BOY. Yes, Sir; I think it is time, for father says Deacon Richardson's _going to have all there is in this world_!
But the Deacon has long gone to his last home, and far be it from us to recall his foibles, 'or draw his frailties from their dread abode.' He did many a kindly act, and the blessing of the fatherless rested upon his head.
But we have wandered from our subject, and it is too late to resume it now. We believe there is much in that sterling democracy of New-Hampshire, much of real gold, though it lack the guinea's stamp, which has never been revealed to the world. Not only can all that we have claimed for the _physique_ of those hardy yeoman be incontestably proven, but it can be shown with equal clearness, that in intellectual endowments and moral qualities they are seldom equalled and never surpassed. And if, in some simple sketches of these people and their progenitors, we can illustrate a page in our national history which is yet unwritten; if we can impress upon our own age the worth of those who lived before us, not for themselves alone, but to achieve our independence; if we can show what they were who framed the charter of our freedom, and what they would be now in the agitations of this hurrying age, what they did and what they would have us do, our 'chronicles' will not have been written in vain.
'TIS good for us to rest to-day, And keep the precept well; 'Tis good in village church to pray, At warning of the bell.
'Tis good in fair and noble towns, By brilliant thousands trod, Or where the forests wear their crowns, To stay and worship GOD.
'Tis is good upon the bounding seas To pray with soul and lip; God sees the sailor on his knees, Aboard the merchant ship.
And _here_, where our forefathers sleep, Who crossed of yore the waves, 'Tis good the Sabbath day to keep Among their ancient graves.
'Tis good to dwell where they have dwelt; 'Tis good a while to stay And pray at altars where they knelt, As they were wont to pray.
Though from our rites the thoughtful eye May wander where are seen The tokens of the dead that lie In ranks of summer green:
Who, while we wait upon the LORD, That blessings may distil, For us, their sons, keep watch and ward On yonder silent hill: