WHO IS SIR GEORGE SIMPSON? AN EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCE ABOUT HIM.
An esteemed friend of ours, who now, heaven rest his spirit, sleeps in the tomb, had a curious method of relating a story; and if his hearer was of an impatient nature, it would be sorely tried before he heard the conclusion of any yarn the “Consul” might start to favor him with. On one occasion, some months since, he seated himself at my elbow, while I was busily perusing a piece of news in which Sir George Simpson's name appeared, and taking the knight's cognomen for a text, he insisted on relating to me an extraordinary circumstance, which drew forth a correspondingly extraordinary remark from the said Sir George. With a pencil, unperceived by the relater, I stenographed his story, nearly word for word, and as it is replete with interest, I do not feel justified in withholding it at the present time from the public; so, here it is:—
“I'll tell you an extraordinary circumstance about George Simpson,” said the “Consul.” “You see, when I was at my brother's, on Staten Island, some years since—at his country seat, living with his family—(my brother Bill, it was)—there was some six children, and I lived at home there—the oldest not more than fourteen, and I used to take him out hunting with me;—the young rascal was a good shot, too! You see I was there at that time on my oars, doing nothing, and had plenty of time to spare, which I used to fill up by fishing and hunting, sometimes for days together—pretty poor luck at that, often, but I didn't care, as time wasn't valuable. Well, you see, my brother Bill used to invite some of the people in the neighborhood to dinner, and often there were distinguished visiters on the island—it's a first rate place in summer—and Bill had every thing nice on his table; he took some trouble to keep it fine, and he had a reputation for being a good liver. You could see he liked good things by his appearance, for he was corpulent. Well, you see, Sir George Simpson happened to be invited to dine—Sir George, the Scotchman, old fellow—belonging to the Hudson Bay Fur Company; Scotch as the devil!—old tory at that; he has travelled all over the north-western territory, and Oregon, and clear up to Behring's Strait; knows the worth of a wild-cat skin in any market in the world, old Sir George does—a cursed old Jew, too! Well, as we were all seated at the table—I on my brother Bill's right, and Sir George on his left—(Sir George was dressed in check pants and a snuff-colored coat, looking as pompous as the red lion of England, although he was only a Scotch clerk of the Fur Company)—-just as Bill's oldest boy asked for something at table, and I was help-him to a bit of veal kidney—the young rascal was fond of kidney, and would have it when it was on the table—says Sir George, says he—and my brother Bill, who was just turning up his plate at the time, stopped and laid down his fork, and I turned round to hear what he had to say—(the old fellow always spoke slow, with considerable Scotch accent, and every body wanted to hear—it's the most extraordinary circumstance or remark, whichever you please, as I said, that ever I heard)—says Sir George, says he, 'I shouldn't wonder if we have to fight about Oregon yet!'”
LETTERS FROM A BABY. BY A FORWARD CHILD.
St. Louis has obtained the reputation of being a dangerous climate for infants, and the bills of mortality, as they have from time to time exhibited an alarming number of deaths among children, have called forth learned disquisitions from the “medicine men,” and some new views from those who are without the pale of regular practice. All seemed to agree that the mortality every summer was alarming, but no two united in assigning the same cause for the fatal result. After listening patiently to both sides, I sought information from the suffering party, and their opinion may be gathered from the complaints of their correspondent Bub. He says:
Dear Sir:—Of late I perceive the public are making some stir about us babies; may heaven vouchsafe healthy children to our defenders. I have a string of sorrows to relate myself, and my poor bowels cry out for protection; you must therefore permit me to say a few words. My Ma is what you would call a fashionable woman, and although she loves her baby, yet she says it is not fashionable for mammas in the southern states to nurse their own babies; I am, consequently, turned over to the care of nigger Molly, and Lord preserve me, such nursing as I get would kill a young Indian. I am fed with every thing, from a green apple to a chunk of fat pickled pork, and the sufferings which I undergo therefrom, would crack a sucking bottle, or rend a diaper in tatters. After feeding me into sickness, they set a doctor at me, who physics me into a state of quiet insensibility, and they then say, “bess its ittle bessed heart it's ditten better, it is.” I get a little peace until I get strong enough to cry out, and then nigger Molly stuffs me to keep me quiet, and I go through another spell. I see our dog Flora watching her pups, and if any person goes near them she is almost ready to tear them to pieces; I wish my Ma was as careful of me. I see a poor woman opposite kissing her baby, and I envy that child; nobody kisses me but black Molly, and she does it to smother my cries of suffering. I don't know what kills other babies, but this treatment will soon finish me Bub.
