Chapter XIV
A charm lingers over the tales of the past,The grey mist of time o’er their beauty is cast;Its thin texture heightens the power of the spell,And the mystic enchantment we would not dispel.
A charm lingers over the tales of the past,The grey mist of time o’er their beauty is cast;Its thin texture heightens the power of the spell,And the mystic enchantment we would not dispel.
A charm lingers over the tales of the past,The grey mist of time o’er their beauty is cast;Its thin texture heightens the power of the spell,And the mystic enchantment we would not dispel.
A charm lingers over the tales of the past,
The grey mist of time o’er their beauty is cast;
Its thin texture heightens the power of the spell,
And the mystic enchantment we would not dispel.
A mild and pleasant morning tempted the young party to a walk, which was rendered more delightful by anecdotes related by Herbert relative to the first settlement of the place, with which he had become familiar from his intercourse with some of the aged people of the town, and which caused many a laugh from their quaint simplicity. He pointed out to them the site of the first building erected for public worship, for the earliest object with our pious ancestors was to provide a suitable place in which to bow together before the God who had guided them over the wide waters to this pleasant home; and the bell, which even at this time summoned the inhabitants to their devotions, was the same which was sent by kind friends from England for the service and ornament of the original sanctuary. It was a spot, retired from the village, upon the seashore, and, though the sacred building had long since been removed, there was a quiet loneliness about it, which seemed suited to the purpose to which it had been dedicated. “When we return home,” said Herbert, “I will read you some lines founded upon an anecdote connected with the old church which formerly occupied this situation; the moss-grown tombstone, covered with so many ancient inscriptions, which you remember, Elizabeth, we have so often endeavored to decipher, covers the remains of the good minister, who figures as one of the characters, but I cannot hope to inspire you with the same interest which I felt, when in my twelfth year, I first listened to the story from the lips of a good old dame, who is no longer among the living.” At the appointed time, after their return home, he read the following lines; which they decided should be called
A Tradition of the Year 1650
Time was, when tyrant power in Britain’s IsleRuled with despotic sway; when pious menWere hunted like wild beasts if they should dareTo worship God in their own way; the wayWhich they believed, in pure simplicityTo be acceptable to Him, whose eyeAll seeing and all knowing, looks aloneAt the intent and purpose of the heart.With firm resolve they left their native land,Their home, their own green fields, and shady lawns,And o’er the pathless ocean took their courseTo the wild shores of a far distant clime;There, no proud king or haughty priest has power,To mar their quiet peace and pious prayers.Now, happy homes and fertile fields aroseOn those far shores, and pointing to the heavensThe tall church spire reflected the bright sun;The sons of God had gathered here, but, asIt was, in ancient time, when Satan cameAmidst their councils, and, with wily artLaid schemes to tempt the holy man to sin,So now, among the pious race, crept inSome bad designing ones, whose cunning aimWas to seduce the good and pious heart;Or, failing this, to turn his holy zealTo ridicule; to watch for some weak spot;For, who, in this imperfect world of oursIs free from imperfection; and, when foundWith jeering mockery, to cause him shame,In a small village dwelt a good old manBeloved and honored for his kindly heart;Zealous in prayer, in duty prompt and true;With guileless life, and firm and holy faith,The peaceful tenour of his life passed on;The Sexton of the parish, his white hairsWere reverenced by the simple pious flock,To whom his services were duly paid,Save by some graceless ones, who long had madeThe kind old man the butt of many a joke;But, as we often mark, the wicked jestWould harmlessly rebound from its rude aimAnd wound the miscreant who had sped the bolt.’Twas on a windy, dark and stormy nightThat the old sexton rose from his warm hearthTo brave the old and dreary autumn rain;For, on each night, at nine, the old church bellWas rung, with the intent that all should thenGo to