“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.