John Pendleton Kennedy

THE DIVISION OF THE PARTY BECOMES MORE DISTINCT—ADMIRABLE ADDRESS OF ELIPHALET FOX AT THIS JUNCTURE—RESULT OF THE ELECTION—REJOICINGS OF THE TRUE GRITS—JESSE FERRET'S DIFFICULTIES—IS TAKEN TO TASK BY HIS DAME—CANDID AVOWAL OF HIS EMBARRASSMENTS—THEODORE FOG'S EXPOSITION OF TRUE GRIT PRINCIPLES—HIS GOOD-NATURED ENCOURAGEMENT OF JESSE FERRET—DABBS'S TREAT.

The proceedings at the Sycamore Spring furnished melancholy evidence of the serious character of the split which had taken place in our ranks. This was a source of anxious and painful reflection to the New Lights. But the assiduity with which we endeavored to heal this dissension only made matters worse. The Whole Team, which, although not within the county, claimed to take a deep interest in this election, on the score of being within our congressional district, noticed our divisions with much self-gratulation, and made the best of them, by attacking Agamemnon Flag as "the creature" (to use its own unscrupulous language) of the Hon. Middleton Flam; while, at the same time, it opened the flood-gates of its abuse upon Theodore Fog, as a man of "bad habits, loose manners, and objectionable morals." The Bickerbray Scrutinizer was devoted to Flag and the regular ticket, and therefore defended Agamemnon against The Whole Team, and let fly several arrows against Theodore Fog; thus unhappily fomenting the differences among our friends.

The course pursued by Eliphalet Fox, at this difficult juncture, was one calculated to raise him in the esteem of every true Quod, and to place him on a pinnacle among editors. He took none of those middle grounds which scarcely ever fail to bring a politician into contempt with both parties—but, with a boldness entirely peculiar to himself, and in the highest degree illustrative of the New-Light theory, stoutly advocated each of our candidates, as the course of the canvass seemed to encourage their respective chances of success. Thus, when Theodore Fog first announced himself as the independent candidate, and when every one appeared to regard this step as an act of presumption which could not but result in defeat, Eliphalet put forth the following paragraph:—

"Mister Theodore Fog, of this Borough, an old practitioner at more than one bar, having waked up one morning with the idea that he was born to fill the measure of his country's glory, as well as he fills that of his own every night, has conceived the sublime project of running on an independent ticket, in the approaching election. We would whisper in our friend The.'s ear, that he has barked up the wrong tree. Independence is not a word to be found in the New-Light dictionary. The voters of this county can never be seduced from the support of the regular nomination; especially when it is headed by such a man as Agamemnon Flag, whose eloquence, accomplishments, and remarkable Democratic simplicity of manners, as well as his perfect surrender of himself to the cause of his Party, give him the highest claim to the consideration of every right-minded and unadulterated Quod. Verb. sap. sat."

Now, after the meeting of the Sycamore Spring, a new view of matters broke upon Eliphalet's vision. He was certainly taken by surprise at the demonstration which that meeting afforded of Theodore's strength with the voters; and in the account of that event, which appeared in The Whole Hog on the succeeding Saturday, one scarcely knows whether most to commend the sincerity of the writer, or the justness of the tribute paid to the masterly effort of Mr. Fog. Speaking of that effort, the editor employs this language:—

The intrepidity of this paragraph will strike every one who reflects that the canvass, at the time this appeared, was far from being brought to a close; and that the result, whatever Eliphalet might have thought of it, was deemed exceedingly doubtful. Indeed, we had subsequently a proof given to us, in The Whole Hog itself, that very serious opinions began to prevail against the possibility of Mr. Fog's carrying the day, in opposition to Flag.

