WHO IS SIR GEORGE SIMPSON? AN EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCE ABOUT HIM.
An esteemed friend of ours, who now, heaven rest his spirit, sleeps in the tomb, had a curious method of relating a story; and if his hearer was of an impatient nature, it would be sorely tried before he heard the conclusion of any yarn the “Consul” might start to favor him with. On one occasion, some months since, he seated himself at my elbow, while I was busily perusing a piece of news in which Sir George Simpson's name appeared, and taking the knight's cognomen for a text, he insisted on relating to me an extraordinary circumstance, which drew forth a correspondingly extraordinary remark from the said Sir George. With a pencil, unperceived by the relater, I stenographed his story, nearly word for word, and as it is replete with interest, I do not feel justified in withholding it at the present time from the public; so, here it is:—
“I'll tell you an extraordinary circumstance about George Simpson,” said the “Consul.” “You see, when I was at my brother's, on Staten Island, some years since—at his country seat, living with his family—(my brother Bill, it was)—there was some six children, and I lived at home there—the oldest not more than fourteen, and I used to take him out hunting with me;—the young rascal was a good shot, too! You see I was there at that time on my oars, doing nothing, and had plenty of time to spare, which I used to fill up by fishing and hunting, sometimes for days together—pretty poor luck at that, often, but I didn't care, as time wasn't valuable. Well, you see, my brother Bill used to invite some of the people in the neighborhood to dinner, and often there were distinguished visiters on the island—it's a first rate place in summer—and Bill had every thing nice on his table; he took some trouble to keep it fine, and he had a reputation for being a good liver. You could see he liked good things by his appearance, for he was corpulent. Well, you see, Sir George Simpson happened to be invited to dine—Sir George, the Scotchman, old fellow—belonging to the Hudson Bay Fur Company; Scotch as the devil!—old tory at that; he has travelled all over the north-western territory, and Oregon, and clear up to Behring's Strait; knows the worth of a wild-cat skin in any market in the world, old Sir George does—a cursed old Jew, too! Well, as we were all seated at the table—I on my brother Bill's right, and Sir George on his left—(Sir George was dressed in check pants and a snuff-colored coat, looking as pompous as the red lion of England, although he was only a Scotch clerk of the Fur Company)—-just as Bill's oldest boy asked for something at table, and I was help-him to a bit of veal kidney—the young rascal was fond of kidney, and would have it when it was on the table—says Sir George, says he—and my brother Bill, who was just turning up his plate at the time, stopped and laid down his fork, and I turned round to hear what he had to say—(the old fellow always spoke slow, with considerable Scotch accent, and every body wanted to hear—it's the most extraordinary circumstance or remark, whichever you please, as I said, that ever I heard)—says Sir George, says he, 'I shouldn't wonder if we have to fight about Oregon yet!'”