their quiet rest; that peaceful sleepMight be the portion of each weary frameTill morn should rouse them to their daily toil.Those were the days when superstition’s powerWas felt by all; none from its gloomy chainsWere free; the grave divine and the wise sageAlike confessed its sway, its potent rule;And, if dark fears of unknown ill had powerTo shake the nerves of learned ministers,We need not wonder if our worthy friendWas not exempt from this besetting ill.It was a night, he thought, when wicked fiendsWould triumph in the mischief they might cause;And, though his faith in the Almighty powerTo guard his steps, was all unshaken still,Yet dismal fears and dark foreboding thought,Would rush, unbidden, thro’ his beating heart.The kind old dame shared in his fears of ill,And, as with care, she wrapped about his neckThe warm and woolly comforter, with wordsOf warning kind, she urged his quick return.He sallied forth, and onward bent his wayTo the lone church, which stood so near the shoreThat the rude waves on such a night as thisWould almost dash their spray upon its side;The wild wind roared amongst the woods, and seemedContending with the loud and deafening surge,While the pale rays, which from his lantern gleamedBut served to show the black and muddy poolsThat filled the road. Onward the good man strode,And the same courage, summoned to his aidWould have been lauded in the warrior bold.Slowly the ponderous key turned in the bolt;Through the broad aisle, he moved, with cautious tread,Starting at the dull echo of his steps.But, as he raised the light to seize the rope,Its beams shone full upon the sacred desk;What fearful sight appalled his shuddering gaze!A Gorgon’s head usurped the holy place,Which, to his terror-stricken mind appearedThe embodied form of Lucifer himself!He stopped not to encounter the foul fiend,But, rushing forth, stayed not his course, untilSafe landed at the reverened pastor’s door.Great was the wonder, strong was the dismayWith which the pious man heard the dark tale;But, with the conscious rectitude of truth,He seized the Holy Book, with firm resolveThat the foul spirit should no longer holdUsurped dominion o’er that hallowed spot.Torrents of rain descending, seemed to warnThe zealous pair from the encounter rash,Still, strong in faithful confidence, they gainedThe fatal spot, when, with his talismanUplifted, uttering words of mighty power,The pious pastor, with firm step and slowApproached the dreaded form, though, strange to tell,The wicked Tempter seemed to stand his ground,Nearer and nearer they advance, and thenAscend the stairs, armed for the conflict dire.But, now, the shameless mockery unveiledShows but the head and horns of an old sheep,A moment’s pause, and, then a pleasant smileIllum’ed the good man’s face, as he addressedThe indignant sexton in a kindly tone.“We have been weakly credulous, my friend,“Our foolish fears have stolen our better sense,“’Tis the vile trick of some rude infidel;“But, we will turn his bad intent to good,“And learn a lesson from this seeming ill.“Henceforth, we will not suffer coward fear“To thwart our judgment, or disturb our peace.”So saying, with strong arm, he drew awayThe unseemly object; and, with ready handThe bell was rung by the old servitor;And as they parted, each to his own home,With mild and gentle tone, the pastor said,“Do not forget, my good old friend, tonight,“Ere you lie down upon your peaceful bed,“To offer to our God, the prayer of faith,“That He would turn the erring mind from sin.”The morn arose, and the dark clouds dispersed,Before the fresh and health inspiring gale,When the malicious jester made his wayTowards the old church, to mark what the effectHad been, of his vile mockery; whetherHis trick had been discovered, or, unseenBy the old man, the foul caricatureStill occupied the holy preacher’s desk.The beast he rode was vicious as himself,For, as he turned the angle of the wallFrom the highroad, upon the level green,Scared by some object, which beset his path,The fiery steed reared high, then plunging downThrew his unwary master to the ground.’Twas the grim object, which, with cunning skill,He had prepared for the good Sexton’s harm,And, which, on that dark night, the pious pairHad drawn away, and thrown beside the wall.With many a deep and heavy groan, he lay,Till guided by the same wise ProvidenceThe kind old man ’gainst whom the plot was laid,Came to his rescue, and, with kindly care,Soothed his distress, and brought him timely aid.
