University of Virginia Library

A FROLIC AMONG THE LAWYERS.

1. CHAPTER I.

I was born in the South. I had very bad health
there in my early childhood, and a maiden aunt
took a voyage by sea, from Baltimore to my birth-place,
for the purpose of returning with me to a
climate which the physician had said would
strengthen my constitution.

She brought me up with the greatest kindness,
or rather, I should say, she kept me comparatively
feeble by her over-care of my health. When I was
about fourteen years of age my father brought my
mother and my little sister Virginia from Charleston
to see me. My meeting with my kind mother
I shall never forget. She held me at arm's length
for a instant, to see if she could recognize in the
chubby boy before her, the puny sickly child with
whom she had parted with such fond regret on
board the Caroline but a few years before; and when,
in memory and in heart, she recognized each lineament,

she clasped me to her bosom with a wild
hysteric joy which compensated her—more than
compensated her—she said, for all the agony
which our separation had caused her. I loved my
mother devotedly, yet I wondered at the emotion
which she exhibited at our meeting; and child
though I was, a sense of unworthiness came over
me, possibly because my affections could not sound
the depths of hers.

My father's recognition was kinder than I had
expected from what I remembered of our separation.
He felt prouder of me than at our parting, I presume
from my improved health and looks; and this
made him feel that being tied to the apron-strings
of my good old aunt, would not improve my manliness.
A gentleman whom he had met at a dinner
party, who was the principal of an academy, a
kind of miniature college, some distance from Baltimore,
had impressed my father, by his disquisitions,
with a profound respect for such a mode of
education.

“William,” said my father, in speaking on the
subject to a friend, “will be better there than here
among the women; he'll be a baby forever here.
No, I must make a man of him. I shall take him
next week with me, and leave him in charge of
Sears.”

My mother insisted upon it that I should stay
longer, that she might enjoy my society, and that

my sister and myself might become more attached
to each other ere they returned to Carolina. But
my father said, “No, my dear; you know it was
always agreed between us, that you should bring
up Virginia as you pleased, and that I would bring
up William as I pleased.”

“Let us take him, then, back home,” exclaimed
my mother; “he is healthy enough now.”

“But he would not be healthy long there, my
dear. No, I have made inquiry; Mr. Sears is an
admirable man; and under his care, which I am
satisfied will be paternal, William will improve
his mind, and learn to be a man—will you not,
William?”

I could only cling to my mother without reply.

“Here,” exclaimed my father exultingly, “you
see the effect of his education thus far.”

“The effect of his education thus far!” retorted
my aunt, who did not relish my father's remark;
“he has been taught to say his prayers, and to
love his parents, and to 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 on my father. He
was resolved that I should go to Bel-Air, the
county town of Harford County, Md., situated
about twenty-four 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 I did. 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 laid awake all night picturing to
myself what would be the misery of my situation
at Bel-Air. In fact, when the day arrived, I bade
my mother, aunt, 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 as yet found an outlet from their icy thrall,
'neath which they flowed dark and deep.

Bel-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 to play there
for their own amusement, if not for the edification
of the pupils of Mr. Sears.

My father drew up at McKenney's tavern, and
as it was about twelve when we arrived, and the
pupils were dismissed to dinner, he sent in 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 school-boy
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 Dr. Busby's, who
would not take off his hat 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's; yet it projected
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 regretted,
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 among the towns-people would be as
well. He remarked that I was one of his smallest
pupils, but that he would look upon 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 McKenney'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 rose, 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's 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
might have marked one of Napoleon's approved
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 Dr. Parr and Dr. 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's 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; whilst Jane was lolling and lazy
in her motions, and without either good looks or
smartness. 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 I remember yet,
she told me not to grieve because I was away 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 whilst 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 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 exist 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 out-goings
and in-comings, and seeing that everything around
me conduced to my convenience and comfort, the
contrast was indeed great when I appeared at the
Bel-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 this ridicule—for he practised his gift
on me every night—I not only neglected to say
them, but began to feel angry toward my aunt that
she had ever taught them to me, as they brought so
much contempt on me. Yet such is the power of conscience,
at that tender age, that when I woke in
the morning of the first night 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 which
they teach their pupils to feel and exhibit towards
them, and the kindness with which it is met,
cannot but be impressed with the truth of my
remarks.

