There was indeed a tribe of lazy strollers,
having their place of rendezvous in the town of Barrington,
New Hampshire, whose low vices had placed them beyond
even the pale of her benevolence. They were not unconscious
of their evil reputation; and experience had taught them the
necessity of concealing, under well-contrived disguises, their
true character. They came to us in all shapes and with all
appearances save the true one, with most miserable stories of
mishap and sickness and all "the ills which flesh is heir to." It
was particularly vexatious to discover, when too late, that our
sympathies and charities had been expended upon such
graceless vagabonds as the "Barrington beggars." An old
withered hag, known by the appellation of Hopping Pat,--the
wise woman of her tribe,--was in the habit of visiting us, with
her hopeful grandson, who had "a gift for preaching" as well as
for many other things not exactly compatible with holy orders.
He sometimes brought with him a tame crow, a shrewd,
knavish-looking bird, who, when in the humor for it, could talk
like Barnaby Rudge's raven. He used to say he could "do
nothin' at exhortin' without a white handkercher on his neck
and money in his pocket,"--a fact going far to confirm the
opinions of the Bishop of Exeter and the Puseyites generally,
that there can be no priest without tithes and surplice.
Pages:
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30