NO. II.-BUB IN PERIL.
How are you?—You have published my letter, and I am glad to see that nigger Molly cannot smother my cry to the public—if I don't give her scissors, it will be because she smothers me outright. You must know Molly keeps two bottles filled with liquid, one of which she administers to me, and the other to herself, and they both have about the same effect, only hers smells worst. Hers she calls whiskey, mine cordial. The other morning Molly set me down on the floor, beside a pan of water, and commenced taking comfort from her bottle, and I, feeling feverish, commenced comforting myself by dabbling in the pan until I was all wet; Molly perceiving this picked me up to slap me, but her cordial floored her. I should have been glad of this, only she nearly killed me in her fall, and because I screamed, as any baby would do, she clapped her black lips to mine, smelling horribly as they were of whiskey, and kept in my breath until I was as black in the face as herself. I yelled at this double outrage, and she silenced me by pouring a double dose of cordial down my throat, which threw me into a state of insensibility, from which I awoke almost dead. My mother asked to see me, and when she heard me moaning, she said “the ittle bessed dear is suffering wis its too-sys.” I aint suffering with my teeth—I'm suffering with nigger Moll's nursing.
Bub.
NO. III.—BUB RESCUED.
Hello, boys:—Flourish trumpets! merrily beat your drums—I'm a saved sucker! A day of hope and promise has shed its light upon my infantile head, and bright visions of a pair of small breeches to be worn by me, float airily round my head—they appear plain and palpable in the vista of the future—buttons, pockets, suspenders and all—vive la pantalons! The other morning my Pa drew forth the copies of the Reveille from his book case, and commenced reading them for Ma's amusement. Suddenly he cast his eye on my letters, and straight he commenced them—he laughed, and then Ma laughed, and then I crowed. By and by, as he proceeded, Ma began to look angry; she cast a glance at me, and then her conscience smote her—I was wasted to a shadow—on went Pa with the letters; Ma wept, I crowed, and nigger Molly gave me a pinch—a yell followed and the clouds burst!
“Give me that child, you hateful jade, you; how dare you hurt it?” cried Ma.
“Please God, I didn't do nuffin ob de sort, missus; I'd do any thin else, missus, dan hurt de baby,” answered Moll.
“Get out of my sight, you hussy!” cried my enraged mamma; “you have nearly killed de bessed ittle pet—mamma's dear, bess its heart—get out of my sight; if ever you touch it again, I'll punish you severely.”
Molly fled, Pa chuckled to himself, and I crowed again—I tried to hurrah! How shall I describe the change which stole over me, body and spirit, as, nestling in my mother's sweet bosom and receiving her fond caress, I was permitted abundantly to drink at “Nature's pure fount, which, at my cry, sent forth a pearly stream to cherish my enamelled veins.” A sweet sleep visited my pillow again, and the fond endearments which waited on my waking moments were life and joy to me. My Ma, now, is rapidly improving in health—I, of course, will grow fat; and just wait until I'm able to wear them breeches and beat a small drum, if I don't visit the Reveille office and give you the serenade of “Oh, be joyful,” until your petrified stump will execute a double shuffle, then say my name aint Bub.
NO. IV.—BUB FLOURISHING.