There were nearly one hundred pupils at Bel-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 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;
he saved two-thirds of his salary, and as it
was not large, he had of course to live humbly.

He dined at Hall's and took breakfast and supper
in his lodgings, if he ever took them, and
the quantity of 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 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 caused it. He fell on them; and
though no bones were broken, he was laid up for
several weeks. The wind always had the credit of
this 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 around 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 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,
they formed a line without, 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 their right hands 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
the smallest, brought up the rear. There was
neither man nor boy who was not more or less intoxicated,
and the wildest pranks were played.

When we reached Dogberry's domicil, one of the
boys proposed to have him out with us. The question
was put by one of the judges, and carried by
unanimous acclamation. It was farther 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 largest person
in the council be of that deputation. There happened
to be by Dogberry's 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 a council with the
great white chief, Harrison, we will sit upon the
lap of our mother, the earth; upon her breast will
we 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 over the group, they formed as grotesque a
scene as I have ever witnessed.

“Brothers,” he continued, “those eyes of the
Great Spirit”—pointing upward 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 upward to his home in the
clouds, but the snake crawls over the bare rock in
the blast, and hides in the clefts, and 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
see all these things, and he tells them to our fathers,
who are in the happy hunting-grounds 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 a 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 Williard?” called
out some one 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. Maybe, 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
among 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 unto 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 come 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 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 Pawnee's
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 but in a mimic
scene. He would have made a great actor. 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 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 oratorical attitude, while every man lifted
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
into 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 treacherous
cruelty.

“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 forked lightning in his red right
hand, and tell a listening and heart-struck world
the wrongs 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 in 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.”

2. CHAPTER II.

Accordingly the Charming Serpent, holding me
by the hand, led me up the stairs. His steps were
steady. It was evident that his libations had excited
his brain, and instead of weakening gave him
strength.

“What's your name,” said he to me kindly.

“William Russell, Sir.”

“Do you know me, my little fellow?”

“Yes, sir, you're Mr. Patterson, the great
lawyer.”

“Ah, ha! they call me the great lawyer! 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
fulminated 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 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 Patterson, and it was evident
his potations were doing their work—“if it be
true, I will just say to you, sir, Dr. Watts was
a very small man, and he said, and I repeat it, of
all small men—

“There, gentlemen of the jury, if that be true,
I opine that the tallest man in the crowd is addressing
you. But I forget, I am a Pawnee.

“Brothers: the tall grass is swept by the fire,
while the flint endureth the 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 pleasant places.
Gentlemen,” said he, speaking in his proper person,
for he began to forget his personation, “why
do we value the gem—

“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 its
eastern gates—ba! that's Ossian, and not Pawnee
—upon it in its fierceness.

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 Patterson, “Dogberry!
He's Goldsmith's village teacher. that caused the
wonder—

Dogberry!—Dogberry!—but that sounds Shakspearian.
`Reading and writing come by nature.'
Those certainly are not his sentiments, I mean the
defendant's; 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—the night watch.
Come, my little friend—come, son of the Pawnee,
and we will arouse the pale-face.” Obeying Mr.
Patterson, we ascended to the little platform in
front of Dogberry's door, at which he 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, “are you attic,
too, Dogberry?”

“No, sir, I am rheumatic. Gentlemen, unless
your business be pressing—”

“Pressing! Pale-face, the Pawnees have lighted
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 the door open. You
remember in `Marmion,' Dogberry, that the chief,
speaking of the insult that had been put to him,
said:—

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 whenever 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, to encounter the giant
of the North.”

“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
reflection; 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 Patterson, in a low tone to
Morris, “he has been playing Cowper, has he;
looking from the loop-holes 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 an evident wish that
his invitation should be refused, “Will you come
in, sir? Why, William Russell!” to me in surprise.

