The mental agitations he has undergone in pondering upon the “wonderful wonders” that spring up as plenty as grasshoppers in this wonderful age, are not to be described; for the Colonel takes an immense interest in public affairs, and cannot see the universe go to ruin about his ears without pangs of sympathy. Whatever mole-hill he stumbles upon, he makes a mountain of it. He thought the Salem mill-dam absolutely necessary to the balance of power, and was certain that the bridge over Peg’s Run was the only means of saving the nation. He went to bed in a great fright on reading in the paper that Emerson’s Spelling-book would overthrow the liberties of the country; and he was struck with the deepest alarm when he heard of the feud that had broken out between the Houses of Correction and Reformation about a cart-load of chips. I shall never forget the anxiety that beset him last summer when the City Council could not come to a choice about the Superintendent of Drains. The newspapers were full of the affair, and the Colonel, I verily believe, would have worried himself into a nervous fever, had this alarming schism between the two branches of the city government been carried much farther. “A strange affair, Mr. Titterwell, a very mysterious affair,” said he. “There are some dark, under-ground manœuvres going on in this matter, depend upon it; and really the Mayor and Aldermen—” here he turned up the whites of his eyes and shook his head. Heaven only knows what he thought of those great dignitaries. However, the affair of the drains got through without any great catastrophe to folk above ground, that ever I could learn, and the Colonel’s consternation subsided for that time. All the world were going mad the other day about white mustard-seed. “Pray, Colonel,” said I, “what is white mustard-seed to you or me? Can’t we eat our bread and butter, and sleep till six in the morning, without troubling our heads about white mustard-seed? Didn’t we fight the battles of the revolution without white mustard-seed? Didn’t Samson carry off the gates of Gaza without white mustard-seed? Didn’t your blessed old grandmother knit stockings and live to the age of ninety without white mustard-seed? Then what’s the use of minding the dolts in the newspapers who tell you that white mustard-seed is better than meat, drink and sunshine, and that we shall all die untimely deaths unless we take white mustard-seed?” The Colonel could not understand it: it was a great mystery indeed, but the newspapers were full of it, and he was convinced white mustard-seed had something in it, that would come out in due time. White mustard-seed, however, has had its day; and the Colonel has probably taken to saw-dust, as I heard him talk of Dr. Graham last week. But of all mortals the Colonel is the most prone to sympathize with the unfortunate public upon the loss of great men. I popped in upon him the day before yesterday, and found him lamenting a huge public calamity.