scription of Boston for sale. He offered me (or, rather,
produced for inspection, not supposing that I would buy it) a quarto
history of the town, published by subscription, nearly forty years ago.
The bookseller showed himself a well-informed and affable man, and a local
antiquary, to whom a party of inquisitive strangers were a godsend. He had
met with several Americans, who, at various times, had come on pilgrimages
to this place, and had been in correspondence with others. Happening to
have heard the name of one member of our party, he showed us great
courtesy and kindness, and invited us into his inner domicile, where, as
he modestly intimated, he kept a few articles which it might interest us
to see. So we went with him through the shop, up-stairs, into the private
part of his establishment; and, really, it was one of the rarest
adventures I ever met with, to stumble upon this treasure of a man, with
his treasury of antiquities and curiosities, veiled behind the
unostentatious front of a bookseller's shop, in a very moderate line of
village-business. The two up-stair rooms into which he introduced us were
so crowded with inestimable articles, that we were almost afraid to stir,
for fear of breaking some fragile thing that had been accumulating value
for unknown centuries.

The apartment was hung round with pictures and old engravings, many of
which were extremely rare. Premising that he was going to show us
something very curious, Mr. Porter went into the next room and returned
with a counterpane of fine linen, elaborately embroidered with silk, which
so profusely covered the linen that the general effect was as if the main
texture were silken. It was stained, and seemed very old, and had an
ancient fragrance. It was wrought all over with birds and flowers in a
most delicate style of needle-work, and among other devices, more than
once repeated, was the cipher, M.S.,--being the initials of one of the
most unhappy names that ever a woman bore. This quilt was embroidered by
the hands of Mary-Queen of Scots, during her imprisonment at Fotheringay
Castle; and having evidently been a work of years, she had doubtless shed
many tears over it, and wrought many doleful thoughts and abortive schemes
into its texture, along with the birds and flowers. As a counterpart to
this most precious relic, our friend produced some of the handiwork of a
former Queen of Otaheite, presented by her to Captain Cook: it was a bag,
cunningly