Time was, when tyrant power in Britain’s IsleRuled with despotic sway; when pious menWere hunted like wild beasts if they should dareTo worship God in their own way; the wayWhich they believed, in pure simplicityTo be acceptable to Him, whose eyeAll seeing and all knowing, looks aloneAt the intent and purpose of the heart.With firm resolve they left their native land,Their home, their own green fields, and shady lawns,And o’er the pathless ocean took their courseTo the wild shores of a far distant clime;There, no proud king or haughty priest has power,To mar their quiet peace and pious prayers.Now, happy homes and fertile fields aroseOn those far shores, and pointing to the heavensThe tall church spire reflected the bright sun;The sons of God had gathered here, but, asIt was, in ancient time, when Satan cameAmidst their councils, and, with wily artLaid schemes to tempt the holy man to sin,So now, among the pious race, crept inSome bad designing ones, whose cunning aimWas to seduce the good and pious heart;Or, failing this, to turn his holy zealTo ridicule; to watch for some weak spot;For, who, in this imperfect world of oursIs free from imperfection; and, when foundWith jeering mockery, to cause him shame,In a small village dwelt a good old manBeloved and honored for his kindly heart;Zealous in prayer, in duty prompt and true;With guileless life, and firm and holy faith,The peaceful tenour of his life passed on;The Sexton of the parish, his white hairsWere reverenced by the simple pious flock,To whom his services were duly paid,Save by some graceless ones, who long had madeThe kind old man the butt of many a joke;But, as we often mark, the wicked jestWould harmlessly rebound from its rude aimAnd wound the miscreant who had sped the bolt.’Twas on a windy, dark and stormy nightThat the old sexton rose from his warm hearthTo brave the old and dreary autumn rain;For, on each night, at nine, the old church bellWas rung, with the intent that all should thenGo to their quiet rest; that peaceful sleepMight be the portion of each weary frameTill morn should rouse them to their daily toil.Those were the days when superstition’s powerWas felt by all; none from its gloomy chainsWere free; the grave divine and the wise sageAlike confessed its sway, its potent rule;And, if dark fears of unknown ill had powerTo shake the nerves of learned ministers,We need not wonder if our worthy friendWas not exempt from this besetting ill.It was a night, he thought, when wicked fiendsWould triumph in the mischief they might cause;And, though his faith in the Almighty powerTo guard his steps, was all unshaken still,Yet dismal fears and dark foreboding thought,Would rush, unbidden, thro’ his beating heart.The kind old dame shared in his fears of ill,And, as with care, she wrapped about his neckThe warm and woolly comforter, with wordsOf warning kind, she urged his quick return.He sallied forth, and onward bent his wayTo the lone church, which stood so near the shoreThat the rude waves on such a night as thisWould almost dash their spray upon its side;The wild wind roared amongst the woods, and seemedContending with the loud and deafening surge,While the pale rays, which from his lantern gleamedBut served to show the black and muddy poolsThat filled the road. Onward the good man strode,And the same courage, summoned to his aidWould have been lauded in the warrior bold.Slowly the ponderous key turned in the bolt;Through the broad aisle, he moved, with cautious tread,Starting at the dull echo of his steps.But, as he raised the light to seize the rope,Its beams shone full upon the sacred desk;What fearful sight appalled his shuddering gaze!A Gorgon’s head usurped the holy place,Which, to his terror-stricken mind appearedThe embodied form of Lucifer himself!He stopped not to encounter the foul fiend,But, rushing forth, stayed not his course, untilSafe landed at the reverened pastor’s door.Great was the wonder, strong was the dismayWith which the pious man heard the dark tale;But, with the conscious rectitude of truth,He seized the Holy Book, with firm resolveThat the foul spirit should no longer holdUsurped dominion o’er that hallowed spot.Torrents of rain descending, seemed to warnThe zealous pair from the encounter rash,Still, strong in faithful confidence, they gainedThe fatal spot, when, with his talismanUplifted, uttering words of mighty power,The pious pastor, with firm step and slowApproached the dreaded form, though, strange to tell,The wicked Tempter seemed to stand his ground,Nearer and nearer they advance, and thenAscend the stairs, armed for the conflict dire.But, now, the shameless mockery unveiledShows but the head and horns of an old sheep,A moment’s pause, and, then a pleasant smileIllum’ed the good man’s face, as he addressedThe indignant sexton in a kindly tone.“We have been weakly credulous, my friend,“Our foolish fears have stolen our better sense,“’Tis the vile trick of some rude infidel;“But, we will turn his bad intent to good,“And learn a lesson from this seeming ill.“Henceforth, we will not suffer coward fear“To thwart our judgment, or disturb our peace.”So saying, with strong arm, he drew awayThe unseemly object; and, with ready handThe bell was rung by the old servitor;And as they parted, each to his own home,With mild and gentle tone, the pastor said,“Do not forget, my good old friend, tonight,“Ere you lie down upon your peaceful bed,“To offer to our God, the prayer of faith,“That He would turn the erring mind from sin.”The morn arose, and the dark clouds dispersed,Before the fresh and health inspiring gale,When the malicious jester made his wayTowards the old church, to mark what the effectHad been, of his vile mockery; whetherHis trick had been discovered, or, unseenBy the old man, the foul caricatureStill occupied the holy preacher’s desk.The beast he rode was vicious as himself,For, as he turned the angle of the wallFrom the highroad, upon the level green,Scared by some object, which beset his path,The fiery steed reared high, then plunging downThrew his unwary master to the ground.’Twas the grim object, which, with cunning skill,He had prepared for the good Sexton’s harm,And, which, on that dark night, the pious pairHad drawn away, and thrown beside the wall.With many a deep and heavy groan, he lay,Till guided by the same wise ProvidenceThe kind old man ’gainst whom the plot was laid,Came to his rescue, and, with kindly care,Soothed his distress, and brought him timely aid.
