n which a comic pardon was always lurking. Perhaps this
may have been by reason of the tender recollections of the poor young
mother Rachel, who had so suddenly yielded up her life, and taken away
the charm of her smiles to another country; or it may have been that the
pranks of the parson's boy found greater toleration by reason of their
contrast with the sturdy and unyielding gravity of the Doctor; they made
up a good average of mirth for the household of the parsonage,--a sort
of average which the wicked world craves, and which, it is to be feared,
will be craved until we take on a wholly new moral shape. Or, to put the
reflection in other form, if the Doctor's immovable serenity was a type
of the highest embodiment of good in this world, the playful humors of
the boy were reckoned by the good-natured villagers as the most
pardonable shape which the inevitable principle of evil that belongs to
our heritage could possibly take on; and thus, while the father
challenged their admiration, only the more, by reason of the contrast,
the boy challenged all their tenderest sympathies.

Even the Tourtelots "quite missed the boy"; though over and over the
brindled cow of the Deacon was found to have slipped the bars, (a thing
the orderly creature was never known to do of her own head,) and was
reported at twilight by the sober-faced Reuben as strolling far down
upon the Common.

It is but a small bit of canvas we have chosen for the painting in of
these figures of ours; and returning to the old town of Ashfield, as we
do now, where the central interest must lie, there is little of change
to declare, still less of dramatic incident. A serene quietude, year
after year, is the characteristic of most of the interior New England
towns. The elections come and go with their fury of previous
declamation. The Squire presides over the deliberations of his party,
and some leading Adams man presides over the deliberations of the other;
even the boys are all Jackson men or Adams men; but when the result is
declared, there is an acquiescence on all hands that is beautiful to
behold; and in process of time, Mr. Troop, the postmaster, yields up the
mail pouches and locks and canvas bags to some active little Jackson
partisan with the utmost suavity, and smokes off his discontent upon the
porch of the Eagle Tavern, under the very shadow of the tall hickory
pole, which for one third of its height is protected by old wagon-tire
heavily spiked on