All of a sudden, it popped into my mind that these 8 hour sons of toil hadent heard that DANIEL WEBSTER was dead, or else dident see the joak, when DAN said:  “I aint dead,” and supposed from my likeness to him that I was D. WEBSTER.

I couldent blame ’em for makin such a mistake, when I reccolected the time I was introjuced to the great man.  It was when I was Gustise of the Peace.

As our hands clasped each other, we was both revitted to the spot, and the rivets was clinched tite.

“What! it can’t be possible!” said Mr. WEBSTER, the first to break the silence.  “Well if you haint another WEBSTER, you’l pass for D. WEBSTER’S bust, any day.”

“And,” said I, wishin to return the compliment, “if you haint Green, you can pass any time for GREEN on a bust.”

This was one of my witcisms, and it made DANIEL blurt with lafter.

But, Mister PUNCHINELLO, me and WEBSTER looked so much alike, that if his tailor had sent him a soot of clothes at that time, I believe, in the confusion, that just as like as not, I should have thought I was WEBSTER, and wore off the clothes.

But, to “retrace my tale,” as the canine said, when a flee was suckin the heart’s blood from his cordil appendige—­

“Well, my friends,” said I, humerin these men in their mistake, “what can I do for you down to Washington?”

“Do for us? thou great and mitey!” said they all to once, “keep us into offis—­we ‘go’ you, Nov. 8th.”

“Well,” said I, “my good men, my word is law down to Washington.  Everybody respects the great DANIL WEBSTER.”

“Eh!—­who—­what,” exclaimed several.

“I say that I, DANIL WEBSTER, is great guns with the goverment,” was my reply.

“DANIEL WEBSTER be d—­d,” said the ring-leader.  “No, Sir!  ED WEBSTER, the nominee for Congress, and Wet Nurse pro tem. over Unkle Sam’s family in this ’ere nursery, is the man we’re after.  Haint you that man?”

“You don’t mean the chap who was U.S.  Assessor, agin whom I heard them Wall street brokers and scalpers cussin and swearin like a lot of Rocky Mountin savages chock full of fluid pirotecknicks, because he made them pay a goverment tax?”

“The same! the same!” they all hollered.

“Well! sweet wooers of the bread and butter brigade,” said I, “speakin after the manner of men, you’ve got ontop the rong hencoop this time.  As Shakspeer, who is now dead and gone, says:—­

    ’A rose by any other name
    Is sweeter-er than I,
    I’ve diskivered I haint the game
    You want to see roost high.’”

They left me, yes, they left me.  I wasent the man, but some awdacious retch had sot ’em on tellin ’em I was the man.

Surgeon GOODBLOOD, of the man o’ war Vermont, then took me under his charge.  I found him one of them noble docters, under whose perscriptions a man could enjoy ‘kickin the bucket.’