or, we heard a thumping and pounding as of somebody at work in my
study. Nay, if I mistake not, (for I was half asleep,) there was a sound
as of some person crumpling paper in his hand in our very bedchamber.
This must have been old Dr. Ripley with one of his sermons. There is a
whole chest of them in the garret; but he need have no apprehensions of
our disturbing them. I never saw the old patriarch myself, which I
regret, as I should have been glad to associate his venerable figure at
ninety years of age with the house in which he dwelt.

Externally the house presents the same appearance as in the Doctor's
day. It had once a coat of white paint; but the storms and sunshine of
many years have almost obliterated it, and produced a sober, grayish
hue, which entirely suits the antique form of the structure. To repaint
its reverend face would be a real sacrilege. It would look like old Dr.
Ripley in a brown wig. I hardly know why it is that our cheerful and
lightsome repairs and improvements in the interior of the house seem to
be in perfectly good taste, though the heavy old beams and high
wainscoting of the walls speak of ages gone by. But so it is. The
cheerful paper-hangings have the air of belonging to the old walls; and
such modernisms as astral lamps, card-tables, gilded Cologne-bottles,
silver taper-stands, and bronze and alabaster flower-vases, do not seem
at all impertinent. It is thus that an aged man may keep his heart warm
for new things and new friends, and often furnish himself anew with
ideas; though it would not be graceful for him to attempt to suit his
exterior to the passing fashions of the day.

* * * * *

_August 9._--Our orchard in its day has been a very productive and
profitable one; and we were told, that in one year it returned Dr.
Ripley a hundred dollars, besides defraying the expense of repairing the
house. It is now long past its prime: many of the trees are moss-grown,
and have dead and rotten branches intermixed among the green and
fruitful ones. And it may well be so; for I suppose some of the trees
may have been set out by Mr. Emerson, who died in the first year of the
Revolutionary war. Neither will the fruit, probably, bear comparison
with the delicate productions of modern pomology. Most of the trees seem
to have abundant burdens upon them; but they are homely russet apples,
fit only for baking and cooking. (But we have yet to have practical
experience o