his
smallest pupils, but that he could look on me _in loco parentis_, and
doubted not that he could make a man of me.
After dinner he escorted my father, leading me by the hand, down to the
academy, which was on the outskirts of the town, at the other end of it
from Mr. Kenny’s. The buzz, which the usher had not the power to control
in the absence of Mr. Sears, hushed instantly in his presence, and as he
entered with my father, the pupils all arose, and remained standing
until he ordered them to be seated. Giving my father a seat, and placing
me in the one which he designed for me in the school, Mr. Sears called
several of his most proficient scholars in the different classes, from
Homer down to the elements of English, and examined them. When a boy
blundered, he darted at him a look which made him shake in his shoes,
and when another boy gave a correct answer and took his fellow’s place,
and glanced up for Mr. Sears’ smile, it was a picture which my friend
Beard, of Cincinnati, would delight to draw. The blunderer looked like
one caught in the act of sheep-stealing, while the successful pupil took
his place with an air that would have marked one of Napoleon’s doubtful
soldiers, when the Emperor had witnessed an act of daring on his part.
As for Mr. Sears, he thought Napoleon a common creature to himself. To
kill men, he used to say, was much more easy than to instruct them, he
felt himself to be like one of the philosophers of old in his academy;
and he considered Doctor Parr and Doctor Busby, who boasted that they
had whipped every distinguished man in the country, much greater than he
of Pharsalia or he of Austerlitz.
When the rehearsal of several classes had given my father a due
impression of Mr. Sears’ great gifts as an instructor, and of his
scholars’ proficiency, he took my father to Mr. Hall’s, to introduce us
to my future host.
We found the family seated in the long room in which their boarders
dined. To Mr. Sears they paid the most profound respect. Well they
might, for without his recommendation they would have been without
boarders. Hall was a tall, good humored, careless man. His wife was
older than himself, tall too, but full of energy. He had two daughters,
Harriet and Jane. Harriet was a quick, active, lively girl, and withal
pretty, while Jane was lolling and lazy in her motions, and without
either good looks or prettiness. The matter of my boarding was soon
arranged, and it had become time for my father to depart. All this while
the variety and excitement of the scene had somewhat relieved my
feelings, but when my father bade me be a good boy and drove off, I felt
as if the “last link” was indeed broken, and though I made every effort,
from a sense of shame, to repress my tears, it was in vain, and they
broke forth the wilder from their previous restraint. Harriet Hall came
up instantly to comfort me. She took a seat beside me at the open window
at which I was looking out after my father, and with a sweet voice,
whose tones are in my memory yet, she told me not to grieve because I
was from my friends; that I should soon see them again, and that she
would think I feared they would not be kind to me if I showed so much
sorrow. This last remark touched me, and while I was drying my eyes, one
of the larger boys, a youth of eighteen or twenty, came up to the
window—for the academy by this time had been dismissed for the
evening—and said,
“Ah, Miss Harriet, is this another baby who is crying for home?”
In an instant my eyes were dried. I cast one glance at the speaker—he
was a tall, slim, reckless looking fellow, named Prettyman—and from
that day to this I have neither forgotten it, nor, I fear, forgiven him.
In the night, when we retired to our rooms, I found that my bed was in a
room with two others, Prettyman and a country bumpkin, by the name of
Muzzy. As usual on going to bed, I kneeled down to say my prayers,
putting my hands up in the attitude of supplication. I had scarcely
uttered to myself the first words, “Our Father,” but to the ear that
heareth all things, when Prettyman exclaimed—
“He’s praying! ‘By the Apostle Paul!’ as Richard the Third says, that’s
against rules. Suppose we cob him, Muzzy?” Muzzy laughed, and got into
bed; and I am ashamed to say that I arose with the prayer dying away
from my thoughts, and indignation and shame usurping them, and sneaked
into bed, where I said my prayers in silence, and wept myself in silence
to sleep. In the morning, with a heavy heart, and none but the kind
Harriet to comfort me, I betook myself to the academy.
Parents little know what a sensitive child suffers at a public school. I
verily believe that these schools engender often more treachery,
falsehood and cruelty than exists in West India slavery; I was about
saying even in the brains of an abolitionist. Most tenderly nurtured,
under the care of an affectionate old aunt, who was always fixing my
clothes to keep me warm, coddling up something nice to pamper me with,
watching all my outgoings and incomings, and seeing that everything
around me conduced to my convenience and comfort, the contrast was
indeed great when I appeared at the Belle Air academy, one of the
smallest boys there, and subjected to the taunts and buffetings of every
larger boy than myself in the institution. My father little knew what
agony it cost me to be made a man of.
