the public.' Here he paused, as his face assumed its wonted seriousness, and that wart, now historical, looked brighter than ever. I had long been desirous of scraping acquaintance with the old man, whom I esteemed much better inside than out, so I offered him half of my shingle, at the same time intimating that we would have some whiskey. At this he lowered his voice, and continued with a slow shake of the head:--'I'm not so bad as I seem. Peradventure I wanted a small chance at the Britishers. I hate them, but that only signifies a trifle. Mr. Pierce, like a horn lantern for which Uncle Caleb and Jeff furnish the light, is fast getting affairs into a fuzzle; this must be so while the light is thus furnished, and the regulation of its burning be left to Grandpapa Marcy. Fact is, you see, Mr. Smooth, the administration is become like a steam-engine, Mr. Pierce being used as a piston by Caleb, Jeff, and Co., who, in addition, furnish Southern-rights for fuel, use patronage as a condenser, and make a safety valve of Papa Marcy. But Papa has yet to take many lessons in National Engineering before his control over the machine is complete.' I watched the old man's anxious eye as he spoke; and again suggested the taking a little whiskey: I pitied him. 'It will set ye all right!' says I, 'it'll take the fogyism all out, warm up yer inards, and make yer ideas come out with the philosophy of a _Mara beau_. Mr. Pierce loves to traffic in the language of war, but like all little creatures, makes his noise and stops.'