You may talk of the study of imperial power,
And tell how their subjects must fawn, cringe and cower,
And offer the incense of tears;
But I tell you at once, that there’s none can compare
With the tyrant that rules o’er the lads of Belle Air,
So down with the pedagogue Sears.
(Chorus,) Down, down,
Down with the pedagogue Sears.
The serf has his Sunday—the negroes tell o’er
Their Christmas, the Fourth, aye, and many days more,
When they feel themselves any man’s peers;
But we’re tasked night and day by the line and the rule,
And Sunday’s no Sunday, for there’s Sunday school,
So down with the pedagogue Sears.
(Chorus,) Down, down, &c.
So here’s to the lad who can talk to his lass,
And here’s to the lad who can take down his glass,
And is only a lad in his years:
Who can stand up and act a bold part like a man,
And do just whatever another man can,
So down with the pedagogue Sears.
(Chorus,) Down, down,
Down with the pedagogue Sears—
“Hip, hip, hurrah—once more,” shouted Morris. “Now then”—
Down, down,
So down with the pedagogue Sears.
While the whole room was in uproarious chorusing, who should enter but
Sears himself. He looked round with stern dignity and surprise, at first
uncertain on whom to fix his indignation, when his eye lit on Dogberry,
who, the most elated and inebriated of all, was flourishing his nightcap
over his head, and shouting, at the top of his voice,
“Down with the pedagogue Sears.”
As soon as Sears caught a view of Dogberry, he advanced towards him, as
if determined to inflict personal chastisement on the usher. At first
Dogberry prepared again to vociferate the chorus, but when he caught the
eye of Sears, his voice failed him, and he moved hastily towards Mr.
Patterson, who slapped him on the shoulder, and cried out,
“Dogberry, be true to yourself.”
“I am true to myself. Yes, my old boy, old Sears, you’re no longer head
devil at Belle Air Academy. You’re no devil at all, or if you are, old
boy, you’re a poor devil, and be d—d to you.”
“You’re a drunken outcast, sir,” exclaimed Sears. “Never let me see your
face again; I dismiss you from my service,” and so speaking, he took a
note book from his pocket, and began hastily to take down the names of
the students. The Big Bull saw this, and caught it from his hand.
“Sir, sir,” exclaimed Sears, enraged, “my vocation, and not any respect
I bear you, prevents my infliction of personal chastisement upon you.
Boys, young gentlemen, leave instantly for your respective boarding
houses.”
During this, Patterson was clapping Dogberry on the shoulder, evidently
endeavoring to inspire him with courage.
“Tell him yourself,” I overheard Dogberry say.
“No, no,” replied Patterson, “it is your place.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you at once, Sears, you’re no longer principal of
this academy; you’re dished. Mr. Patterson, sir, will tell you so.”
“Mr. Patterson!” exclaimed Sears, now for the first time recognizing, in
the semblance of the Indian chief, the distinguished lawyer and
statesman. “Sir, I am more than astonished.”
“Sir,” rejoined Patterson, drawing himself up with dignity, “I am a
Pawnee brave; more, a red man eloquent or a pale face eloquent, as it
pleases me; but, sir, under all circumstances, I respect your craft and
calling. What more dignified than such? A poor, unfriended boy, I was
taken by the hand by an humble teacher of a country school, and here I
stand, let me say sir, high in the councils of a great people. Peace to
old Playfair’s ashes. The old philosopher, like Porson, loved his cups,
and, like Parr, loved his pipe; but, sir, he was a ripe scholar and a
noble spirit, and I have so said, sir, in the humble monument which I am
proud, sir, I was enabled, through the education he gave me, to build
over him.
‘After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.’
Yes, as some one says, he was ‘my friend before I had flatterers.’ How
proud he was of me! I remember well catching his eye in making my first
speech, and the approving nod he gave me had more gratification to me
than the approbation of bench, bar and audience. Glorious old Playfair!
Mr. Sears, you were his pupil too. Many a time have I heard him speak of
you; he said, of all his pupils, you were the one to wear his mantle.
