often happened with this gentleman, he reasoned so long in all his acts
of liberality, that he supposed a sufficient sacrifice had been made in the
mental discussions, and he never got beyond what surgeons call the
"first intention" of his moral cures. The evening he went to court,
therefore, I was carefully consigned to a carton in the colonel's trunk,
whence I did not again issue until my arrival in America. Of the voyage,
therefore, I have little to say, not having had a sight of the ocean at all. I
cannot affirm that I was absolutely sea-sick, but, on the other hand, I
cannot add that I was perfectly well during any part of the passage. The
pent air of the state-room, and a certain heaviness about the brain, quite
incapacitated me from enjoying any thing that passed, and that was a
happy moment when our trunk was taken on deck to be examined. The
custom-house officers at New York were not men likely to pick out a
pocket-handkerchief from a gentleman's--I beg pardon, from a
colonel's--wardrobe, and I passed unnoticed among sundry other of my
employer's speculations. I call the colonel my EMPLOYER, though this
was not strictly true; for, Heaven be praised! he never did employ me;
but ever since my arrival in America, my gorge has so risen against the
word "master," that I cannot make up my mind to write it. I know there
is an ingenious substitute, as the following little dialogue will show, but
my early education under the astronomer and the delicate minded
Adrienne, has rendered me averse to false taste, and I find the substitute
as disagreeable as the original. The conversation to which I allude,
occurred between me and a very respectable looking shirt, that I
happened to be hanging next to on a line, a few days after my arrival;
the colonel having judged it prudent to get me washed and properly
ironed, before he carried me into the "market."

"Who is your BOSS, pocket-handkerchief?" demanded the shirt, a
perfect stranger to me, by the way, for I had never seen him before the