The consummate masterpiece in the work is the character of _Sam Lawson_, a literary grandson of the _Vicar of Wakefield_, an own cousin to _Ichabod Crane_, and a sort of stepfather to _Huckleberry Finn_. _Sam Lawson_ was a “tall, shambling, loose-jointed man, with a long, thin visage, prominent, watery blue eyes, very fluttering and seedy habiliments, who occupied the responsible position of first do-nothing-in-ordinary in our village of Oldtown.” Why is it that such a character invariably endears itself to our whole country? Mrs. Stowe gives us a sort of explanation of the strange phenomenon. She says that the lovable, lazy genius and factotum of the town was a necessary appendage of every New England village; for Yankee life was so “harried by work and thrift and industry,” that society would “burn itself out with the intense friction if it were not for the lubricating power of a decided do-nothing!” But that, perhaps, was not all. _Sam_ was the undeveloped artist and had a touch of the artist’s charm. He was a great singer; he could sing all parts, bass, tenor, counter, soprano, going from one to another at any point in the midst of the hymn; and as a story-teller he was beyond compare. “‘Why, didn’t you ever hear ’bout that?’” he would begin. “‘Want to know! Wal, I’ll tell ye, then. I know all ’bout it.’” And with this the story started out and the blissful listening of boys by the roadside or of friends around some fireside--not his own--would begin. He was a New England _Scheherazade_, with stories enough to last for a thousand and one long, lonely, winter nights. _Sam Lawson_ “filled this post with ample honor.” He would leave any work that ought to be done for his wife and large family of children and spend hours tinkering some boy’s knife, tending a dog’s sprained leg, or baiting hooks for a troop of boys in their fishing. He was a soft-hearted old body and would knock the fish in the head to put it out of torment. “‘Why, lordy massy!’” he would say, “‘I can’t bear to see no kind o’ critter in torment. These ’ere pouts ain’t to blame for bein’ fish, and ye ought to put ’em out of their misery. Fish has their rights as well as any of us.’” When _Sam_ was engaged to put a clock in order, he would get it all to pieces about the kitchen and then go away to start in on some other body’s job, saying that “‘Some things can be druv and then agin some things can’t, and clocks is that kind. They’s jest got to be humored. Now this ’ere’s a ’mazin’ good clock; give me my time on’t and I’ll have it so ’twill keep straight on to the millennium.’” Speaking of the millennium starts a theological argument and under cover of this he leaves the kitchen with the clock wheels scattered all over, and goes off fishing. _Sam Lawson’s_ philosophy of life is summed up in this: “‘It’s all fuss, fuss and stew, stew, till we get somewhere; and then it’s fuss, fuss and stew, stew, to get back agin; jump here and scratch your eyes