And, sir, that was the highest compliment he could pay you—the highest,
Mr. Speaker, for he esteemed himself of the class of the philosophers,
the teachers of youth. Sir, Mr. Sears, I propose to you that in
testimony of our life-long respect for him, we drink to his memory.”
This was said so eloquently, and withal so naturally, that Sears,
forgetful of his whereabouts, took the glass which Mr. Patterson offered
him, and drank its contents reverently to the memory of his old teacher.
“Sir,” resumed Patterson, “how glorious is your vocation! But tell me,
do you subscribe to the sentiment of Don Juan?—
‘Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions—
It mends their morals—never mind the pain.’”
The appropriate quotation caused a thrill to run through the assembled
students, while they cast ominous looks at each other. For the life of
him, Sears could not resist a smile.
At this Mr. Patterson glanced at us with a quiet meaning, and turning to
Mr. Sears, he continued: “The elder Adams taught school—he whose
eloquence Jefferson has so loudly lauded—the man who was for liberty or
death, and so expressed himself in that beautiful letter to his wife. Do
you not remember that passage, sir, where he speaks of the Fourth being
greeted thereafter with bonfires and illuminations? His son, Johnny Q.,
taught school. My dark-eyed friend Webster, who is now figuring so
gloriously in the halls of Congress and in the Supreme Court, taught
school. Judge Rowan, of Kentucky, a master spirit too, taught school.
Who was that
‘Who passed the flaming bounds of time and space,
The living throne, the sapphire blaze,
Where angels tremble as they gaze:
Who saw, but, blasted with excess of light,
Closed his eyes in endless night’—
Who was he? Milton, the glorious, the sublime—who, in his aspirations
for human liberty, prayed to that great spirit who, as he himself says,
“sends forth the fire from his altar to touch and purify the lips of
whom he pleaseth”—Milton, the schoolmaster.
‘If fallen in evil days on evil tongues,
Milton appealed to the avenger, Time:
If Time, the avenger, execrates his wrongs,
And if the word ‘Miltonic’ mean ‘sublime,’
He deigned not to belie his soul in songs,
Nor turn his very talent to a crime;
He did not loathe the sire to laud the son,
But closed the tyrant-hater he begun.
‘Thinkest thou, could he—the blind old man—arise,
Like Samuel, from the grave, to freeze once more
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,
Or be alive again—again, all hoar
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes
And heartless daughters, worn, and pale, and poor—’
Would he not be proud of his vocation, when he reflected how many great
spirits had followed his example? The schoolmaster is indeed abroad. Mr.
Sears, let us drink the health of the blind old man eloquent.”
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Patterson, but before my scholars, under the
circumstances, it would be setting a bad example, when existing
circumstances prove they need a good one. Sir, it was thought that I
should not return from Baltimore until to-morrow, and this advantage has
been taken of my absence. But, Mr. Patterson, when such distinguished
gentlemen as yourself set the example, I know not what to say.”
“Forgive them, sir, forgive them,” said Patterson, in his blandest tone.
“Let them repair to their homes, then, instantly. Mr. Patterson, your
eloquent conversation had made me forget myself; I don’t wonder they
should have forgotten themselves. Let them depart.”
“There, boys,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson, “I have a greater opinion of my
oratorical powers than ever. Be ye all dismissed until I again appear as
a Pawnee brave, which I fear will be a long time, for ’tis not every day
that such men as my western client are picked up. But, Mr. Sears, what
do you say about Dogberry? He must be where he was; to-morrow must but
type yesterday. Dogberry, how is Verges?”
“I don’t know him,” said Dogberry, doggedly.
“Why, sir, he is the associate of your namesake in Shakspeare’s immortal
page. Let this play to-night, Mr. Sears, be like that in which
Dogberry’s namesake appeared—let it be ‘Much Ado About Nothing.’”
Sears smiled, and nodded his head approvingly.
“Then be the court adjourned,” exclaimed Mr. Patterson. “Dogberry, you
and my friend Sears are still together, and you must remember in the
premises what your namesake said to Verges, ‘An’ two men ride of a
horse, one man must ride behind.’”
Giving three cheers for Mr. Patterson, we boys departed, and the next
day found us betimes in the academy, where mum was the word between all
parties.
* * * * *