Time was, when tyrant power in Britain’s IsleRuled with despotic sway; when pious menWere hunted like wild beasts if they should dareTo worship God in their own way; the wayWhich they believed, in pure simplicityTo be acceptable to Him, whose eyeAll seeing and all knowing, looks aloneAt the intent and purpose of the heart.With firm resolve they left their native land,Their home, their own green fields, and shady lawns,And o’er the pathless ocean took their courseTo the wild shores of a far distant clime;There, no proud king or haughty priest has power,To mar their quiet peace and pious prayers.Now, happy homes and fertile fields aroseOn those far shores, and pointing to the heavensThe tall church spire reflected the bright sun;The sons of God had gathered here, but, asIt was, in ancient time, when Satan cameAmidst their councils, and, with wily artLaid schemes to tempt the holy man to sin,So now, among the pious race, crept inSome bad designing ones, whose cunning aimWas to seduce the good and pious heart;Or, failing this, to turn his holy zealTo ridicule; to watch for some weak spot;For, who, in this imperfect world of oursIs free from imperfection; and, when foundWith jeering mockery, to cause him shame,In a small village dwelt a good old manBeloved and honored for his kindly heart;Zealous in prayer, in duty prompt and true;With guileless life, and firm and holy faith,The peaceful tenour of his life passed on;The Sexton of the parish, his white hairsWere reverenced by the simple pious flock,To whom his services were duly paid,Save by some graceless ones, who long had madeThe kind old man the butt of many a joke;But, as we often mark, the wicked jestWould harmlessly rebound from its rude aimAnd wound the miscreant who had sped the bolt.’Twas on a windy, dark and stormy nightThat the old sexton rose from his warm hearthTo brave the old and dreary autumn rain;For, on each night, at nine, the old church bellWas rung, with the intent that all should thenGo to their quiet rest; that peaceful sleepMight be the portion of each weary frameTill morn should rouse them to their daily toil.Those were the days when superstition’s powerWas felt by all; none from its gloomy chainsWere free; the grave divine and the wise sageAlike confessed its sway, its potent rule;And, if dark fears of unknown ill had powerTo shake the nerves of learned ministers,We need not wonder if our worthy friendWas not exempt from this besetting ill.It was a night, he thought, when wicked fiendsWould triumph in the mischief they might cause;And, though his faith in the Almighty powerTo guard his steps, was all unshaken still,Yet dismal fears and dark foreboding thought,Would rush, unbidden, thro’ his beating heart.The kind old dame shared in his fears of ill,And, as with care, she wrapped about his neckThe warm and woolly comforter, with wordsOf warning kind, she urged his quick return.He sallied forth, and onward bent his wayTo the lone church, which stood so near the shoreThat the rude waves on such a night as thisWould almost dash their spray upon its side;The wild wind roared amongst the woods, and seemedContending with the loud and deafening surge,While the pale rays, which from his lantern gleamedBut served to show the black and muddy poolsThat filled the road. Onward the good man strode,And the same courage, summoned to his aidWould have been lauded in the warrior bold.Slowly the ponderous key turned in the bolt;Through the broad aisle, he moved, with cautious tread,Starting at the dull echo of his steps.But, as he raised the light to seize the rope,Its beams shone full upon the sacred desk;What fearful sight appalled his shuddering gaze!A Gorgon’s head usurped the holy place,Which, to his terror-stricken mind appearedThe embodied form of Lucifer himself!He stopped not to encounter the foul fiend,But, rushing forth, stayed not his course, untilSafe landed at the reverened pastor’s door.Great was the wonder, strong was the dismayWith which the pious man heard the dark tale;But, with the conscious rectitude of truth,He seized the Holy Book, with firm resolveThat the foul spirit should no longer holdUsurped dominion o’er that hallowed spot.Torrents of rain descending, seemed to warnThe zealous pair from the encounter rash,Still, strong in faithful confidence, they gainedThe fatal spot, when, with his talismanUplifted, uttering words of mighty power,The pious pastor, with firm step and slowApproached the dreaded form, though, strange to tell,The wicked Tempter seemed to stand his ground,Nearer and nearer they advance, and thenAscend the stairs, armed for the conflict dire.But, now, the shameless mockery unveiledShows but the head and horns of an old sheep,A moment’s pause, and, then a pleasant smileIllum’ed the good man’s face, as he addressedThe indignant sexton in a kindly tone.