I am not certain that the good produced by such academies is equal to
their evils. I remember well for two or three nights after Prettyman
laughed at me, that I crept into bed to say my prayers, and, at last,
under his ridicule—for he practised his gift on me every night—I not
only neglected to say them, but began to feel angry towards my aunt that
she had ever learned them to me, as they brought so much contempt upon
me. Yet, such is the power of conscience, at that tender age, that, when
I awoke in the morning of the first night that I had not prayed, I felt
myself guilty and unworthy, and went into the garden and wept aloud,
tears of sincere contrition.
Too often, in public schools, the first thing a youth learns from his
elders, is to laugh at parental authority, and to exhibit to the
ridicule of his fellows the letter of advice which his parent or
guardian feels it his duty to write to him, taking care, with a jest
upon them, to pocket the money they send, with an air of incipient
profligacy which, any one may see, will soon not only be rank but
prurient—such a moral contagion should be avoided, and, I therefore am
inclined to think that the Catholic mode of tuition, where some one of
the teachers is with the scholars, not only by day but by night, is
preferable. And, in fact, any one who has witnessed the respectful
familiarity they teach their pupils to feel and act towards them, and
the kindness with which they return it, cannot but be impressed with the
truth of my remark.
There were nearly one hundred pupils at Belle Air, at the period of
which I write, and the only assistant Mr. Sears had, was a gaunt fellow
named Dogberry. Like his illustrious namesake in Shakspeare, from whom I
believe he was a legitimate descendant, he might truly have been
“_written down an ass_.”
The boys invented all sorts of annoyances to torture Dogberry withal. A
favorite one was, when Mr. Sears was in the city, which was at periods
not unfrequent, for them to assemble in the school before Dogberry came,
and setting one by the door to give notice when the usher was within a
few feet of it, to begin as soon as he appeared in sight, to shout, as
with one voice—first _Dog_, and then, after a pause, by way of a
chorus, _berry_.
As soon as notice was given by the watcher, he leaped to his seat, and
every tongue was silent, and every eye upon the book before it. The rage
of Dogberry knew no bounds on these occasions. He did not like to tell
the principal, for the circumstance would have proved not only his want
of authority over the boys, but the contempt in which they held him.
A trick which Prettyman played him, nearly caused his death, and,
luckily for the delinquent, he was never discovered. Dogberry was very
penurious, and he saved two-thirds of his salary; as it was not large,
he had, of course, to live humbly. He dined at Halls and took breakfast
and supper in his lodgings, if he ever took them, and the quality of the
dinner of which he made himself the receptacle, caused it to be doubted.
His lodgings were the _dormant_ story of a log cabin, to which he had
entrance by a rough flight of stairs without the house and against its
side. Under the stairs there was a large mud-hole, and Prettyman
contrived one gusty night to pull them down, with the intention of
calling the usher in the tone of Mr. Sears, for he was a good mimic, and
causing him to fall in the mud. Unluckily, the usher heard the racket
without, and not dreaming it was the fall of the stairs, he leaped from
his bed, and hurried out to see what it was. He fell on them, and though
no bones were broken, he was laid up for several weeks. The wind always
had the credit of the affair, and Prettyman won great applause for his
speedy assistance and sympathy with Dogberry, whom he visited constantly
during his confinement.
The night of the adjournment of court, the lawyers, and even the judges,
had what they called a regular frolic. Mr. Sears was in Baltimore, and
the scholars were easily induced to join in it—in fact they wanted no
inducement. About twelve o’clock at night we were aroused from our beds
by a most awful yelling for the ex-sheriff. “Hall, Hall,” was the
cry—soon the door was opened, and the trampling of feet was heard—in a
minute the frolickers ascended the stairs, and one of the judges, with a
blanket wrapped round him, like an Indian, with his face painted, and a
red handkerchief tied round his head, and with red slippers on, entered
our room, with a candle in one hand and a bottle in the other; and,
after making us drink all round, bade us get up. We were nothing loath.
On descending into the dining-room, lo! there were the whole bar,
dressed off in the most fantastic style, and some of them scarcely
dressed at all. They were mad with fun and wine. The ex-sheriff brought
forth his liquors, and was placed on his own table as a culprit, and
tried and found guilty of not having been, as in duty bound, one of the
originators of the frolic. He was, therefore, fined glasses round for
the company, and ordered by the judges to pay it at Richardson’s bar. To
Richardson’s the order was given to repair. Accordingly, without they
formed a line, Indian file. Two large black women carried a light in
each hand beside the first judge, and two smaller black women carried a
light in the right hand beside the next one. The lawyers followed, each
with a light in his hand, and the procession closed with the scholars,
who each also bore a light. I, being smallest, brought up the rear.