The New-Light Club, with some few and unimportant exceptions, had determined, as they thought themselves in duty bound, to sustain the regular ticket, and for this purpose, when matters were running very strong for Fog, and when, indeed, they began to entertain a well-grounded fear that Andy Grant might slip in by the aid of these divisions, resolved upon having a night procession in the Borough. This expedient we have always resorted to with the happiest effects whenever we have found the hopes of the New Lights beginning to ebb; it serves to animate our friends, by throwing, as it were, a glare over their minds, and to render them more docile to the word of command from those who take upon themselves the labor of judging for the multitude. We now had recourse to this device with a very flattering, though as it turned out in the end, a deceptive manifestation of its influence upon the election. The procession was made; paper lanterns in abundance, bearing a variety of inscriptions of the most encouraging exhortation to the friends of Flag and the Ticket, were procured for the occasion. Every lantern and every banner had written upon it Flam, in the hope thus to identify the ticket with our distinguished representative in Congress, and bring in the aid of his great name to our cause. Mottoes, having reference to "the Old Hero of the Hermitage," were also profusely used, and even the Hickory Tree was reared aloft in the procession, covered with small cup lamps in imitation of its fruit. Every one in Quodlibet supposed that this stroke of the procession settled the matter. It undoubtedly converted the Borough and brought it into the utmost harmony on our side. But the Tumbledownians, among whom Fog's great strength was found, were not there; and from Bickerbray the delegation was not as large as it ought to have been. Still, the evidence of popular support to the ticket was deemed conclusive; so much so, that Eliphalet Fox's next editorial referred to it as "indicative of the stern resolve of the New Lights, once and forever, to crush the insubordinate and rebellious temper with which certain factious and discontented pretenders to the name of Democrats had endeavored to sow discord in the ranks of the faithful, by setting up the absurd doctrine of independent opinion—a doctrine so fatal to the New-Light Democracy wherever it has been allowed. Agamemnon Flag," the editor proceeded to remark, "was not a man to be put down by the frothy, ginger-pop eloquence engendered in the hot atmosphere of cock-tail and julep manufactories. Mr. Fog may now perceive that his secret perambulations to spread dissension in the New-Light ranks, and his hypocritical boast of Independence will be scowled upon by every honest eye and spurned by every honest tongue which are to be found among the high-minded New-Light yeomanry of Quodlibet, Bickerbray, Tumbledown, and the adjacent parts."

The election soon after this took place, when, greatly to the astonishment of our club, and in fact of the whole party, the result was announced to be as set forth in this table:—

Thus it appeared that Theodore Fog far outran the rest of the ticket, and that Agamemnon Flag fell considerably below the Whig vote.

Eliphalet Fox, greatly delighted at the triumph of this election, lost no time in publishing a handbill announcing the issue. It was headed

and proceeded to descant on the event in this wise:—

From these extracts, the reader is already prepared to exclaim with me, Oh, excellent Eliphalet Fox—mirror of editors—pillar of the New-Light faith! What exquisite address, what consummate skill hast thou not evinced in these editorial effusions! Methinks I see Eliphalet, a tide-waiter on events, watching the ebb and flow of popular opinion; ever ready, at a moment's warning, to launch his little boat of editorship on the biggest wave, and upon that wave to ride secure beyond the breakers, out upon the glassy ocean of politics and then, after taking an observation of the wind, to trim his sail with such nautical forecast as shall make him sure to be borne along with the breeze toward whatever haven it shall please the higher powers to direct him; sagaciously counting in such haven to find the richest return on his little stock of ventures. I see his meager, attenuated, diminutive person, elevated on a footstool six inches above the floor, behind a high but somewhat rickety desk, in the northwest corner of his lumber-filled office, where scissor-clipped gazettes are strewed, elbow deep, over an old walnut table, and where three dingy caricatures of Harry Clay, Nic Biddle, and John C. Calhoun, are tacked against his smoky walls; there I see him quiet, but at work, with pen in hand, ever and anon darting his cat-like eye at the door, upon each new-comer who comes to tell the news of the canvass. I hear his husky, dry, and querulous voice, tisicky and quick, asking, how goes it in Bickerbray? What from Tumbledown? and as he receives his answer pro or con., Fog or Flag, he turns to his half-scribbled sheet to remould his paragraph, with the dexterity of an old and practiced Quod, in such phrase as shall assuredly earn him the good-will of the winner. Rare Eliphalet! Admirable Fox! Incomparable servant of an incomparable master!

It is with a sad and melancholy sincerity I record the fact, that this election left behind it much heart-burning in Quodlibet. The New-Light Democracy were now broken into three parts, the Mandarins, the Middlings, and the True Grits; and Theodore Fog, in command of the True Grits, had evidently got the upper hand. The defeat of Agamemnon Flag was a severe blow to our distinguished representative, the Hon. Middleton Flam, and no less galling to Nicodemus Handy; for these three worthy gentlemen were undoubtedly at the head of the Mandarins, and their overthrow on the present occasion led to unpleasant consequences which I shall be called upon to notice hereafter.

