With what serene dignity and kindness the old lady, in her nice plaited cap, her spotless kerchief, and russet poplin dress, her pin ball, with its silver chain, hanging at her waist—presides at the board—crowded with every imaginable homely delicacy—from the preserved peach and crullers made by herself, to the green candied limes brought home by her grandson from his last West India voyage. See the antique furniture, with its elaborate carving, the mahogany-framed looking-glasses; and, in the corner, on the round stand, the large Bible, carefully covered with baize, surmounted with the silver spectacles. No place this for swearing, duel-fighting, be-whiskered heroes; but just the thing for quiet, sober folk, like you and me. What sayest thou, Scipio, thou ebon angel,—that the ebb sets at five i’ the morning, and that old Davy Swan, the fisherman, will be ready for us at the Long Wharf at that hour? Well, get yourself ready and go along with us. Call us in season. Ay, that will do—the roll of those eyes—the display of that ivory, to say nothing of the scratch of that head, and the sudden displacement of that leg, sufficiently evince thy delight. So, so,—here we are, punctual to the hour. Ay, yonder he is in his broad strong fishing-boat; yonder is old Davy Swan, as he was twenty years ago; the same tall, gaunt figure, the same stoop in the shoulders, bronzed visage, and twinkling grey eyes; the same wrinkles at the side of his mouth, though deeper; the same long, lank hair, but now the sable silvered; the same—the same that he was in the days of my boyhood. He sees us. Now he stretches up to the wharf. Jump in—jump in. Be careful, thou son of Ethiopia, or thy basket will be overboard—sad disappointment to our sea-whet appetites some few brief hours hence. All in. We slide gently from the wharf. The light air in the inner harbour here barely gives us headway. Look down into the deep, still water—clear as crystal; see the long sea-weed wave below; see the lithe eels, coursing and whipping their paths through its entangled beds; and see our boat, with its green and yellow sides—its long flaunting pennant—its symmetrical white sails, suspended, as if in mid-air, on its transparent surface. How still and tranquil lies the quiet town, as the sun gilds its white steeples; and how comfortable look the old family mansions rising from the green trees. How beautifully the yellow sun casts his shadows on the undulating surface of the island, green and verdant—the flocks of sheep, and browsing cattle, grouped here and there upon its smooth pastures. And see, how yonder alike he gilds the land of the brave, the chivalrous, the unfortunate Miantonimoh. We float past Fort Wolcott. Its grass-grown ramparts, surmounted with dark ordnance, and its fields cheerful with white-washed cottages and magazines.