There was neither man nor boy who was not more or less inebriated, and
the wildest pranks were played.
When we reached Dogberry’s domicile, one of the boys proposed to have
him out with us. The question was put by one of the judges and carried
by acclamation unanimously. It was further resolved, that a deputation
of three, each bearing a bottle of different liquor, should be appointed
to wait on him, with the request that he would visit the Pawnee tribe,
from the far west, drink some fire-water with them, and smoke the pipe
of peace.
Prettyman, whose recklessness knew no bounds, and who, as I suppose,
wished to involve me in difficulty, moved that the smallest and tallest
person in the council be of that deputation. There happened to be a
quantity of logs, which had been gathered there for the purpose of
building a log house. Mr. Patterson (I use here a fictitious name) was
at this time the great lawyer of Maryland. He was dressed in a splendid
Indian costume, which a western client had given him, and he had painted
himself with care and taste. He was a fine looking man, and stretching
out his hand, he exclaimed:
“Brothers, be seated; but not on the prostrate forms of the forest,
which the ruthless white man has felled to make unto himself a
habitation. Like the big warrior Tecumseh, in council with the great
white chief Harrison, we will sit upon the lap of our mother the
earth—upon her breast we will sleep—the Pawnee has no roof but the
blue sky, where dwelleth the Great Spirit—and he looks up to the
shining stars, and they look down upon him—and they count the leaves of
the forest and know the might of the Pawnees.”
Every one, by this time, had taken a seat upon the ground, and all were
silent. As the lights flashed o’er the group, they formed as grotesque a
scene as I have ever witnessed.
“Brothers,” he continued, “those eyes of the Great Spirit,” pointing
upwards to the stars, “behold the rushing river, and they say to our
fathers, who are in the happy hunting grounds of the blest, that, like
it, is the might of the Pawnee when he rushes to battle. The white men
are dogs—their carcasses drift in the tide—they are cast out on the
shore, and the prairie-wolf fattens on them.
“Brothers—the eyes of the Great Spirit behold the prairies and the
forest, where the breath of the wintry wind bears the red fire through
them—where the prairie-wolf flies, and the fire flies faster. Brothers,
the white man is the prairie-wolf, and the Pawnee is the fire.
“Brothers—when the forked fire from the right arm of the Great Spirit
smites the mountain’s brow, the eagle soars upwards to his home in the
clouds, but the snake crawls over the bare rock in the blast, and hides
in the clefts and in the hollows and holes. Behold! the forked fire
strikes the rock and scatters it as the big warrior would throw pebbles
from his hand, and the soaring eagle darts from the clouds and the
death-rattle of the snake is heard, and he hisses no more.
“Brothers—the Pawnee is the eagle, the bird of the Great Spirit, and
the white man is the crawling snake that the Great Spirit hates.
“Brothers—the shining eyes of the Great Spirit sees all these things,
and tells them to our fathers, who are in the happy hunting ground of
the blest, and they say that some day, wrapped in the clouds, they will
come and see us, for our land is like theirs.”
This was said with so much eloquence, by the distinguished lawyer, that
there was the silence of nearly a minute when he concluded. In the
company was a lawyer named Short, who, strange to say, was just six feet
three inches and a half high, and he had a client—which is stranger
still—named Long, who was but five feet high.
“Who has precedence, Judge Willard?” called out somebody in the crowd,
breaking in upon the business of the occasion, as upon such occasions
business always will be broken in upon—“who has precedence, Long or
Short?”
“Long,” exclaimed the judge, “of course. It is a settled rule in law,
that you must take as much land as is called for in the deed—therefore
Long takes precedence of Short. May be, Short has a remedy in equity;
but this court has nothing to do with that—so you have the _long_ and
the _short_ of the matter.”
“Judge,” cried out the ex-sheriff, “we must go to Richardson’s—you know
it is my treat.”
