"At this I straightened up, drew up my shirt collar, pulled down my vest, and said with a sort of hopeful inquiry, 'Why should there?'
"'Tom, you are wasting your most available talent. Do you know that you have influence—and political influence at that?'
"Another hitch at my shirt collar and pull at my vest, as visions of the Brick Capitol at Harrisburg and the White one at Washington danced before my eyes.
"'Did you ever reflect, Tom, upon the source of political power?' continued the old gentleman, and without waiting for an answer, fortunately, as I was fast becoming dumbfoundered, 'the people, Tom, the people; not you and I, so much as that miner,' said he, pointing to a rough ugly-looking fellow that I had kicked out of my wife's bar-room—or, rather, got my ostler to do it—two nights before, 'That man, Tom, is a representative of thousands; we may represent but ourselves. Now these people are controlled. They neither think nor act for themselves, as a general rule; somebody does that for them. Now,' as he spoke, trying to take me by a pulled-out button-hole, 'you might as well be that somebody as any man I know.'
"'Why, Lord bless you, Mr. Simpson, I can't do my own thinking, and as to acting, my wife says I am acting the fool all day long.'
"'Tom, you don't comprehend me, you know our county sends three members to the State Legislature, and that they elect a United States Senator.'
"'Yes.'
"'Well, now, our county can send Simon C—— to the United States Senate.'
"'But our county oughtn't to do it,'—my whig prejudices that I had imbibed with my mother's milk coming up strong.