I do not know a feminine—from the piney woods of Maine to the Neuces—so given to popularity, newspaper philippics, and city item bombards, as Aunt Nabby Folsom, of the town of Boston. The name and doings of Aunt Nabby are linked with nearly all popular cabals in Faneuil Hall, the "Temple," "Chapel," or Melodeon—from funeral orations to political caucusses—Temperance jubilees to Abolition flare ups; for Aunt Nabby never allows wind, weather or subject, time, place or occasion, to prevent her "full attendance." The police, and over-zealous auditors, at times snake her down or crowd her old straw bonnet, but Aunt Nabby is always sure of the polite attention of the "Reporters," and shines in their notes, big as the biggest toad in the puddle.
Indeed, Aunt Nabby is one of 'em!—a perfect she-male Mike Walsh. She will have her say, though a legion of constables stood at the door; her principal stand-point is the freedom of speech and woman's rights, and she goes in tooth and nail agin law, Marshal Tukey, and the entire race-root and rind of the Quincys—particularly strong! Aunt Nabby is subject to a series, too tedious to mention, of "sells" by the quid nuncs and rapscallions of the day, and one of these "sells" is the pith of my present paper.
It so fell out, when Jenny Lind arrived here, about every fool within five-and-fifty miles ran their heels and brazen faces after the Nightingale and her carriage wherever she went, from her bed-chamber to her dinner table, from her drawing-room to the Concert Hall. It took Barnum and his whole "private secretary" force and equal number of policemen and servants, besides Stephens himself, of the Revere, and his bar-keeper, to keep the mob from rushing pell-mell up stairs and surrounding Jenny as Paddy did the Hessians.
Now and then a desperate fellow got in—had an audience, grinned, backed down and went his way, tickled as a dog with two tails. Others were victimized by notes from Barnum (!) or Miss Lind's "private secretary," offering an interview, and many of these transactions were "rich and racy" enough, in all conscience, for the pages of a modern Joe Miller. But Aunt Nabby Folsom's time was about as rich as the raciest, and will bear rehearsing—easy.
"Good morning, sir," said a pleasing-looking, neatly-dressed, elderly lady, to the two scant yards of starch and dickey behind Stephens' slab of marble at the Revere.
"Good morning, ma'am," responded the clark, who, not knowing exactly who the lady was, jerked down his well-oiled and brushed "wig and whiskers" to the entire satisfaction of the matronly lady, who went on to say—
"I wish to see Miss Lind, sir."
"Guess she's engaged, ma'am."
"Well, but I've an invitation, sir, from Miss Lind, to call at 9 A. M. to-day. I like to be punctual, sir; my time is quite precious; I called precisely as desired; Miss Lind appointed the time; and——"
"Oh, very well, very well, ma'am," said the clark, with a flourish, "if Miss Lind has invited you——"