Long after the victories of Washington over the French and English had made his name familiar to all Europe, Benjamin Franklin chanced to dine with the English and French Ambassadors, when the following toasts were drunk:
“‘England’—The Sun, whose bright beams enlighten and fructify the remotest corners of the earth.”
The French Ambassador, filled with national pride, but too polite to dispute the previous toast, offered the following:
“‘France’—The Moon, whose mild, steady and cheering rays are the delight of all nations, consoling them in darkness and making their dreariness beautiful.”
Doctor Franklin then arose, and, with his usual dignified simplicity, said:
“‘George Washington’—The Joshua who commanded the Sun and Moon to stand still, and they obeyed him.”
The following appeal of a Western editor is still going the rounds, although it is to be hoped that by this time the writer’s only trouble is in having his vest made large enough:
“We see by an esteemed contemporary that a young lady in Chicago is so particular that she kneads bread with her gloves on. What of that? The editor of this paper needs bread with his coat on; he needs bread with his trousers on; in fact he needs bread with all of his clothes on. And if some of his debtors don’t pay up pretty quick he’ll need bread without anything at all on, and this Western climate is no Garden of Eden.”