n see
his footprint on a black rock in the park.

That's one story. Another is that instead of going home, he bounded to
Rowley, where there is another charming church, looking the very haunt
of peace, good will to men. I can quite believe that even the devil
might come a long way to gaze at some of these old New England churches.
You can't think what a feeling of pure delight they give to the mind, in
spite of, or because of, their simplicity. The green banks where they
are built might be vast altars with elms for the altar candlesticks, and
the smooth sward for the altar cloth. The devil may have heard all this,
and wanted to see for himself if it were true. I don't know how he
escaped from Rowley, as he left no footprint, though the easiest way
would have been along the good Bay Road! Maybe he had a secret passage
down under the sea, which isn't very far off. Spinning on between
meadows, you can see it away to the right, misty blue as the wild
forget-me-nots which mingle with a thousand other wild flowers.

Newburyport is like a perfume bottle for its sweetness, or, rather, two
perfume bottles: one filled with salt fragrance from the sea, the other
with the scent of apple blossoms from countless orchards. That sounds as
if it were only a small village, but it isn't: it's a town, and one of
the most historic. Almost everything exciting that can happen in New
England has happened at Newburyport--from earthquakes which uprooted
corn and set all the bells to ringing, to visits of the French
aristocracy, dashing exploits of privateers, the entertaining of General
Washington, and the quickest proposal of marriage on record. Almost the
nicest thing about Newburyport, however, and one of the nicest things I
ever heard, is the story of Timothy Dexter, who grew very rich,
nominated himself for the peerage, and assumed the title of "Lord." He
was considered a half-witted sort of fellow, who inherited a little
money and didn't know what business to engage in. "Charter a ship," said
a practical joker whom he consulted. "Buy a cargo of warming-pans and
send them to Cuba." Timothy Dexter did as he was told; but fortune is
always supposed to favour simpletons, you know! It happened in Cuba that
there were not nearly enough buckets to bail up the syrup from the vats
in the sugar-cane mills, and those at hand were too small. Dexter's
warming-pans were just the thing! The whole cargo was bought up,
fetching huge prices, and "Lord" Tim