place it stood in more formally.” I didn’t say no more, not wantin’ to run Betsey to her back, and then truly, as a deep thinker observes in one of his orations, “a dog that will fetch a bone, will carry one.” On Thomas Jefferson’s side was himself, the Editor of the Gimlet, Lawyer Nugent, Doctor Bombus, Elder Morton, and Whitfield Minkley—six on each side. Thomas Jefferson spoke first, and he spoke well, that I know. I turned right round and give sister Minkley a proud happy look several times while Thomas J. was a talkin’; she sot right behind me. I felt well. And I hunched Josiah several times when he said his best things, and he me, for we both felt noble in mind to hear him go on. His first speech was what they call an easy, or sunthin’ considerable like that; Josiah said when we was a goin’ home that they called it an essence, but I told him I knew better than that. He contended, and I told him I would leave it to Thomas J. but it slipped my mind. Howsumever it haint no matter; it is the thing itself that Josiah Allen’s wife looks at, and not the name of it. The easy—or sunthin’ like it,—run as follows: I believe my soul I can git the exact words down, for I listened to it with every ear I had, and upheld by the thoughts of the future generations, and the cause of Right, I kinder took it out of his overcoat pocket the next day, and read it over seven times from beginnin’ to end. I should have read it eight times, if I had had time. He seemed to be a pryin’ into what the chief glory and pleasure of gettin’ drunk consisted in; he said the shame, the despair, and the ruin of intemperance anyone could see. And he pictured out the agony of a drunkard’s home, till there wasn’t a dry eye in my head, nor Josiah’s nuther. And he said in windin’ up, (I shan’t put down the hull on’t, for it would be too long) but the closin’ up of it was: “I don’t believe there is a sadder sight for men or angels, than to see a man made in the image of God willfully casting aside his heritage of noble and true manhood; slipping the handcuffs over his own wrists; and offering himself a willing captive to the mighty but invisible wine spirit. “No slave bound to the chariot wheels of a conqueror is so deplorable a sight as the captive of wine. His face does not shine like the face of an angel, as did a captive in the old time—but with so vacant and foolish an expression, that you can see at once that he is hopelessly bound, body, mind and soul to his conqueror’s chariot. And a wonderful conqueror is he, so weak in seeming as to hide beneath the ruby glitter of a wine cup, and yet so mighty as to fill our prisons with criminals, our asylums with lunatics—and our graveyards with graves. Mightier than Time or Death, for outstripping time, he ploughs premature furrows on the brow of manhood and alienates affection Death has no power over.