“The Pawnee—the eagle of his race,”—exclaimed Patterson, “the prophet
of his tribe; he who is more than warrior—whose tongue is clothed with
the Great Spirit’s thunder—who can speak with the eloquence of the
spring air when it whispers amidst the leaves and makes the flowers open
and give forth their sweets—he, the Charming Serpent, that hath a
tongue forked with persuasion—he, even he, will go in to the white man,
and invite him to come forth and taste the fire-water, and smoke the
pipe of peace with the Pawnee. Then, if he comes not forth when the
charming serpent takes him by the hand, and bids him, the Pawnees shall
smoke him out like a fox, and his blazing habitation shall make night
pale, and there shall be no resting place for his foot, and children and
squaws shall whip him into the forest, and set the dogs upon his trail,
and he shall be hunted from hill to hill, from river to river, from
prairie to prairie, from forest to forest, till, like the frightened
deer, he rushes, panting, into the great lakes, and the waters rise over
him, and cover him from the Pawnees’ scorn.”
This was received with acclamation. Mr. Patterson played the Indian so
well, that he drew me one of the closest to him, in the charmed circle
that surrounded him. His eye flashed, his lips quivered with fiery
ardor, though at the mimic scene. I was so lost in admiration of him,
that I placed myself beside him without knowing it. He saw the effect he
had produced upon me, and was evidently gratified. Taking me by the
hand, he said:
“Warriors and braves, give unto me the brand, that the Charming Serpent
may light the steps of the boy to the hiding-place of the pale-face. He
shall listen to the eloquence of the Charming Serpent when he takes the
white man by the hand—he shall learn how to move alike the heart of the
pale-face and the red man.
“Brothers—the Charming Serpent to-night,” said he, handing me the
candle, and placing himself in an oratorial attitude, while every man
lifted up his candle so that it shone full upon him,—“Brothers, the
Charming Serpent to-night could speak unto the four winds that are now
howling in the desolate Pawnee paths of the wilderness, and make them
sink into a low moan, and sigh themselves to silence, were he to tell
them of the many of his tribe who are now lying mangled, unburied, and
cold, beneath the shadow of the rocky mountains—victims of the white
man’s vengeance.
“Brothers: O! that the Great Spirit would give the Charming Serpent his
voice of thunder—then would he stand upon the highest peak of the
Alleghanies, with the forked lightning in his red right hand, and tell a
listening and heart-struck world the wrong of his race. And, when all of
every tribe of every people had come crouching in the valleys, and had
filled up the gorges of the hills, then would the Charming Serpent hurl
vengeance on the oppressor. But come,” said he, taking the candle in one
hand, and myself by the other, “the Pawnee talks like a squaw. The
Charming Serpent will speak with the pale-face, and lead him forth from
his wigwam to the great council fire.”
Accordingly, the Charming Serpent took me by the hand, and led me up the
stairs. His steps were steady, and it was evident that his libations had
excited his brain, and, instead of weakening him, given him strength.
“What’s your name?” said he to me kindly.
“William Russel, sir.”
“Do you know me, my little fellow?”
“Yes, sir, you’re Mr. Patterson, the great lawyer.”
“Ah, ah! they call me a great lawyer, do they! What else do they say?”
“That you’re the greatest orator in the country,” I replied—for what I
had drank made me bold too.
“They do—I know they do, my little fellow—I believe, in fact, that I
could have stood up in the Areopagus of old, in favor of human rights,
and faced the best of them. Yes, sir, I too could have ‘fulmined over
Greece.’ But we are not Grecians now—we are Pawnees.”
“Stop, stop, Mr. Pawnee,” called out some one from the crowd, “Short was
to go, he is the tallest man.”
“The tallest man,” re-echoed Mr. Patterson, speaking in his natural
tone. “The judge, sir, has already decided that by just legal
construction, Short is short, no matter how long he is; and, if he
claims to be long, sir, I can just inform him that Lord Bacon says ‘that
tall men are like tall houses, the upper story is the worst furnished.’”
Here, every eye was turned on Short, and there was a shout of laughter.
“If,” continued Mr. Patterson—and it was evident his potations were
doing their work—“if it be true—I’ll just say this to you, sirs.
Doctor Watts was a very small man; and, I repeat it for the benefit of
all small men—
‘Had I the height to reach the pole
Or meet the ocean with my span,
I would be measured by my soul—
The mind’s the standard of the man.’
“There, gentlemen of the jury; if that be true, I opine that the tallest
man in the crowd is now addressing you. But, I forget. I am a Pawnee.
“Brothers: The tall grass of the prairies is swept by the fire, while
the flint endureth the hot flames of the stake. The loftiest trees of
the forest snap like a reed in the whirlwind, and the bird that builds
there leaves her eggs unhatched. The highest peak of the mountain is
always the bleakest and barest—in the valley are the sweet waters and
the pleasant. Damn it,” said he, speaking in his proper person, for he
began to forget his personation, “why do we value the gem—
‘Ask why God made the gem so small,
And why so huge the granite?
