In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

Medfield Obey ! Thy nerves are in their infancy again, And have no vigour in them.—Tempest. Two or three years ago I passed a few weeks, about the end of summer and beginning of autumn, at a pleasant village within a few days’ journey from the city of New-York. Here I became acquainted with a gentleman residing in the place, of the name of Medfield, one of the most interesting men I have known. He lived on a beautiful and wellcultivated farm and was said by his neighbours to be in the possession of an easy fortune. I, for my own part, found him possessed of leisure, knowledge, and courteous manners. He showed me many civilities; he introduced me to all the pleasant walks and drives for miles round; he led me to all the picturesque spots in the neighbourhood, both those sheltered and retired places whose beauty is in themselves and those which are beautiful from the scenery they command; he made me acquainted with the vegetable and mineral riches of the region, rare plants and curious fossils; he related the local traditions and told me something of the state of society, with which, however, as I gathered from his conversation and from the account given me by others, he mingled little, except in occasional acts of kindness. Even now, while I write, I think I see him standing before me, a man who with little license of speech might be called handsome, rather tall of stature, and somewhat slenderly but elegantly shaped; his garb, though negligent, adjusting itself to his person with a natural and unavoidable grace – an oval countenance, a complexion fair and somewhat pale, a finely arched forehead, on the upper edge of which the lapse of thirty-five years had somewhat thinned the light brown hair that curled over it, a clear gray eye, and the remaining features moulded with more than usual regularity. There was, however, an unsettled and often unpleasant expression which almost neutralized the agreeable effect of this symmetry of features. In the midst of an medfield 236 animated conversation you would all at once perceive that his thoughts were wandering; a shade of alarm would pass over his countenance, and a shudder over his frame, and he would shrink as if from contact with some object which he wished to avoid. From these peculiarities of manner I was prepared to expect some eccentricities, not to call them by a worse name, in his way of thinking. Nothing of the kind, however, appeared, although he discoursed freely on all subjects and our conversation took in a large variety. On questions of politics and religion, his opinions were as rational as those of most men. He was a philanthropist after the fashion of the age, but he was no more an enthusiast in his plans of benevolence than some hundreds of worthy persons of my acquaintance. Of foreign and ancient literature he knew as much as most well-educated men in this country, and of old English literature something more; and his remarks on the authors he had read were those of a man of taste and judgment. Many of the fine old ballads in our language he knew by heart, as well as the imitations of them produced by modern authors; and he would repeat to me, as we sat together in the twilight, the ballad of Thomas the Rhymer with the additions by Scott, and Coleridge’s “Ancient Mariner,” in a fine impressive manner that even now vibrates on my nerves whenever I recall it to mind. Among his neighbours Medfield had the reputation of great judgment and equity, as well as benevolence. He had formerly acted as a magistrate, but since the death of his wife, which happened a few years before I knew him, he had ceased to employ himself in that capacity, though his neighbours still referred their disputes to his friendly decision. Since that event his manners, formerly cheerful, and sometimes, when earnestly bent on gaining a favourite point, imperious to a fault, had, as I was told, undergone a change. Always kind and generous, he was now more so than ever; all sternness was gone from his temper, which was now marked by a uniform grave tenderness. Some even acknowledged to me that “the squire had some strange ways with him lately,” a specimen or two of which I was shortly to witness. I have no great passion either for angling or shooting; the former...

Share