“We have been weakly credulous, my friend,“Our foolish fears have stolen our better sense,“’Tis the vile trick of some rude infidel;“But, we will turn his bad intent to good,“And learn a lesson from this seeming ill.“Henceforth, we will not suffer coward fear“To thwart our judgment, or disturb our peace.”So saying, with strong arm, he drew awayThe unseemly object; and, with ready handThe bell was rung by the old servitor;And as they parted, each to his own home,With mild and gentle tone, the pastor said,“Do not forget, my good old friend, tonight,“Ere you lie down upon your peaceful bed,“To offer to our God, the prayer of faith,“That He would turn the erring mind from sin.”The morn arose, and the dark clouds dispersed,Before the fresh and health inspiring gale,When the malicious jester made his wayTowards the old church, to mark what the effectHad been, of his vile mockery; whetherHis trick had been discovered, or, unseenBy the old man, the foul caricatureStill occupied the holy preacher’s desk.The beast he rode was vicious as himself,For, as he turned the angle of the wallFrom the highroad, upon the level green,Scared by some object, which beset his path,The fiery steed reared high, then plunging downThrew his unwary master to the ground.’Twas the grim object, which, with cunning skill,He had prepared for the good Sexton’s harm,And, which, on that dark night, the pious pairHad drawn away, and thrown beside the wall.With many a deep and heavy groan, he lay,Till guided by the same wise ProvidenceThe kind old man ’gainst whom the plot was laid,Came to his rescue, and, with kindly care,Soothed his distress, and brought him timely aid.
Time was, when tyrant power in Britain’s Isle
Ruled with despotic sway; when pious men
Were hunted like wild beasts if they should dare
To worship God in their own way; the way
Which they believed, in pure simplicity
To be acceptable to Him, whose eye
All seeing and all knowing, looks alone
At the intent and purpose of the heart.
With firm resolve they left their native land,
Their home, their own green fields, and shady lawns,
And o’er the pathless ocean took their course
To the wild shores of a far distant clime;
There, no proud king or haughty priest has power,
To mar their quiet peace and pious prayers.
Now, happy homes and fertile fields arose
On those far shores, and pointing to the heavens
The tall church spire reflected the bright sun;
The sons of God had gathered here, but, as
It was, in ancient time, when Satan came
Amidst their councils, and, with wily art
Laid schemes to tempt the holy man to sin,
So now, among the pious race, crept in
Some bad designing ones, whose cunning aim
Was to seduce the good and pious heart;
Or, failing this, to turn his holy zeal
To ridicule; to watch for some weak spot;
For, who, in this imperfect world of ours
Is free from imperfection; and, when found
With jeering mockery, to cause him shame,
In a small village dwelt a good old man
Beloved and honored for his kindly heart;
Zealous in prayer, in duty prompt and true;
With guileless life, and firm and holy faith,
The peaceful tenour of his life passed on;
The Sexton of the parish, his white hairs
Were reverenced by the simple pious flock,
To whom his services were duly paid,
Save by some graceless ones, who long had made
The kind old man the butt of many a joke;
But, as we often mark, the wicked jest
Would harmlessly rebound from its rude aim
And wound the miscreant who had sped the bolt.
’Twas on a windy, dark and stormy night
That the old sexton rose from his warm hearth
To brave the old and dreary autumn rain;
For, on each night, at nine, the old church bell
Was rung, with the intent that all should then
Go to their quiet rest; that peaceful sleep
Might be the portion of each weary frame
Till morn should rouse them to their daily toil.