Because he meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.’
“That’s Burns—an illustrious name, gentlemen. When I was minister
abroad, I stood beside the peasant poet’s grave, and thanked God that he
had given me the faculties to appreciate him. Suppose that he had been
born in this land of ours, sirs; all we who think ourselves lights in
law and statesmanship, would have seen our stars paled—paled, sirs, as
the fire of the prairie grows dim, when the eye of the Great Spirit
looks forth from the eastern gates—damn it, that’s Ossian and not
Pawnee—upon it in its fierceness.
‘Thou, the bright eye of the universe,
That openest over all, and unto all
Art a delight—thou shinest not on my soul.’
“That’s Byron—I knew him well—handsome fellow. ‘Thou shinest not on my
soul’—no, but thou shinest on the prairie.”
“The usher—Dogberry—let’s have Dogberry,” called out several of the
students.
“Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Patterson; “Dogberry, ha! He’s Goldsmith’s village
teacher, that caused the wonder
‘That one small head could carry all he knew.’
Dogberry—Dogberry—but that sounds Shakspearian. ‘Reading and writing
comes by Nature.’ That’s certainly not his sentiments; were they, he
should throw away the usher’s rod and betake himself to something else;
for if these things come by nature, then is Dogberry’s occupation gone.
Yes, he had better betake himself to the constableship. Come, my little
friend—come, son of the Pawnee, and we will arouse the pale face.”
Stepping by the side of Mr. Patterson, we ascended to the little
platform in front of Dogberry’s door, at which we rapped three times
distinctly. “Who’s there?” cried out a voice from within. Dogberry must
of course have been awake for at least half an hour.
“Pale face,” said the Pawnee chief, “thou hast not followed the example
of the great chief of the pale faces; the string of thy latch is pulled
in. Upon my word, this is certainly the attic story,” he continued in a
low voice.
“I am not very well to-night, gentlemen, unless your business is
pressing.”
“Pressing! Pale face, the Pawnees have lit their council fire, and
invite thee to drink with them the fire-water and smoke the pipe of
peace.”
“Thank you, gentlemen, I never drink,” responded Dogberry, in an
impatient tone.
“Never drink! Pale face, thou liest! Who made the fire-water, and gave
it to my people, but thee and thine? Lo! before it, though they once
covered the land, they have melted away like snow beneath the sun.”
“I belong to the temperance society,” cried out Dogberry from within.
“Dogberry,” exclaimed Patterson—whose patience, like that of the crowd
below, who were calling for the usher as if they were at a town meeting,
and expected him to speak, was becoming exhausted—“Dogberry, compel me
not, as your great namesake would say, to commit either ‘perjury’ or
‘burglary,’ and break your door open. You remember in Marmion, Dogberry,
that the chief, speaking of the insult which had been put upon him,
said,
‘I’ll right such wrongs where’er they’re given,
Though in the very court of Heaven.’
Now I will not say that I would make you drink wherever the old chief
would ‘right his wrongs,’ but this I will say, that wherever I, Burbage
Patterson, get drunk, I think you can come forth and take a stirrup cup
with him; he leaves for the Supreme Court to-morrow.”
“Mr. Patterson,” said Dogberry, coming towards the door, “your character
can stand it—it can stand anything—mine can’t.”
“There’s truth in that,” said Mr. Patterson aside to me. “Gentlemen, let
us leave the pedagogue to his reflections; and now it occurs to me that
we had better not uncage him, for, boys, he would be a witness against
you; more, witness, judge, jury and executioner—by the by, clear
against law. Were I in your place, I would appeal, and for every stripe
he gives you, should the judgment be reversed, do you give him two.”
Here a sprightly fellow, one of the scholars, named Morris, from Long
Green, ran up the steps and said to Mr. Patterson,
“Do, sir, have him out, for if we get him into the frolic too, we are as
safe, sir, as if we were all in our beds. He has seen us all through
some infernal crack or other.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, in a low tone to Morris, “he has been
playing Cowper, has he—looking from the loopholes of retreat, seeing
the Babel and not feeling the stir?”
“Yes sir, but he’ll make a stir about it to-morrow.”
“He shall come forth, then,” said Mr. Patterson; “Dogberry, open the
door; they speak of removing Sears, and why don’t you come forth and
greet your friends? We have an idea of getting the appointment for you.”