Hello, Drummers:—Whoop! hey! cock-a-doodle-doo-o-o! If I aint some by this time I wouldn't say so! You remember what a sickly state I was in when I commenced telling you my grievances?—how my complaints wrought improvement and rescued me from nigger Molly? Well, ever since then, it's a surprise to learn the way my body has spread—I'm a small Lambert, and have got six teeth. Aint I some? Talk of your Missouriums!—only look at me! Well, between you and me, I didn't cut them teeth for nothing; I find a fellow don't get knowledge without paying for it; I suffered in teething, but I learned some. Women who pay no attention to their babies, envy me my fat—I'm a kind of living rebuke to them, and, for a year old, I'm rather a heavy rebuke. They every now and then say: “Why, bless me, Mrs. T————, you'll kill yourself nursing that big fat child.” The answer they get, generally, is, “Well, it will get killed if I don't!” That's the way to tell it!—bravo, Ma! “Well, but, Mrs. T————, why don't you let Molly relieve you of such a load?” Ma answers, “It's because Molly nearly relieved me of him altogether—he would have died from her nursing.” That's a fact!—hit 'em again, Ma. “My children,” says Mrs. Nevernurse, “get along very well without me.”
“Yes,” answered Ma, again, “you have only two living out of six.” That was a wiper!—how she twisted her face at it! I think I'm safe enough, but my peace is sadly troubled with fear when I hear some of these old women giving Ma advice. It would do you good to see old Molly look at me, now and then, saying, with her big eyes, “Well, bress de Lord, I'm clar ob dat brat, but I should jis like to hab him for a a week, I'd take de sassy look out ob his face.” I'd like to try my six new teeth on her black hide.
You shall have that serenade, Drummers, and no mistake. Bub.
NO. V.-BUB AGAIN IN DANGER.
Gents:—How d'ye do? I've just had a good long pull at the titty, and have got on a clean warm diaper; and feeling pretty comfortable, I think I'll give you another small epistle. I'm going to get into trouble—I feel it in my bones. My Ma has quarreled with her old physician, and has employed a new one, young Dr. Pliant—between you and me, I think they should have named him Verdant. This new doctor wants to please, so anything the women propose is exactly right. “Don't you think, Doctor,” says one, “that Mrs. T———— will destroy her health, nursing that fat child?”
“Certainly, maam, most unquestionably, Mrs. Helpalong; the strength of the mother being inadequate to the sufficient indevelopment of the ponderous system of meat-gather-upon-its-bones-ativeness of the infant, it consequently follows that the thin-down-to-a-light-alti-tudity of the fill-up-and-get-strong-ative powers of the mother naturally must result.”
“I thought so, Doctor,” says Mrs. Helpalong, and this clear-as-mud evidence against my comfort is reiterated to my mother. “Do you really think, Dr. P., that I am endangering my health?”
“That depends upon how you feel,” says the doctor. “Why,” says Ma, “I feel as well as ever I did in my life.”
“Your system, then,” says the doctor, “is what we call in the south sui generis—that is, you can stand nursing, and, consequently, the babe having a tendency to the natural milk which surreptitiously flows, I might say, from the secretive portion of the female os frontis of the breast, it must follow, as a result from these multifarious and indigenous effects, that no danger can ensue from your nursing.” I'm safe as long as my mother keeps in good health; but Lord bless me, should she get ill, I'm a gone sucker—this new physician would dose her and me into kingdom come in about a week. I heard quite a discussion about his merits yesterday. Mrs. Enquiry says that he used to be a fiddler about two years ago, but Mrs. Helpalong says it is no such thing—that he always was a gentleman, and taught school before he took up the profession—that he studied regularly a whole season, and took his diploma in the spring;—she sticks to that, Mrs. Helpalong does, and I guess she is about right. Aint my case critical? Bub.
NO. VI.-bub's RECEPTION OF A SILVER PAP SPOON.
I'm here again:—Important events having transpired since I last wrote to you, it has been deemed proper to send a synopsis of them to you for publication, in order that the world in general may know western babies are some, and when well nursed a good deal more than some. A most gratifying reformation has been effected in certain circles by my letters, and, indeed, wherever they have been read, nigger nurses, paregoric, sucking-bottles, coarse diapers, and sundry other abuses have entirely disappeared. The effect has been a corresponding improvement in babies, generally, and your correspondent in particular, who is now admitted to be a whapping child for a small family.