The first unhappy fruit of this election was of a domestic nature, and wrought very seriously against the peace of our friend Jesse Ferret.

For three days and nights after the publication of the polls, all Quodlibet was alive with the rejoicings of the True Grits at the success of Theodore Fog. The bar-room of The Hero was full all day with these energetic friends of the prosperous candidate; and it is worthy of remark that their number was vastly greater than was shown by the ballot box, many more individuals claiming the honor of having voted for him than the return of the polls would authorize us to believe; all night long bonfires blazed, drums and fifes disturbed the repose of the Borough, and processions, not remarkable for their decorum, marched from house to house with Theodore mounted in a chair, borne on the shoulders of sturdy True Grits. A hundred torches in the hands of thirty men and seventy boys, flared on the signs and flickered on the walls of Quodlibet, and fifty negroes, great and small, ragged and patched, hatless and hatted, slip-shod and barefoot, leaped, danced, limped, and hobbled in wide-spread concourse around black Isaac the Kent bugle player, and yellow Josh the clarionet man, who struck in with the drum and fife to the tune of Jim Crow, about the center of the column. Flan Sucker was installed grand marshal of this procession, and was called King of the True Grits; while Ben Inky, Sim Travers, Jeff Drinker, and More M'Nulty, served along the flanks as his lieutenants; the whole array huzzaing at every corner, and stopping to refresh every time they came into the neighborhood of Peter Ounce's, Jesse Ferret's, or the smaller ordinaries which the rapid growth of Quodlibet had supplied in various quarters to relieve the drought of its inhabitants.

This state of things, as I have said, continued for three days after the election. At the end of that period, Jesse Ferret, somewhere about noon, was in his bar casting up his accounts. He wore a serious, disturbed countenance—not because his accounts showed a bad face; for so far from that, the late jubilee had very considerably increased his capital in trade, but because his rest had been broken—and Jesse never could bear to lose his sleep. While he was engaged in summing up these recent gains, his worthy spouse entered the bar and quietly seated herself in a chair behind him. The expression of her face showed that her thoughts were occupied with matter of interesting import: a slight frown sat upon her brow, her lips were partially compressed, and her fat arms made an attempt to cross each other on her bosom. The chair was too small for her; and, from her peculiar configuration, one looking at her in a full front view would not be likely to conjecture she was seated, but rather that she was a short and dumpy woman, and leaned against some prop for rest—the line from her chin to her toe being that of the face of a pyramid. Her posture denoted an assumed patience. So quietly had she entered the inclosure of the bar, that Jesse was altogether ignorant of her presence, and therefore continued at his occupation. It was not long, however, before his attention was awakened to the interesting fact that his wife was behind him, by the salutation, conveyed in a rather deep-toned voice, "Jesse Ferret, how long are you agoing to be poking over them accounts?"

Jesse turned short round, in some surprise at the sound of these well-known accents so near him, and, surveying the dame for an instant, replied—

"Bless me, Polly! how came you here? You go about like one of them church-yard vaporations that melts in thin air and frightens children in the dead of night. What did you want with me, my love?"

"I want to know," said Mrs. Ferret, "who's master of this house—you or me? Ef I'm the master, say so—but ef you're the master, then act as sich. It ain't no longer to be endured, this shilly-shally, visy-versy politicks of yourn. Here you are casting up of the accounts this blessed day, and please Heaven, if there's one cent got into the till in the three days that have gone by, the last person in the world to thank for it is yourself, Jesse Ferret. Theodore Fog's in—got in by a vote that one might say's almost magnanimous, and he's got all the thirstiest men in this Borough under his thumb—and he's been pouring 'em in here in shoals, which he wouldn't have done, one man of 'em, ef it hadn't a been for my principles, which goes the whole hog—and you so contrairy, constantly a giving out your no sides—it's raly abominable! and time you should change, Jesse Ferret, it is."

"Why, my dear, don't you see the good of it?" said Mr. Ferret, in a mild, good-natured tone of expostulation. "The very best thing we can do is for you to go on as you are doing, and me to go on as I am. Here's come up a great split in the party; and presently, as sure as you are born, they'll be having their separate houses and making party questions out of it: then, my dear, you know Theodore Fog and his people counts you as a sort of sun-dial to their side, and goes almost by your pinting. And then the others, you know, can't have nothing to find fault against me upon account of my sentiments: so, in this way we shall get the custom of the thorough-stitchers, the half-and-halfs, the promiscuous, and of every kind of stripe that's going. Can't you see into it, Mrs. Ferret?"