This flattery took instant effect, for we heard Dogberry bustling to the
door, and in a moment it was opened about half way, and the usher put
his head out, and said, but with the evident wish that his invitation
would be refused, “Will you come in sir? Why, William Russell!” to me,
in surprise.
“Pale face, this is a youthful brave, whom I want the pale face to teach
the arts of his race. Behold! I am the Charming Serpent. Come forth and
taste of the fire-water.”
As Mr. Patterson spoke, he took Dogberry by the hand, and pulled him on
to the platform. The usher was greeted with loud acclamations and
laughter by the crowd. He, however, did not relish it, and was
frightened out of his wits. He really looked the personification of a
caricature. His head was covered with an old flannel nightcap,
notwithstanding it was warm weather, and his trousers were held up by
his hips, while his suspenders dangled about his knees. On his right leg
he had an old boot, and on his left foot an old shoe, and was without
coat or vest. As Mr. Patterson held up the light, so that the crowd
below could see him, there was such a yelling as had not been heard on
the spot since those whose characters the crowd were assuming had left
it.
Dogberry hastily withdrew into his room, but followed by Mr. Patterson
and myself, each bearing a light. When we entered, the crowd rushed up
the steps.
“For God’s sake, sir, for the sake of my character and situation, don’t
let them come in here.”
“They shall not, if you will promise to drink with me. Pale face, speak,
will you drink with the Pawnee?”
“Yes sir,” said Dogberry, faintly.
The Charming Serpent here went to the door, and said,
“Brothers, the Charming Serpent would hold a private talk with the chief
of the pale faces. Ere long, he will be with you. Let the Big Bull (one
of the lawyers was named Bull, and he was very humorous,) pass round the
fire-water and the calumet, and by that time the Charming Serpent will
come forth. Brothers, give unto the Charming Serpent some of the
fire-water, that he may work his spells.”
A dozen handed up bottles of different wines and liquors. The Charming
Serpent gave Dogberry the candles to hold, took a bottle of Champaigne,
and handed me another. Then shutting the door, he said,
“This is the fire-water that hath no evil in it. It courses through the
veins like a silvery lake through the prairie, where the wild grass
waves green and placid, and it makes the heart merry like the merriment
of birds in the spring-time, and not with the fierce fires of the dark
lake, like the strong fire-water, that glows red as the living coal.
Brothers, we will drink.”
Dogberry’s apartment was indeed an humble one. Only in the centre of it
could you stand upright. Over our heads were the rafters and bare
shingles, formed exactly in the shape of the capital letter A inverted,
or rather V. Opposite the door was a little window of four panes of
glass, and under it, or rather beside it, in the corner, was a little
bedstead, with a straw mattrass upon it. A small table, with a tumbler
and broken pitcher, and candle in a tin candlestick on it, stood
opposite the bed. A board, nailed across from rafter to rafter, held a
few books, and beside it, on nails, were several articles of clothing.
There were besides in the apartment two chairs, and a wooden chest in
the corner, by the door.
“Come, drink, my old boy,” exclaimed Patterson.
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson, your character can stand it, I tell you, but
mine can’t.”
“Friend of my soul, this goblet sip,” reiterated Patterson, offering
Dogberry the glass.
“Thank you, Mr. Patterson, I would not choose any,” said he.
“You can’t but choose, Dogberry; there is no alternative. Do you
remember what the poet beautifully says of the Roman daughter, who
sustained her imprisoned father from her own breast?—
‘Drink, drink and live, old man; Heaven’s realm holds no such tide.’
Do you remember it? I bid you drink, then, and I say to you, Hebe nor
Ganymede ever offered to the immortals purer wine than that. Drink!
here’s to you, Dogberry, and to your speedy promotion,” and Mr.
Patterson swallowed every drop in the glass, and re-filling it, handed
it to the usher.
Without much hesitation, he drank it. He now filled me up a glass nearly
full, and I followed the example of my preceptor, he the while looking
at me with astonishment.
“How do you like the letter, Mr. Dogberry?” asked Mr. Patterson of the
pedagogue.
“What letter, sir? Mr. Patterson, I must say this is a strange
proceeding. I don’t know, sir, to what you allude.”
“Don’t know to what I allude! Why, the letter wishing to know if you
would take the academy at the same price at which Sears now holds it.”
“Sir, I have received no such letter. I certainly, sir, would, if it was
thought that I was—”
“Was competent. Merit is always modest; you’re the most competent of the
two, sir—take some.”
