The New Hampshire Gazette

In a small town in one of our northern counties a strolling company lately arrived to "astonish the natives," and the gentle Desdemona of the dramatic corps consented, during her short sojourn, to domicile at an humble cottage near the scene of mimic action. The barn—we beg pardon, the theatre—being duly prepared, the play bills thundered forth the tragedy of Othello, our heroine, of course, sustaining her "original" part. The rustic cottagers received a complimentary card of admission, and during the progress of the tragedy expressed themselves "woundily pleased." All proceeded well until the scene between the Moor and our heroine, where he taxes her upon the subject of the "handkerchief" which, he says,

"An Egyptian did to my mother give."

This was not to be borne, and the bumpkin roared out, "That's a nation lie, Maister Black Chops,—it wer' nae gipsy that did gie it but my Meary, who lent it the poor thing to come here to hact wi' it; I bought it my-self yester e'en; and if she hae lost it, why she mun buy anither—there be plenty more like 'un at John Tummas's in th' High-street"

—Olio.