On last Christmas, a number of our parents having met together to celebrate the day, all of us youngsters were put into the nursery together, and the clatter of discussion which followed would have thrown a peevish nurse into hysterics. Charley Wilgus proposed that a meeting should be held upon the spot, and a silver pap spoon voted to me for my able letters in defence of infantile rights. Asa Keemle seconded the motion, and it was unanimously carried. Charley Wilgus was thereupon chosen chairman, and Asa Keemle, secretary. The president mounted a pillow, and called the meeting to order by ringing the bells on his coral. On motion, a committee was then appointed to draft resolutions expressive of the sense of the meeting, and the following boys, having cut their eye-teeth, were selected to draft said resolutions:
Augustus Vinton, Edward Shade, John Charless, Christopher Wigery, John Dalrymple and Wallace Finney.
The committee having retired, Colton A. Presbury, Jr., offered the following resolution, which he prefaced by some very pertinent remarks:
Resolved, That cutting teeth is a sharp operation, and should therefore, be deferred until maturity.
Presbury G. A. Colton, a little fellow who had just cut his first “double,” opposed this resolution, on the ground of its interfering with “future prospects,”—he went in for teeth now, and the cutting to come being left an open question. The resolution was rejected.
Rucker Smith now rose to address the meeting, when some objection was made to him because he sucked milk from a bottle; it was, however, concluded that he might address the chair if his diaper was pinned tight; on examination he was permitted to proceed. He commenced describing the horrors of a cold bath, and was interrupted by the president, who informed him that the subject of water came more particularly under the head of streams, and could not then be entertained by the meeting. He then proceeded to describe the delights of a sucking-bottle, and was cried down by the unanimous voice of the meeting. Some one now commenced a speech against paregoric, whereupon the assembly, speaker and all, went immediately to sleep!
They were aroused from their slumber by the return of the committee, which, through their chairman, Augustus Vinton, reported the following resolutions:
Resolved, That babies are, and of right ought to be, natural-born suckers.
Resolved, That the introduction of negro nurses among white babies was a dark era in infantile history.
Resolved, That all artificial efforts, in regard to babies, are no go, and that the old fashion defies the ingenuity of Yankeedom to improve on it.
Resolved, That “being born with a silver spoon in your mouth” is a good thing, but an unlimited chance at the titty is a better.
Resolved, That all anti-nursing mothers are undeserving of lively husbands.
Resolved, That we look with feelings of compassion upon those who have adopted children.
Resolved, That Bub deserves a silver pap spoon, and shall have one.
These resolutions having been unanimously adopted by the meeting, it was—
On motion of O. M. Ridgely, seconded by Edward 'Shade, adjourned. A general call was now made for refreshments, which anxious mothers promptly supplied.
Yours, Bub.
SETH TINDER'S FIRST COURTSHIP, HOW HIS FLAME WAS QUENCHED!
You knew Seth Tinder,—No?—“git eout!”—you did know Seth, every body knew him, and they couldn't help it, for Seth would know every body. He was, perhaps, the “cutest critter,” in some things, that ever calculated the success of a notion expedition, and he was among the first of his genus that ever strayed, on such an expedition, as far west as St. Louis. If you really didn't know Seth, it is time your ignorance was enlightened.
Seth was remarkably cute at driving a bargain—that was an innate propensity; Seth was inquisitive, and frequently looked into hall doors, and peeped into kitchen windows—that was Yankee human nature; Seth winked at the girls—that was an acquired habit; he resolved to possess one—that was a calculation. Now, this winking at the girls, when performed by a handsome individual, is looked upon as a matter of course; but Seth was so notoriously ugly, that his wink was an outrage, and his overtures of love, perfect atrocities. His short, bow-legged figure was thatched with the most obstinate bunch of carroty hair that ever bid defiance to bear's oil, and the windows of his mind as the eyes are poetically styled, appeared looking intently at the tip of his nose, as if apprehensive that, ere long, it would burst into a blaze. A kind of half-burnt-prairie garnished his chin, which would have made a very warm looking goatee, if Seth could have transplanted it all to one spot; but there lay the difficulty, for though cute at driving a bargain,' he could make none with nature—she made him ugly without his consent, and wouldn't agree to any alteration. Seth, nevertheless, would wink at the girls.