"No, I cannot see into it," replied the landlady. "In the first place, them Mandarins, as The. Fog says, is not worth the looking after in our line—they drink nothing but Champagne and Madeery, and ef they do sometimes send down to our bar for ourn, they are sure to turn up their noses at it, and say it's sour. Didn't Nicodemus Handy tell me to my face that my Anchor Brand, which you've got on the top shelf, and which cost you six dollars a basket at auction, was nothing but turnip-juice?—and did you ever know Middleton Flam to call for as much as a thimbleful of your liquors, with all his preachings and parleyings in this house? No, you did not: and it's your duty to cast off your bucket o' both sides, and go in for The. with the True Grits, as he calls them; and true enough they are in the drinking line!—that, nobody who knows them, will deny. I'm tired, Jesse Ferret, and fretted down to the very bone, at being put upon in this here way, having to keep up the politicks of this house, which I don't think you haint no right to do, I don't. I'm been a talking to you about this tell I'm tired, and I wonder you can be so obstinate, considering I take it so much to heart."

"Now, Polly," interposed our landlord with an affectionate remonstrance, intended to soothe Mrs. Ferret's feelings, "many's the struggle I've had on this here very topic with my own conscience; I may say I have wrestled for it at the very bottom of my nature. But the case is this, and I'll explain it to you once for all. I've got a sentiment at the core of my heart, which is a secret in regard of these here politicks. I wish to go right—you know I do—but if I only knowed what sentiments to take up:—there's the mystery. If I knowed that, I should feel easy; but I never could keep any principles, upon account of the changes. Before a plain, simple man can cleverly tell where he is, everything has whisked away in the contrairy direction. One year we are 'all tariff,' and the next, 'down with it as an abomination.' Here we go 'for canals and railroads!'—a crack of the whip, and there we are all t'other side. 'No electioneering of officers!' cries out the captain of the squad. 'Turn that fellow out, he don't work for the party!' cries the very same captain in the very next breath. 'Retrenchment and reform!' says every big fellow there at Washington; and the same words are bawled all the way down among us, even to Theodore Fog;—'Damn the expense!' (the Lord forgive me for using such words,) says the very same fellows in the same breath, 'stick on a million here and a million there—the more the merrier!' And so we go. Here, t'other day, this here Sub-Treasury was monarchy and revolution to boot, and treason outright; and now, what it is, every man's afeard to say—some's for, some's against—some's both, and all's in a state of amalgamation, perplexity, and caterwauling unaccountable. What between specy circlars, anti-masons, pocketing of bills, (Lord knows what that means!) vetoes, distribution, fortifications, abolition, running down Indians, and running up accounts, politics has got into a jumble that a Philadelphy lawyer couldn't steer through them. A poor publican has a straining time of it, Polly. He can't get right if he tries—and if he does blunder upon it, he can't stay right six months, let him do his best—morally impossible! That's where it's a matter o' conscience with me; and my conclusion is, in such a mucilaginous state of affairs, a man who wants to accommodate the public must be either all sides or no sides; and, therefore I say, my motto is, a publican should—leastways I speak in regard to these times—have no sides. And there's the whole matter laid out to you, Polly, my wife."

"All sides, any day, before No sides!" replied Mrs. Ferret. "As Susan Barndollar says, stick to your colors and they'll carry you to sides a plenty, I'll warrant you. Don't Theodore Fog tell us the Democracy's a trying of experiments—and, Lord bless us! ef they haint carried you on sides enough, then you are an unreasonable man. Principle isn't principle—it's following of your party:—you change when it changes, whereby you are always right. Now, these here True Grits is two to one to the Mandarins and Middlings both, and they devour, yes, ten times as much liquor. Ef you had an eye in your head, you'd come out a True Grit—it's a naiteral tavern-keeper's politics."

"'Spose, my dear," said Jesse, waxing warm, "things takes a turn off hand. 'Spose these True Grits are upset—as I shouldn't wonder they would be, as soon as Middleton Flam comes home from Congress, and winds up the people right again—as he has often done before—am I going to run my head against a post by offending the whole New-Light Club, which meets at our house, and make enemies by having sentiments of my own? You don't know me, Polly Ferret."

