"Dear Uncle--Once upon a time you were called Sam; but now that the
reign of Pierce is upon us it is difficult to tell what you may not be
called. Not long since you were the son of greatness, you are now the
shadow of Pierce--the man whose little light posterity will snuff
out. I have thought of you frequently, Uncle: I have seen you in
sorrow looking back upon the past, and my heart has beat with sympathy
as I saw you contrast it with the present. Once patriotism stood on
manly feet, now Bunkam reigns. Politics are turned into drum-sticks,
parties are lost for want of a policy, principles are buried in the
market-place. Mr. Smooth has been long accustomed to hard knocks and
crooked places; but anything so crooked as Mr. Pierce staggers his
digestion. If the concentrated wisdom of the nation riots here
(thought I as I entered the city) who can gainsay my coming? I knew
the atmosphere I entered had foul malaria in it; the city I found as
straight as the face of parties on the other hand was deformed. But
being in the federal city, I became forcibly impressed with the fact,
that your smallest man has the largest expectations, though he will
not object to become the nation's drone. Having made this wonderful
discovery, I took up my line of march for the National Hotel, a
gorgeous palace where an uncouth million meet to revel in cheap
luxury. So large was the house that a pilot to guide me through its
thousand galleries to bed was an indispensable necessity. I was
fatigued, and cared not where I hung up. Large as was the
establishment, everything looked so costly that I became cautious lest
what I sat down upon might become soiled, in which event I might be
compelled to pay the shot with a short locker; or, should the case go
before Pierce, he might in the profundity of his wisdom exile me to
some remote spot on the Mosquito coast. I walked into the