His first tender effort was made upon the heart of a German butcher's fair, fat, rosy daughter, whose round cheeks and well-fed form was, to his eye, the very perfection of female beauty. No artificial making up about her—no exterior padding, it was all done naturally, on the inside. As she luxuriated upon the door steps of an evening, Seth would linger near, wink, and grin all sorts of affection, but, like all bashful swains, hesitated about coming to close quarters. He had imbibed the erroneous opinion, that all true courting must be done clandestinely; but all his hints to draw his inamorata into a secret treaty, was a failure. At length, he ventured in a desperate manner up to the door step, and whispered hurriedly:—
“Look out—comin' to set up with you to-night—round the back way—over the fence—be a-waitin'!”
“You'd petter pe ketch'd,” was the fair one's rejoinder, accompanied by a malicious laugh, which Seth interpreted as an approving one.
The darkness of the night favored Seth's clandestine opinions and practice—it was just the thing for a nocturnal visit; therefore, agreeable to notice, he made his appearance at the fence, round the back way. Leaning over the barrier, he ventured to sound a cautious “hist,” which was immediately answered by a low “wou-ugh.” That must be Dutch for “come,” reasoned Seth, and straight he mounted the fence; but politician never took an uneasier seat on the same line of division than he enjoyed on the present occasion, for, no sooner had one pedal extremity reached the other side and placed him fairly astride, than a remarkably savage dog seized the intruding member, with a fierce “wou-ugh-ugh-ugh-u.”
“Git eout, you blasted critter!” shouted Seth.
“Wou-ugh-ugh!” roared the dog.
A struggle ensued, in which Seth, unfortunately, fell on the wrong side, right into the jaws of his antagonist. The attitude in which he reached terra firma, offered the dog a change of grip, and, like a skilful sentinel, he seized the advantage and Seth's seat of honor at the same time. Our hero sprang nearly erect, with a howl more like his antagonist than any human noise, and a desperate struggle, mingled with strange cries, aroused the dozing butcher from his pipe, and the fair cause of the disturbance from her knitting.
Original
“Sum tam rascal's after der sausages in der smoke haus!” was the butcher's first exclamation; the rosy daughter smiled assent, and “arm and out,” was the work of an instant. They found their trusty sentry baulking all Seth's efforts to retreat over the fence, and keeping him “a-wailin''” when he would have given worlds to leave. The reinforcement made at him with whip and broomstick, and this terrible odds aroused him to superhuman exertions;—with a “mazzle” he floored the Dutchman and his pipe, charged on the flinty-hearted daughter, captured her broomstick, beat a parley with it on the dog's head, and retreated over the fence with “flying colors”—stickinng through a rent of his inexpressibles.
THE DEATH STRUGGLE; OR, THE WAY SMITH DID UP JONES.
You all knew Smith—every body knew Smith, and Smith was known by every body—consequently, Smith was considered somebody. A body is supposed to contain a soul; Smith's body not only contained a soul, but certain parts of Smith's body made and mended other men's soles. Smith was enterprising, industrious, and won thereby the sole control of the boot and shoe business of the flourishing town of Kipp. Smith was a thriving man, a persevering man; Smith was, in fact, a strip of upper-leather. Just about the time of his greatest success, when the tide of fortune appeared to bear upon its surface a perfect skin of Smith's manufactured high-lows, and earth shook beneath the tread of his patent cork soles, along came Jones. Strange freak of fate! Jones was an adventurer,—a desperate adventurer,—a fellow who had made soles his study and upper leather his dream; he was a Napoleon in his business, and could slash calf-skin into a killing shape for pedal extremities;—in short, he was boot No. 1, both in the manufacture and sale of the article. In Jones' wanderings along the streets of Kipp, his eye fell upon the broad sign of “Smith, Fashionable Boot and Shoe Maker.” There was something prosperous and aristocratic about it, but, at the “Fashionable,” Jones turned up his nose.
“Ox-hide fashion,” says Jones, “Good common article, but won't sell alongside of a prime one. I'll drive that fellow, Smith, out of Kipp town—have it all to myself—do a smashing business—re-sole the town—become upper-leather in the community—president of town council—die mayor of the borough, and have all my own manufactured shoes walking at my funeral.—Lofty thought,” added Jones.
