away his heel-tap in the most approved style, mounted the box, gathered his reins, cracked his whip, and off went the mail stage.

A dozen by-standers began at the same time to interrogate Sampson, who stood like an Egyptian statue of attention, (if any such there be, of which I have strong doubts,) following with his eye the fast disappearing conveyance-as to where his master was going, what made him in such a hurry, what he was going to do, when he was coming back, and when he was to be married to old Miss Peck, etc. etc. etc. Sampson, after due deliberation, replied that Mr. Viellecour was gone in the stage to York, about his own business. And, having uttered this oracular response, he returned with more speed than he usually thought it decorous to exhibit, to his master's house. There, on the threshold, still stood John Peck, who was determined not to lose his promised perquisite, and had now become angry and unceremonious. "See here, nigger," he cried out, as Sampson was mounting the steps, "I want that are answer, right away; and that are half dollar. Goy blame it all, I guess they'm chiefly done dinner to humm, and what's the use of my waiting here so?"

The latter part of this appeal seemed to touch Sampson's feelings; for he very deliberately took

hold of the urchin, and slinging him over his shoulder, marched off with him as coolly and seriously as he had done with the trunk, though John was a much more obstreperous article in the way of baggage. But John fared like many forlorn newspaper poets of the present day, who are always dying of consumption, or complaining of malice and persecution, in very distressful metre, which nobody reads, and which nobody ought to read. For before his expostulations had attracted the attention of the public, Sampson had transported him to the margin of a small lake, the perfume of which was not quite that of Araby the blest, at no great distance, into the centre of which (the thin coat of ice that had covered it, having been thawed by the rays of a bright and warm day) he projected his person with as great ceremony as was consistent with despatch. The only articulate sounds which he uttered, by way of funeral service or illustration, were “ dere now, Mister," accompanied with an equivocal grunt.

It was not until the early spring had again put forth its germs of promise, that any tidings were heard of Mr. Viellecour. Meantime his newspapers and letters were regularly called for at the post-office, by Sampson. The former were heaped on each other, until the pile almost touch

ed the ceiling. The latter ranged along the mantel, were rapidly assuming that brown, melancholy air of antiquity, which belongs to a long un-opened letter. The windows of the house were shut, except for about half an hour at noon-day, when they were opened and again closed, with regular and mysterious precision. A thin column of smoke stole up from the chimney of Sampson's comfortable quarters in the kitchen. A host of inquiries were made after their absent neighbour, for a few weeks, by impertinent and curious people; not a few, too, by old friends. Sampson turned on his heels from the former, with a growl. To the latter, he answered with a sigh, that his master was absent, and he could not tell when he would return.

It was a bright clear day, in January, when the sun was slightly thawing the snow on Haerlem Bridge, and burnishing with its rays the smooth and level white expanse of Haerlem plain and Morisania, that a party of honest Westchester farmers, returning from town, had stopped at at the toll-house, on the Westchester side of that great thorough-fare, and were there talking of what they called politics. They discoursed about Mr. Adams, Mr. Crawford, General Jackson, Governor Clinton, Mr. Clay, and Plutarch Peck. Not that they thought of the latter as a candidate

for the Presidency; but they marvelled much how he would get along at Albany. Some surmised that he would soon break down. One old gentleman, who had won a bet on his election, insisted that he was a smart fellow, and would take care of himself.

The Danbury stage, returning from NewYork, drove up at this juncture. All the passengers got out to warm themselves, save one, who seemed anxious not to invite observation. This, however, was impossible. "Why halloa! Plutarch is that you! Where are you going? What has brought you from Albany?" were the inquiries levelled at the traveller from half a dozen quarters.

Plutarch, being thus necessyated, as he would have called it, to disembogue from the stage, gave a long, involved, complaining, digressive and unintelligible account of himself; the amount of which we can state in a few words. He had been returned to the Assembly, by the rejection of four or five hundred votes for another candidate, on the ground that the name of the latter had been spelt on the ballots with two R's instead of one. This gentleman, however, resolutely claimed his seat. The Committee of Elections instantly and unanimously decided in his favour; and the vote of the House forthwith.

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dislodged the unfortunate Plutarch, without giving him a single opportunity to immortalize himself. It happened, however, that on the first day of the session, he was enabled to utter the beginning of a sentence, which would probably have had no end, if it had not been cut short, as it was, by the Speaker. On the presentation of some petitions, which Plutarch thought had a bearing on his favourite subject, the election by the people of public notaries, inspectors of beef and pork, sole-leather, and staves and heading, he got on his legs. When," said he, "Mr. Speaker, we consider the march of intellect in these United, and, as I may say, confederated States, and how the genius of liberty soars in the vast expanse, stretching her eagle plumes from the Pacific Ocean to Long Island Sound, gazing with eyes of fire upon the ruins of empires" just at which point of aerial elevation, the Speaker brought down the metaphorical flight of the genius, and that of the aspiring orator together, by informing the latter that he should be happy to hear him when in order, but that there was now no question before the House.

While Plutarch was entangling himself and his hearers, in the perplexed labyrinth of his explanation, a pung drove up to the toll-gate,