In one of the most populous cities of the Union there resided, a few years since, a person in moderate circumstances, by the name of Robert Short.  Bob, as he Was usually called, was a shoemaker.  With a steady run of custom, together with prudence and economy combined, he was enabled to support his family in an easy and by no means unenviable style.  He did not covet the favors and caresses of the world.  He looked upon all,—­the rich, the poor, the prince, the beggar,—­alike, as his brethren.  He believed that all stood upon one platform, all were bound to the same haven, and that all should be equally interested in each other’s welfare.  With this belief, and with rules of a similar character, guided by which he pursued his course of life, it was not to be wondered at that he could boast of many friends, and not strange that many should seek his acquaintance.  There is a desire planted in the hearts of honest men to associate with those who, ambitious enough to sustain a good character, are not so puffed up with pride, or so elevated in their own estimation, as to despise the company of what are termed “the common people.”  It was pleasant, of a winter’s evening, to enter the humble domicile of Mr. Short, and while the howling storm raged fiercely without, and the elements seemed at war, to see the contentment and peace that prevailed within.  Bob, seated at his bench, might be seen busily employed, and, as the storm increased, would seem to apply himself more diligently to his task.  Six or perhaps eight of his neighbors might also be seen gathered around, seated upon that article most convenient,—­whether a stool or a pile of leather, it mattered not,—­relating some tale of the Revolution, or listening to some romantic story from the lips of the respected Mr. Short.  ’T was upon such an evening, and at such a place, that our story commences.  Squire Smith, Ned Green, and a jovial sort of a fellow by the name of Sandy, were seated around the red-hot cylinder.  Squire Smith was what some would term a “man of consequence,"-at least, he thought so.  Be it known that this squire was by no means a daily visitor at the work-shop of our hero.  He came in occasionally, and endeavored to impress upon his mind that which he had settled in his own, namely, that he, Robert Short, might be a great man.

“I tell you what,” said he, with an air of importance, “I tell you what, it is against all reason, it is contrary to common sense and everything else, that you remain any longer riveted down to this old bench.  It will be your ruin; ’pend upon it, it will be your ruin.”

“How so?” eagerly inquired Mr. Short.

“Why,” replied the squire, “it’s no use for me to go into particulars.  But why do you not associate with more respectable and fashionable company?”

“Is not the present company respectable?” resumed Mr. Short; “and as for the fashion, I follow my own.”

Squire Smith did not reply to this inquiry, but stood shaking his head, and appeared at a loss for words with which to answer.