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had set his bags of wind adrift, pellmell, to gambol about this windy metropolis. The most stanch and loyal citizens, however, always went according to the weathercock on the top of the governor's house, -which was certainly the most correct, as he had a trusty servant employed every morning to climb up and point it whichever way the wind blew. In those good days of simplicity and sunshine, a passion for cleanliness was the leading principle in domestic economy, and the universal test of an able housewife,—a character which formed the utmost ambition of our unenlightened grandmothers.

3. The front door was never opened except on marriages, funerals, New Year's day, the festival of St. Nicholas, or some such great occasion. It was ornamented with a gorgeous brass knocker curiously wrought, sometimes into the device of a dog, and sometimes of a lion's head, and was daily burnished with such religious zeal that it was ofttimes worn out by the very precautions taken for its preservation. The whole house was constantly in a state of inundation, under the discipline of mops, and brooms, and scrubbing-brushes; and the good housewives of those days were a sort of amphibious animal, delighting exceedingly to be dabbling in water, insomuch that a historian of the day gravely tells us that many of his townswomen grew to have webbed fingers like unto a duck: but this I look upon to be a mere sport of fancy, or, what is worse, a wilful misrepresentation.

4. The grand parlor was the sanctum sanctorum, where the passion for cleaning was indulged without control. In this sacred apartment no one was permitted to enter excepting the mistress and her confidential maid, who visited it once a week for the purpose of giving it a thorough cleaning and putting things to rights, always taking the precaution of leaving their shoes at the door and entering devoutly on their stocking feet. After scrub bing the floor, sprinkling it with fine sand, which was curiously stroked into angles, and curves, and rhomboids, with a broom,– after washing the windows, rubbing and polishing the furniture, and putting a new bunch of evergreens in the fireplace, the window-shutters were again closed to keep out the flies, and the room carefully locked up until the revolution of time brought round the weekly cleaning-day.

5. In those happy days, a well-regulated family always rose with the dawn, dined at eleven, and went to bed at sundown. Dinner was invariably a private meal, and the fat old burghers showed incontestable symptoms of disapprobation and uneasiness at being surprised by a visit from a neighbor on such occasions. But, though our worthy ancestors were thus singularly averse to giving dinners, yet they kept up the social bonds of intimacy by occasional banquetings, called tea-parties. These fashionable parties were generally confined to the higher classes, or noblesse; that is to say, such as kept their own cows and drove their own wagons.

6. The company commonly assembled at three o'clock, and went away about six, unless it was in winter-time, when the fashionable hours were a little earlier, that the ladies might get home before dark. I do not find that they ever treated their company to iced creams, jellies, or syllabubs, or regaled them with musty almonds, mouldy raisins, or sour oranges, as is often done in the present age of refinement. Our ancestors were fond of more sturdy, substantial fare. The tea-table was crowned with a huge earthen dish well stored with slices of fat pork, fried brown, cut into morsels and swimming in gravy.

7. The company, being seated around the genial board, and each furnished with a fork, evinced their dexterity in launching at the fattest pieces of this mighty dish, in much the same manner as sailors harpoon porpoises at sea, or our Indians spear salmon in the lakes. Sometimes the table was graced with immense apple-pies, or saucers full of preserved peaches and pears; but it was always sure to boast of an enormous dish of balls of sweetened dough fried in hog's fat, and called dough-nuts, or oly-koeks,

-a delicious kind of cake, at present scarce known in this city, excepting in genuine Dutch families. The tea was served out of a majestic delft tea-pot, ornamented with paintings of fat little Dutch shepherds and shepherdesses tending pigs, with boats sailing in the air, and houses built in the clouds, and sundry other Dutch fantasies.

8. The beaux distinguished themselves by their adroitness in replenishing this pot from a huge copper tea-kettle, which would have made the pigmy macaronies of these degenerate days sweat. merely to look at it. To sweeten the beverage, a lump of sugar was laid beside each cup, and the company alternately nibbled and sipped with great decorum. until an improvement was introduced by a shrewd and economic old lady, which was to suspend a large lump directly over the tea-table by a string from the ceiling, so that it could be swung from mouth to mouth, --an ingenious expedient, which is still kept up by some families in Albany, but which prevails without exception in Communipaw, Bergen, Flat-Bush, and all our uncontaminated Dutch villages





RICHARD, surnamed Cour-de-Lion, was the second son of Henry II., King of England. On several occasions he united with his brothers in & rebellion against his father, and at length openly joined the King of France. War ensued; and, immediately after its close, King Henry died of a lingering fever, which was induced by the fatigues of war and the unnatural conduct of his sons. Richard visited his father's corpse the day after his death, and expressed great remorse at his rebellious conduct.

1. TORCHES were blazing clear,

Hymns pealing deep and slow,
Where a king lay stately on his bier

In a church of Fontevraud.
Banners of battle o'er him hung,

And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as noon's broad light, was ilung

On the settled face of death.

2. On the settled face of death

A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath,

Yet it fell still brightest there, -
As if each deeply-furrow'd trace

Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that scepter'd mortal's race

Had surely closed in woe!
3. The marble floor was swept

By many a long dark stole',
As the kneeling priests', round him that slept',

Sang mass for the parted soul':
And solemn were the strains they pour'd

Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword,

And the silent king in sight.
4. There was heard a heavy clang,

As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang

With a sounding thrill of dread;

And the holy chant was hush'd a while,

As, by the torch's flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle,

With a mail-clad leader, came. 5. He came with haughty look,

An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook

When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,

And clasp'd hands o'er it raised;
For his father lay before him low :

It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed !

ö, And silently he strove

With the workings of his breast';
But there's more in late repentant love'

Than steel may keep suppress'd' !
And his tears brake forth', at last, like rain':

Men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train,

And he reck'd not that they saw.

7. He look'd upon the dead,

And sorrow seem'd to lie
A weight of sorrow, even like lead-

Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd and kiss'd the frozen cheek

And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words, yet all too weak,

Gave his soul's passion way :8. “O father! is it vain,

This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me', father' ! once again'.

I weep'! behold', I weep'!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire!!

Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown, my sire',

To hear thee bless thy son'.

9. “Speak to me'! mighty grief

Ere now the dust hath stirr'd!
Hear me, but hear me' father, chief,

My king! I must be heard'!

Hush’d, hush'd how is it that I call,

And that thou answerest not?
When was it thus? Woe', woe' for all

The love my soul forgot' !
10. “Thy silver hairs I see';

So still', so sadly bright'!
And, father, father! but for me

They had not been so white !
I bore thee down', high heart', at last;

No longer couldst thou strive':
Oh! for one moment of the past',

To kneel and say, · Forgive'!'
11. “Thou wert the noblest king

On royal throne e'er seen';
And thou didst wear in knightly ring,

Of all, the stateliest mien' ;
And thou didst


spears are proped,
In war the bravest heart;
Oh, ever the renown'd and loved

Thou wert', -and there thou art' !
12. “Thou that my boyhood's guide

Didst take fond joy to be!
The times I've sported at thy side

And climb'd thy parent-knee !
And there before the blessed shrine,

My sire! I see thee lie:
How will that sad still face of thine

Look on me till I die!”




In some

1. GENTLEMEN, this is a most extraordinary case. respects, it has hardly a precedent anywhere, -certainly, none in our New England history. This bloody drama exhibited no suddenly excited, ungovernable rage. The actors in it were not surprised by any lion-like temptation springing upon their virtue, overcoming it before resistance could begin. Nor did they do

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