"Well, and ef things does take a turn?" replied the wife, "is there anythink new in that, in this Borough? Haint we had turns before? Theodore Fog will turn with 'em—that's his principle—that's my principle, and it ought, by rights, to be yourn. Doesn't the schoolmaster tell you to stick to the upper side? Doesn't our member, Middleton Flam, tell you the same thing, and Nicodemus Handy, and Liphlet Fox? There's your own barkeeper, Nim Porter, that's asleep in yander winder, who's got more sense than you have; he knows what side his bread's buttered—and even your own child, Susan Barndollar, though she stuck out for the nomination, isn't such a ninny as to have no principles. We're Dimmycrats, and always counts with the majority; and that's safe whichever way it goes; and, as I said before, no mortal man can find out a better side than that for a tavern-keeper. But it's the Whigs your're a courting, Jesse Ferret—the Whigs, neither more nor less—and it's pitiful in you to be so sneaking."

"Polly, if you aint got no better language than that to use to me," exclaimed Ferret, under considerable excitement, "I'd advise you to hold your tongue."

"My tongue's my own, Mr. Ferret," replied the landlady, "and I don't want none of your advice what I'm to do with it. I have used it long enough to know how to keep it a running, and how to stop it, without being taught by you."

"I've got no right to listen to you, if I don't choose," retorted the landlord. "Women has their milking and churning to look after, and, to my thinking, they'd best attend to that, instead of skreiking out politics in public bar-rooms—that's my opinion, Mrs. Ferret."

"Women, indeed!—for you to talk about women!—You're the laughing-stock of all the petticoats of our Borough," said the wife, in a high key of exacerbation. "Mrs. Younghusband, and Mrs. Snuffers, and Mrs. Doubleday makes you a continual banter, and it hurts my feelings as the mother of your children, it does."

"Seize Mrs. Younghusband, and Mrs. Snuffers, and Mrs. Doubleday, all three!" exclaimed Ferret in a sort of demi-oath.

"What's that you said, Mr. Ferret?"

"I said seize 'em! and I don't care the rinsings of that glass if you tell 'em so,—a set of mandrakes."

"Oh, Jesse Ferret, Jesse Ferret,—as a man who sets up to be an example, what are you coming to!" exclaimed the landlady, with uplifted hands. "Ef your children could hear such profanity. I declare to patience, you'd try the quarters of the meekest mother in the universe."

How far this conjugal outflash might have gone in its natural course, it is impossible for me to say; although Nim Porter, who pretended to be asleep all the time, and who heard every word of it, and related it with much pleasantry to me, says he has often witnessed these breezes between this worthy couple, and always found that they made up as soon as Mrs. Ferret got out of breath—which, by-the-by, she being short-winded, generally occurred in about half an hour from the first rising of her anger; but, on the present occasion, it was happily interrupted by the entrance of Theodore Fog, Dabbs, the foreman in Eliphalet Fox's printing-office, Flan Sucker, More M'Nulty, and Sim Travers, who all marched directly up to the bar. I had entered upon the heels of this party, and having taken up "The Whole Hog" for my perusal, in one corner of the room, was myself a witness to the scene that followed.

Nim Porter, who was seated in an elbow-chair, resting the back of his head against a window-sill at the opposite end of the bar-room and counterfeiting sleep, was now roused up to attend to the customers.

"My dear Mrs. Ferret—paragon of landladies," said Fog, "Pillar—yes, bolster of our cause—some drink! Dabbs owes a treat, and we have resolved that the libation shall be made under the eye of our own queen. Dabbs, say what the mixture shall be; I'm not particular—my throat is a turnpike traveled by all imaginable potations. A mint julep, Dabbs? gentlemen! Flan, a julep? Yes? A julep, a julep all round. Agreed to, nem. con. Mrs. Ferret, five juleps; charge Dabbs—Dabbs's treat."

Mrs. Ferret's anger against her spouse gradually faded under this accost; a slight glimpse of sunshine began to break over her visage as she addressed herself to the task of preparing the required compounds, and Nim Porter busied himself in picking sprigs of mint from a large bouquet of that invaluable plant, which flourished in native verdure over the rim of a two quart tumbler, in which it seemed to grow as in a flower-pot.

Ferret had retreated from the bar toward the door which looked upon the street; and Theodore Fog, who, as the truth must be spoken, was at this hour very considerably advanced toward his customary zenith of excitement, thrust his hands under the skirts of his striped gingham coatee, and strutted with the air of a prime minister in a farce, around the room.