In a very short time, upon the principal street in Kipp, in sight of Smith's, out swung a large flag, with the name of “Jones, importer, manufacturer, and patent leather boot and shoe artiste.” Smith stared, the flag fluttered, and Jones chuckled. Customers began to patronise Jones, and the flag seemed saucily to triumph, as it floated upon the breeze blowing towards Smith's door. Smith was a man of energy, though, and out came his new “patent gaiter boot;” the tide turned and Smith was again in the ascendant. Now began a leather war—Jones up and Smith down, Smith up again and Jones down, as each rival, alternately, brought out something new. At length, one bright morning, the inhabitants of Kipp, who had taken sides in the contest, were astounded by the appearance of the front of Smith's store—it was one entire sign, from the pavement to the roof. Jones looked blue, the flag fluttered like a tattered rag. Smith rose in importance—his friends felt proud of him—it was a Kipp triumph over foreign capital—the Jones party wavered!—not so Jones; his great mind had conceived a stupendous overthrow for Smith, and ere admiration for his rival had settled into sure success, it was diverted to himself. An immense flag, of stone, with his name in large letters, was scientifically planted right in the centre of Jones' pavement.
The town now became feverish with excitement, and it was rumored that the town council intended to consider the matter—the “signs of the times” grew alarming.
Glorious Smith!—Smith for ever!—unyielding to the last! In this emergency, when the horizon seem'd heavy with defeat, when a vast stone seemed to press his fortunes into the earth, Smith arose, Phonix like, “from a boot,” and gave assurance to the world that he was no common leather. Rapid as the thought which conceived the idea, he had a vast boot constructed, placed upon a post in front of his door, and with a sample of his manufacture in each hand, he mounted into it, to exhibit to the passers by not only a spectacle of indomitable energy, but un-flagging perseverance.
“What do you think of Smith now?” said the adherents of the “big boot,”—“bravo, Smith!” shouted the Kippites. Here was a climax to which ingenuity could discover no parallel, it was indeed the ne plus ultra.
Jones put his hands behind his coat-tails, and looked up street at the big boot and its tenant, then at the stone flag beneath his feet, and his countenance settled into a calm and desperate determination. “I'll do it!” exclaimed he. The expression was caught up by his friends, wafted through the town, and whispered in each dwelling, until the excitement and expectation grew painful. Everybody was aching to see what Jones would do.
Jones cut out a capacious pair of boots, set his workmen at them, had them finished, sent every living soul away from his shop at early candle-light, closed it up, and all remained a mystery for the remainder of the night. Morning broke—astonishment and horror!—terrible Jones!—triumphing in death! He had drawn on the immense boots, fastened them by suspenders across his shoulders, and then suspended himself from the flag-staff right over the flag-stone. Beneath him fluttered a postscript attached to the boots; its substance was, “Has Smith the sole to imitate this?” Smith hadn't.
“WHO ARE THEY?” A QUESTION OF VITAL IMPORT.
How often, in our democratic land, the query which forms our caption has caused the aspirants after aristocratic distinction to shudder, and how silent become their voices of high pretension, when, by some unfortunate remark, or the recalling of some reminiscence, they have been forced to take a retrospective glance into the past for a few generations. Happy are they if memory does not wake up a sturdy ancester pounding the leather upon his lapstone, or that necessary craftsman, the tailor, plying his busy needle upon the shop-board. The morbid desire of us republicans to be ignorant of the vulgar callings of life, is often very amusing; and the struggles to rake up a pedigree, to give character to growing prosperity, has often caused more trouble and vexation than the building up of a fortune, which it was necessary thus to adorn.
