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: SONG. 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.