So saying, Mr. Patterson filled up the tumbler, and Dogberry swallowed
the compliment and the wine together, and fixed his eye on the rafters
with an exulting look. While he was so gazing, the lawyer filled his
glass, and observed, “Come, drink, and let me open this other bottle; I
want a glass myself.” Down went the wine, and, with a smack of his lips,
Dogberry handed the glass to Mr. Patterson.
“Capital, ain’t it, eh?”
“Capital,” re-echoed Dogberry. The wine and his supposed honors had
aroused the brain of the pedagogue in a manner which seemed to awake him
to a new existence. While Mr. Patterson was striking the top from the
other bottle, Dogberry handed me the candle which he held—the other he
had put in his candlestick, taking out his own when he first drank—and
lifting the tumbler, he stood ready.
Again he quaffed a bumper. The effect of his potations on him was
electrical. He had a long face, with a snipe-like nose, which was
subjected to a nervous twitching whenever its owner was excited. It now
danced about, seemingly, all over his face, while his naturally
cadaverous countenance, under the excitement, turned to a glowing red,
and his small ferret eyes looked both dignified and dancing, merry and
important. “So,” exclaimed he, “I am to be principal of the academy; ha,
ha, ha! oh, Lord! William Russell, I would reprove you on the spot, but
that you are in such distinguished company.”
Whether Dogberry meant only Mr. Patterson, or included himself, I do not
know, but as he spoke he arose, and paced his humble apartment with a
proud tread, forgetting what a figure he cut, with his suspenders
dangling about his knees and his nightcap on, and forgetting also that
his attic was not high enough to admit his head to be carried at its
present altitude. The consequence was that he struck it against one of
the rafters, with a violence that threatened injury to the rafter, if
not to the head. He stooped down to rub the affected part, when Mr.
Patterson said to him,
“‘Pro-di-gi-ous,’ as Dominie Sampson, one of you, said, ain’t it? Come,
we’ll finish this bottle, and then go forth. The scholars are all
rejoiced at your promotion, and are all assembled without to do you
honor. They have made complete saturnalia of it. They marvel now why you
treat them with so much reserve.”
“Gad, I’ll do it,” exclaimed Dogberry, taking the tumbler and swallowing
the contents.
“Just put your blanket around you,” said Patterson to him. “Let your
nightcap remain; it becomes you.”
“No, it don’t indeed, though, eh?”
“It does, ’pon honor. That’s it. Now, pale face, come forth; the
eloquence of the Charming Serpent has prevailed.”
So speaking, Mr. Patterson opened the door, and we stepped on to the
platform.
The scene without was grotesque in the extreme. In front of us, I
suppose to the number of an hundred persons, were the frolickers,
composed of lawyers, students and town’s-people, all seated in a circle,
while Mr. Patterson’s client from the West, dressed in costume, was
giving the Pawnee war dance. This client was a rough uneducated man, but
full of originality and whim. Mr. Patterson had gained a suit for him,
in which the title to an estate in the neighborhood was involved, worth
upwards of sixty thousand dollars. The whole bar had believed that the
suit could not be sustained by Patterson, but his luminous mind had
detected the clue through the labyrinths of litigation, where they saw
nothing but confusion and defeat. His client was overjoyed at the
result, as every one had croaked defeat to him. He gave Mr. Patterson
fifteen thousand dollars, five more than he had promised, and besides
had made him a present of the splendid Indian dress in which, as a bit
of fun, before the frolic commenced, he had decked himself, under the
supervision of his client, who acted as his costumer, and afterwards
dressed himself in the same way. The client had a great many Indian
dresses with him, which he had collected with great care, and on this
occasion he threw open his trunks, and supplied nearly the whole bar.
The name of Mr. Patterson’s client was Blackwood, and the admiration
which he excited seemed to give him no little pleasure. Most of the
lawyers in the circle had something Indian on them, while the boys, who
could not appear in costume, and were determined to appear wild, had
turned their jackets wrong side out, and swapped with each other, the
big ones with the little, so that one wore his neighbor’s jacket, the
waist of which came up under his arms, and exhibited the back of his
vest, while the other wore a coat the hip buttons of which were at his
knees.
On the outskirts of this motley assembly could be seen, here and there,
a negro, who might be said at once to contribute to the darkness that
surrounded the scene and to reflect light upon it, for their black skins
were as ebon as night, while their broad grins certainly had something
luminous about them, as their white teeth shone forth.