“Who are they?” was the general query at a soiree given by a high United States' officer, at the city of Washington, a short period previous to the death of the lamented General Harrison. The parties who called forth the query were a western member of congress and his highly gifted lady. The member was in the prime of life, of acknowledged talents in his profession, and betrayed, in his manners, the high breeding of a gentleman. A conscious power lent ease to his frankness, and the men of the west clustered around him with pride. His lady, simply attired, attracted all eyes; her distingue figure and intellectual face proclaimed her a peerless woman, and when she smiled a ray of heaven's own light beamed forth from human eyes. There was a kindness in her smile which won hearts before they knew her; there was no hollow mockery in it; it came forth from a happy heart, and where its influence fell, good feelings sprung up and sweet thoughts clustered; but—Who is she? Ah, that's the question; and how often the inquiry was passed from lip to lip during that evening! Amid the throng in which they moved, and wherever they lingered, an admiring coterie surrounded them. The husband was a strong man in the political world; had accepted a seat in congress more to gratify his friends than in accordance with his own wishes, and his party felt strengthened by his presence. His lady, ever distinguished at home, was now creating no small sensation at Washington; but—“who are they?” That all-absorbing question remained unanswered, even to the close of the evening, and they departed, leaving it still an “open question.”
Judge W. had been seen conversing very familiarly with them, and an anxious company soon surrounded him, uttering, the query, “Who are they?” He informed them, that it was Mr. H. and his wife, Mrs. H., of M————. “Oh! they all knew that, but what was their family?”
“Upon my life, ladies,” answered the good-natured Judge, “I don't know; but if you will only wait until to-morrow evening, I will endeavor to find out.”
The task of postponing curiosity, though difficult, was, nevertheless, unavoidable; and the party broke up with a living hope, that ere another day had ended, the important query would be solved.
“Who are you? H.,” said the Judge to his friend the next day, as they sat conversing together in H.'s parlor.
“Well, that is a hard question, Judge,” replied H.—“but perhaps Mary can answer that question better than I can;” and calling his wife away from a boquet of flowers which she was arranging in a vase; he took her hand in his, as she leaned affectionately over his shoulder, and repeated the inquiry—“Who am I, Mary?—the Judge wishes to know.”
“I think I can inform you, Judge,” replied the wife, “for he is not a whit changed since the day he taught me my first lesson in the 'free school' of L. He is Henry H.—formerly assistant teacher in a down-east free school, and now, the Hon. Henry H., of M.; moreover, the husband of Mary H., formerly a factory girl in that same town, but now, I need not tell you, Judge, the Hon. Mrs. H., also of M.; I have really become quite enamored of this title.”
“It is true, Judge,” continued Mr. H., “I first beheld Mary at a free school, taught her her first lesson, learned another from her eyes, and never became satisfied until I possessed the book, that throughout life I might continue to peruse the beauties of the page. But come, Judge,—now that you have traced our pedigree, give some account of yourself; from what ancient stock have you sprung?—Who are you?”
“I am the son of Adam!” (a laugh here interrupted him,) “not the Adam spoken of in the Bible; I mean old Adam W., a shoemaker of Albany, who once used his stirrup rather lavishly upon me, and for which good office, I left him one fine morning, without bidding good by. I will not relate to you the many changes of fortune which befel me, until I found myself upon the bench, in a United States' court, instead of the bench in my father's shop. Suffice it to say, that my good parent, until his dying day, expressed the opinion that it was a good thing I took to the law early, for I was fit for no useful purpose.”
At Secretary E.'s on the next evening, a crowd surrounded the Judge, but all wore upon their countenances an air of incredulity—the Judge's story of the “factory girl” “wouldn't go down.”
“It's a fact, ladies,” said the Judge; “just about the time I was learning to make shoes these people were in the situations I tell you.”
They all pronounced the Judge a wag, and would not believe the story. A matron, more resolved than her friends to sift the truth of the matter, applied to Mrs. H., herself, and told her what a fib the Judge had been telling them.
“I assure you it is true,” replied Mrs. H.
“Yes, but my dear, the best of families have been reduced,” says Mrs. Enquiry, “you are, no doubt, descended from the 'Pilgrim Fathers.'”
“I have every reason to believe so,” answered Mrs. H. “I told you so,” said Mrs. Enquiry, exultingly, to her circle of acquaintances; “she is a daughter of one of the 'Pilgrim Fathers.'”
The wheels of government, which had well nigh ceased to move during the pendency of this important question, received a new impetus from the intelligence, and the republic was pronounced “out of danger,” for its “heads of wisest censure” had discovered who they were!—