“Pale-face, this is a youthful brave, to 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 the platform. The
usher was greeted by loud acclamations and
laughter. 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 trowsers
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; he

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 Champagne,
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 glorious, and it makes the
heart merry like the merriment of birds in springtime,
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 V inverted. 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 mattress upon it. A small
table, with a tumbler and broken pitcher, and a
candle in a tin candlestick, stood opposite the bed.
A board nailed across from rafter to rafter, held
a few books, and beside it, on nails, were a few 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?

Do you remember it? I bid you drink, then; and
I say to you Hebe or Ganymede never offered to
the immortals purer wine than that; I imported it
for my own use. Drink; here's to you, Dogberry,
and to your speedy promotion;” and Mr. Patterson
swallowed every drop in the glass, and refilling it
handed it to the usher.

“How do you like the letter, Mr. Dogberry?”
asked Patterson of the pedagogue.

“What letter, sir? 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 no such letter. I certainly would,
sir, 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 wine and the compliment
together, and fixed his eyes 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 roused 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 candle, when he first
drank, and lifting the tumbler he stood ready.
Again he quaffed a bumper. The effect of these
potations on him was electrical. He had a long
face, with a snipe-like nose, which was subject 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,” he
exclaimed, “I am to be principal of the academy;
ha-ha-ha! O 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 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
which threatened injury to the rafter, if not to the
head. He stooped down and rubbed the injured
part, when Mr. Patterson said to him, “`Pro-digi-ous,'
as Dominie Sampson, one of you, said,
ain't it? Hang Franklin's notion about stooping
in this world. 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 a complete saturnalia
of it. They marvel 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, “and let your nightcap remain; it
becomes you.”

“No, it don't indeed, 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 upon the platform.

The scene without was grotesque in the extreme.
In front of us, I suppose to the number of a 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 sixty thousand dollars. The whole bar
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 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, which he had selected with a great
deal of care, and on this occasion he had thrown
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 swopped
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 the vest, while the other wore a coat, the
hip buttons of which were at his knees.

On the outskirts of the 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, some one spied 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 fellow's hats off and threw them in the 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, he took a
seat in the centre of it, and, like an amateur at
play, enjoyed the scene. Morris held his sides,
stooped down his head, and glancing sideways
cunningly at Dogberry, threw himself 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 Bel-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 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, in the far West, 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—

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 a 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 Noland 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 dispatched, 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, then at the lawyers, and
then at himself, not knowing whether the scene
before him was a reality or a dream. The great
respect which the boys showed him, and Patterson
making an occasional remark to him, seemed at
least, 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 finable
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 it
shall 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 in 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, which he
had written on some rebellious occasion or other:—

“Hip, hip, hurrah—once more,” shouted Morris.
“Now then—”

While the whole room was in uproarious chorus-sing,
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,

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
again prepared to vociferate the chorus, but
when he met the eye of Sears his voice failed him,
and he moved hastily towards Mr. Patterson, who
slapped him on the shoulders 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 Bel-Air
Academy. You're no devil at all; or if you are,
old boy, you're a poor devil, and be hanged to
you?”

“You're a drunken outcast, sir,” exclaimed
Sears. “Never let me see your face again; I
dismiss you from my service, from Bel-Air Academy;”
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 to inspire him with
courage.

“Tell him yourself,” I overheard Dogberry say.

“No, no,” replied Patterson, “it's 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, 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, a leader among leaders in
the senate hall of nations; and I owe it to him.
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—

Yes, as some one says, he was `my friend before
I had flatteres.' 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 sentiments of Don Juan?

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, and whom I
meet to-morrow, taught school. Judge Rowan, of
Kentucky, a master-spirit too, taught school. Who
was that

Who was he?—Milton, the glorious, the sublime;
who, in his aspirations for human liberty, prayed
to the 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.

“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, Mr. Patterson, thank you; 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 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 Mr.
Patterson, in his blandest tones.

“Let them repair to their homes, then, instantly.
Mr. Patterson, your eloquent conversation has
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 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
separated, and the next day found us betimes in
the academy, where mum was the word between
all parties.