Those were the days when superstition’s power
Was felt by all; none from its gloomy chains
Were free; the grave divine and the wise sage
Alike confessed its sway, its potent rule;
And, if dark fears of unknown ill had power
To shake the nerves of learned ministers,
We need not wonder if our worthy friend
Was not exempt from this besetting ill.
It was a night, he thought, when wicked fiends
Would triumph in the mischief they might cause;
And, though his faith in the Almighty power
To guard his steps, was all unshaken still,
Yet dismal fears and dark foreboding thought,
Would rush, unbidden, thro’ his beating heart.
The kind old dame shared in his fears of ill,
And, as with care, she wrapped about his neck
The warm and woolly comforter, with words
Of warning kind, she urged his quick return.
He sallied forth, and onward bent his way
To the lone church, which stood so near the shore
That the rude waves on such a night as this
Would almost dash their spray upon its side;
The wild wind roared amongst the woods, and seemed
Contending with the loud and deafening surge,
While the pale rays, which from his lantern gleamed
But served to show the black and muddy pools
That filled the road. Onward the good man strode,
And the same courage, summoned to his aid
Would have been lauded in the warrior bold.
Slowly the ponderous key turned in the bolt;
Through the broad aisle, he moved, with cautious tread,
Starting at the dull echo of his steps.
But, as he raised the light to seize the rope,
Its beams shone full upon the sacred desk;
What fearful sight appalled his shuddering gaze!
A Gorgon’s head usurped the holy place,
Which, to his terror-stricken mind appeared
The embodied form of Lucifer himself!
He stopped not to encounter the foul fiend,
But, rushing forth, stayed not his course, until
Safe landed at the reverened pastor’s door.
Great was the wonder, strong was the dismay
With which the pious man heard the dark tale;
But, with the conscious rectitude of truth,
He seized the Holy Book, with firm resolve
That the foul spirit should no longer hold
Usurped dominion o’er that hallowed spot.
Torrents of rain descending, seemed to warn
The zealous pair from the encounter rash,
Still, strong in faithful confidence, they gained
The fatal spot, when, with his talisman
Uplifted, uttering words of mighty power,
The pious pastor, with firm step and slow
Approached the dreaded form, though, strange to tell,
The wicked Tempter seemed to stand his ground,
Nearer and nearer they advance, and then
Ascend the stairs, armed for the conflict dire.
But, now, the shameless mockery unveiled
Shows but the head and horns of an old sheep,
A moment’s pause, and, then a pleasant smile
Illum’ed the good man’s face, as he addressed
The indignant sexton in a kindly tone.
“We have been weakly credulous, my friend,
“Our foolish fears have stolen our better sense,
“’Tis the vile trick of some rude infidel;
“But, we will turn his bad intent to good,
“And learn a lesson from this seeming ill.
“Henceforth, we will not suffer coward fear
“To thwart our judgment, or disturb our peace.”
So saying, with strong arm, he drew away
The unseemly object; and, with ready hand
The bell was rung by the old servitor;
And as they parted, each to his own home,
With mild and gentle tone, the pastor said,
“Do not forget, my good old friend, tonight,
“Ere you lie down upon your peaceful bed,
“To offer to our God, the prayer of faith,
“That He would turn the erring mind from sin.”
The morn arose, and the dark clouds dispersed,
Before the fresh and health inspiring gale,
When the malicious jester made his way
Towards the old church, to mark what the effect
Had been, of his vile mockery; whether
His trick had been discovered, or, unseen
By the old man, the foul caricature
Still occupied the holy preacher’s desk.
The beast he rode was vicious as himself,
For, as he turned the angle of the wall
From the highroad, upon the level green,
Scared by some object, which beset his path,
The fiery steed reared high, then plunging down
Threw his unwary master to the ground.
’Twas the grim object, which, with cunning skill,
He had prepared for the good Sexton’s harm,
And, which, on that dark night, the pious pair
Had drawn away, and thrown beside the wall.
With many a deep and heavy groan, he lay,
Till guided by the same wise Providence
The kind old man ’gainst whom the plot was laid,
Came to his rescue, and, with kindly care,
Soothed his distress, and brought him timely aid.
“I hope your memory is stored with many of these ‘legends of the days of yore,’” said Mary, “and that you will find leisure to arrange them in the same interesting form.” “It will be a powerful inducement to attempt it, my dear cousin, if it will interest you.”