We stood about a minute admiring the dance, when it was concluded, and
some one espied us, and pointed us out to the rest. We, or rather I
should say Dogberry, was greeted with three times three. I have never
seen, for the size of the assembly, such an uproarious outbreak of
bacchanalian merriment. After the cheers were given, many of the boys
threw themselves on the grass and rolled over and over, shouting as they
rolled. Others jerked their fellows’ hats off, and hurled them in air.
Prettyman stood with his arms folded, as if he did not know what to make
of it, and then deliberately spreading his blanket on the ground, as
deliberately took a seat in the centre of it, as if determined to
maintain the full possession of his faculties, and, like an amateur at a
play, enjoy the scene. Morris held his sides, stooped down his head, and
glanced sideways cunningly at Dogberry, throwing his head back every now
and then with a sudden jerk, while loud explosive bursts of laughter,
from his very heart, echoed through the village above every other sound.
“A speech from Dogberry!” exclaimed Prettyman.
“Ay, a speech!” shouted Morris, “a speech!”
“No, gentlemen, not now,” exclaimed Richardson, the proprietor of one of
the hotels; “I sent down to my house an hour ago, and have had a
collation served. Mr. Patterson, and gentlemen and students all, I
invite you to partake with me.”
“Silence!” called out Mr. Patterson. All were silent. “Students of the
Belle Air Academy and citizens generally, I have the honor to announce
to you that my friend, Mr. Dogberry, is about to supersede Mr. Sears. We
must form a procession and place him in our midst, the post of honor,
and then to mine host’s.” So speaking, Mr. Patterson descended, followed
by Dogberry and myself. The students gave their candles to the negroes
to hold, joined their hands, and danced round Dogberry with the wildest
glee, while he received it all in drunken dignity.
When I have seen since, in Chapman’s floating theatre, or in a barn or
shed, some lubberly, drunken son of the sock and buskin enact Macbeth,
with the witches about him, I have recalled this scene, and thought that
the boys looked like the witches and Dogberry like the Thane, when the
witches greet him:
‘All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be king hereafter!’
The procession was at length formed. Surrounded by the boys, who rent
the air with shouts, with his nightcap on his head and his blanket
around him, with one boot and one shoe, Dogberry, following immediately
after the judges, proceeded with them to Richardson’s hotel. Whenever
there was the silence of a minute or two, some boy or other would ask
Dogberry not to remember on the morrow that he saw them out that night.
“No, boys, no, certainly not; this thing, I understand, is done in honor
of me. I shan’t take Sears in even as an assistant. Boys, he has not
used me well.”
We arrived at Richardson’s as well as we could, having business on both
sides of the street. His dining-room was a very large one, and he had a
very fine collation set out, with plenty of wines and other liquors.
Judge Willard took the head of the table and Judge Nolan the foot.
Dogberry was to the right of Judge Willard and Mr. Patterson to the
left. He made me sit beside him. The eating was soon despatched, and it
silenced us all a little, while it laid the groundwork for standing
another supply of wine, which was soon sparkling in our glasses, and we
were now all more excited than ever. It was amusing to see the merry
faces of my schoolmates twinkling about among the crowd, trying to catch
and comprehend whatever was said by the lawyers, particularly those that
were distinguished.
Songs were sung, sentiments given, and Indian talks held by the
quantity. Dogberry looked the while first at the boys and then at the
lawyers and then at himself, not knowing whether or not the scene before
him was a reality or a dream. The great respect which the boys showed
him, and Patterson’s making an occasional remark to him, seemed at last
not only fully to impress him with the reality, but also with a full, if
not a sober conviction of his own importance.
“A song!—a song!” was shouted by a dozen of the larger students; “a
song from Morris. Give us ‘Down with the pedagogue Sears.’ Hurrah for
old Dogberry—Dogberry forever.”
“No,” cried out others, “a speech from Mr. Patterson—no, from the
Pawnee. You’re fineable for not speaking in character.”
Here Prettyman took Mr. Patterson courteously by the hand, and said
something to him in a whisper.
“Ah ha!” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, “so shall it be; I like Morris. Come,
my good fellow, sing us the song you wrote; come, Dogberry’s star is now
in the ascendant. ‘Down with the pedagogue Sears’—let’s have it.”
Nothing loth, Morris was placed on the table, while the students
gathered round him, ready to join the chorus. Taking a preparatory glass
of wine, while Mr. Patterson rapped on the table by way of commanding
silence, Morris placed himself in an attitude and sang the following
song, which he had written on some rebellious occasion or other: