“Ah! sure a pair was never seen,
More justly form’d—”
CHAPTER I.
Jack, said my uncle Ned to me one evening, as we sat facing each other, on either side of the old oak table, over which, for the last thirty years, my worthy kinsman’s best stories had been told, “Jack,” said he, “do you remember the pair of yellow-topped boots that hung upon the peg in the hall, before you went to college?”
“Certainly, uncle; they were called by every one, ‘The Wife Catchers.’”
“Well, Jack, many a title has been given more undeservedly—many a rich heiress they were the means of bringing into our family. But they are no more, Jack. I lost the venerated relics just one week after your poor dear aunt departed this life.”
My uncle drew out his bandanna handkerchief and applied it to his eyes; but I cannot be positive to which of the family relics this tribute of affectionate recollection was paid.
“Peace be with their soles!” said I, solemnly. “By what fatal chance did our old friends slip off the peg?”
“Alas!” replied my uncle, “it was a melancholy accident; and as I perceive you take an interest in their fate, I will relate it to you. But first fill your glass, Jack; you need not be afraid of this stuff; it never saw the face of a gauger. Come, no skylights; ’tis as mild as new milk; there’s not a head-ache in a hogshead of it.”