when his eye fell upon a young man, who, having no more ear or voice than the worthy Galen himself, contented himself with listening. As the quartette began the next verse, the Doctor collared “Abe” Cardozo (whom, by the way, he had assisted to bring into the world), and actually shook him in the energy of his patriotism— “Abraham James! why don’t you sing?” “Me, Doctor?” stammered the young fellow, who probably had not heard his middle name in ten years before—“I never sang a note in my life!” “Then begin now!” commanded the Doctor, setting the example as the chorus began anew. How my father laughed! backing out of sight of the pair, and doubling himself up in the enjoyment of the scene, real bright tears rolling down his cheeks. I heard him rehearse the incident twenty times in after-years, and always with keen delight. For the Doctor was a scholar and a dreamer, as well as a skilful practitioner, renowned for his horticultural and ornithological successes, and so taciturn and absent-minded that he seldom took part in general conversation. That he should have been drawn out of his shell to the extent of roaring out ungrammatical doggerel in a public assembly of his fellow-citizens, was a powerful proof of the tremendous force of party enthusiasm. The incongruity of the whole affair appealed to my father’s ever-active sense of humor. He would wind up the story by asserting that “it would have made Jeremiah chuckle if he had known both of the actors in the by-play.” One specimen of the ballads that flooded the land in the fateful 1844 will give some idea of the tenor of all: _Tune_: “Ole Dan Tucker” “The moon was shining silver bright, the stars with glory crowned the night, High on a limb that ‘same old Coon’ was singing to himself this tune: _Chorus_ “Get out of the way, you’re all unlucky; clear the track for Ole Kentucky! “Now in a sad predicament the Lokies are for President; They have six horses in the pasture, and don’t know which can run the faster. “The Wagon-Horse from Pennsylvany, the Dutchmen think he’s the best of any; But he must drag in heavy stages his Federal notions and low wages. “They proudly bring upon the course an old and broken-down war-horse; They shout and sing: ‘Oh! rumpsey dumsey, Colonel Johnson killed Tecumsey!’ “And here is Cass, though not a dunce, will run both sides of the track at once; To win the race will all things copy, be sometimes pig and sometimes puppy. “The fiery Southern horse, Calhoun, who hates a Fox and fears a Coon, To toe the scratch will not be able, for Matty keeps him in the stable. “And here is Matty, never idle, a tricky horse that slips his bridle; In forty-four we’ll show him soon the little Fox can’t fool the Coon.