"Nim," said he,

Ferret—glorious turn out, Ferret. True Grits all alive. Pound that ice fine, Nim—no water, recollect. First-rate fellows, Ferret—go the whole—real Quods—diamonds."

"Hope you'll mend matters now, Mr. Fog, since you've got in," said Ferret. "I'm for giving every one a chance; wish you success."

"Of course you do, Ferret," replied Fog; "and so you would have wished Ag Flag success if he'd got in."

"Or Andy Grant, either," said Mrs. Ferret; "my husband's not partikler."

"You're right, Ferret—you're right!" interrupted Fog, "always go with the current—that's sound philosophy—that's my rule. Dabbs, isn't that metaphysics? Flan, don't you call that the true theory of the balance of power? Gentlemen, I submit it to you all."

"Real True-Grit doctrine," said Flan; "find out how the cat jumps—then go ahead."

"Fundamental, that," said Dabbs; "principles change, measures vary, names rise and fall, but majority is always majority."

"Bravo, Dabbs!" ejaculated Theodore Fog; "Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur cum illis—that's our True-Grit motto. The nominative case always agrees with the verb; the people are the verb, we're the nominative case. That's logic, Mrs. Ferret. Nim, how have you made out in these illustrious 'three days?'"

"Cursed sleepy," answered Nim Porter, who was now brewing the drink by pouring it from one tumbler to another; "haven't had three hours rest in the whole three nights. No right to complain though—won four bets—had two to one against Andy Grant with Tompkinson—and even against Ag with three of the New-Light Club. I knew d—d well how it was going, ever since the meeting at the Sycamore Spring. Fog, you touched them fellows that work on the Bickerbray and Meltpenny Road 'twixt wind and water."

"Didn't I?" exclaimed Fog; "I opine I did; unequivocally, I fancy I did. I venture to add, with all possible energy of asseveration, that I did that thing, Nim. That's what I call walking into the understanding of the independent, electoral constituent body; and the best of it is, we got them their votes, you dog!"

"You didn't lose no votes that I could bring you," said Mrs. Ferret, "although you didn't get Jesse's. But that wa'n't much loss—for Jesse's of little account anyhow, and hasn't the influence of a chicken in this Borough—as no man hasn't, whose afeard of his shadow."

"Well, we don't want to hear no more about that," interrupted the landlord. "Mr. Fog knows it wasn't ill will to him—but only my principle, that publicans had best not take sides."

"And who has a right to object to that?" exclaimed Fog. "Give us your hand, Jesse—I'd do the same thing myself, if I were in your place."

"Well, ef you aint the forgivingest creature, Mr. Fog!" said the landlady.

"Mrs. Ferret, your health!—gentlemen, take your respective glasses—Dabbs, your health—Jesse—Flan—all of you—Success to the True Grits! Top off, boys."

They all drank.

Fog applied the tumbler to his lips; looked straight forward, with what might be called a fixed stare upon vacancy, his eyes expressing the deep emotion of sensual pleasure which the icy compound inspired as it slowly flowed over his palate, and for a full minute employed himself without pause in draining the contents of his glass—gradually and slowly arching back his head until the last drop trickled from the bottom.

"Amazing seductive beverage, Mrs. Ferret!" he said as he smacked his lips, and set the tumbler down upon the board. "Fascinating potation! If I were not an example of consummate prudence, and the most circumspect being not yet gathered within the pale of the Temperance Society, my virtue would have fallen a victim before this to that enticing cordial, Mrs. Ferret. But I'm proof—I have been sorely tried, and have come out of the furnace, as you see me, superior to the temptations of this wicked world. Dabbs, poney up—we must go to the raffle, which begins in five minutes at Rhody M'Caw's stable—that pacing roan, Nim—you'll be there, of course:—in your line. Come, gentlemen—don't wipe your mouths with your sleeves—let the odor exhale. As some poet somewhere says, speaking of a mint julep,

Not the words exactly—but something in that run. Jesse, the Flower of Quodlibet—Mrs. Ferret, Queen of the Spear Mint—good-by. Nim, you rascal—after the raffle is over, expect to see me as dry as an oven."

When Fog had delivered himself of this rhapsody—which, no doubt, has impressed the reader with the conviction that this noontide glass had done its work upon the brain of our new representative in the Legislature—the whole party made their exit; and Jesse Ferret, anxious to avoid another conference with his dame, professing a wish to witness the raffle, followed in their footsteps.