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mendation of clothes typical of true Puritan ideas, clothes that would not patronize coughs, consumptions, pride, or taxes. As the royal family and the nobility led the English nation in habits of dress, they would not be so implicitly followed on this side of the water. As faithful disciples turn their faces to Jerusalem or Mecca, so modern fashionists turn their eyes to Paris; for France is subjugating the world to millinery. Thus it was not with our Pilgrim ancestors. They dared to think for themselves; and they dared to make laws against the customs and costumes of their native land. The single fact that our Colonial Legislature took up the subject of dress,-female dress, too,—is a proof of their clear ideas and consistent characters. What body of men had ever before dared thus to legislate on such a subject? It is very evident to us, therefore, what kind of dress the Medford ladies had not; and we can conceive the dumb wonder and inexpressible blushing which the appearance of one of our exposé celebrities would cause among them at an evening party. It is wonderful how the highest civilization brings us back to Eden!'

The common every-day dress of our ancestors was very plain, strong, and comfortable; but their Sunday suits were expensive, elaborate, and ornamental. The men, in their Sunday attire, wore broad-brimmed hats, turned up into three corners, with loops at the side, showing full bush-wigs beneath them; long coats, the very opposite of the swallowtails, having large pocket-folds and cuffs, and without collars, the buttons either plated or of pure silver, and of the size of half a dollar; vests, also without collars, but very long, having graceful pendulous. lappet-pockets; shirts, with bosom and wrist ruffles, and with gold and silver buckles at the wrist, united by a link; the neckcloths or scarfs of fine linen, or figured stuff, or embroidered, the ends hanging loosely. Small-clothes were in fashion, and only reached a little below the knees, where they were ornamented with silver buckles of liberal size; the legs were covered with gray stockings, and the feet with shoes, ornamented with straps and silver buckles; boots were sometimes worn, having broad white tops; gloves, on great occasions; and mittens, in the winter. A gentleman, with his cocked-up hat and white bush-wig; his chocolate-colored coat, buff vest, and smallclothes; his brown stockings and black shoes; his ruffles, buckles, and buttons, presented an imposing figure, and

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showed a man who would probably demean himself with dignity and intelligence.

The best dress of the rich was very costly: The scarlet coat, wadded skirts, full sleeves, cuffs reaching to the elbows, wristbands fringed with lace; embroidered bands, tassels, gold buttons; vests fringed with lace; and small-clothes with puffs, points, buckles, &c. ; a sword hanging by the side.

The visiting-dress of the ladies was more costly, complicated, and ornamental than their husbands or brothers wore. But with them we have little to do in this brief notice, and therefore leave to others the description of their coiffures, which were so high as to bring their faces almost into the middle of their bodies; their black silk and satin bonnets; their gowns, so extremely long-waisted; their tight sleeves, which were sometimes very short, with an immense frill at the elbow; their spreading hoops and long trails; their highheeled shoes; and their rich brocades, flounces, spangles, embroidered aprons, &c. Their dress on the sabbath was simple, secure, and modest: A cheap straw bonnet, with only one bow without, and no ornament but the face within; a calico dress, of sober colors, high up in the neck, with a simple white muslin collar just peeping round the top; a neat little shawl, and a stout pair of shoes, these presented to the eye the Puritan costume of our ancestral and pious mothers. They were happy, some may think, in being free from the more than royal tyranny of those modern mistresses of shears and needles, who distort and crucify nature to furnish that variety which caprice must have, and whose new fashions finally penetrate the abodes of our northern subterranean Esquimaux, and the huts of the South-Sea islanders. It is certainly to be hoped that these kaleidoscope changes of our day may do something for artistic beauty, and something for feeding the poor artisans; and thus be some compensation for converting females into manikins to show off satins and embroideries. We look with anxiety for the time when old things shall become new; when hoops and pattens, silk cloaks and top-knots, tunics and scarlet belts, sacks and ruffle cuffs, small-clothes and silver buckles, embroidered vests and neck-ties, powdered hair and long cues, shall drive out the tiptoe modes of modern days, and reign again supreme.

The best dwelling-houses of our Medford ancestors were two stories high in front, slanting off to one story in the rear.

There was one strong chimney in the centre of the building; and the windows were glazed with diamond-glass. It was deemed of primary importance that the dwelling should face the south. A very few specimens of this style of architecture remain unaltered among us.

The first houses of the farmers in this plantation were loghuts of one story, with thatched roof, having lofts inside, like our barns. The fireplaces were made of rough stones, and the upper half of the chimneys with short sticks, crossing each other, and plastered inside with clay. The houses always fronted the south, like sun-dials, so that the mid-day sun might "shine square."

Let us look at a family thus conditioned. They have chosen a spot near the Mystic River, where the highest tides cannot annoy them; and their house seems thrust into the thickest wood. No yard in front, no wall behind, no path, no gate, all open as an unfenced forest: there seems not even an outlet into the civilized world. The young undergrowth of wood is springing up beneath the windows; the wild sumachs and blackberry vines are breaking into the cellar; the sturdy pitch-pines are rubbing and crackling against the thatch-poles; the golden-rod is intertwining itself among the white birch and dark hazel; while a centenarian oak and a towering walnut stand near enough to promise shade and take the lightning. Here each member of the family in the log-hut can run up a pleasant acquaintance with a blooming beech-tree or a tapering cedar, with a graceful "dressed elm " or a glossy-leaved chestnut.

"He who loves to hold communion with Nature's beautiful forms" will not need other society here. The wind labors and roars in the forest; the susurum murmurs its Eolian music through the pines; the tide goes and comes like a faithful messenger; and the sun, moon, and stars seem to belong to that little world.

Add to all these the frolic and movements of animals. How social were they with the early comers! European eyes, for the first time, could watch the racing of the American weazel, that agile hunter of the woods; the dodging of the gray squirrel in the nut-tree; the undisturbed meal of the woodchuck in the clover; the patient labor of the beaver in building his house; and the craft of the fox, as he barks in the moonlight to start his game.

There was something to engage attention even in the

waters. They had a morning, noon, and evening song; for the little frogs, would send forth their gentle peep through hours of darkness; while great ones, at mid-day, would grumble out their hoarse password, and throw back their sentinel echoes round the shores of their Stygian pools.

There is a vast and unaccountable friendliness in birds. They would take to men as companions, if men would only let them. Our ancestors in Medford were in a district which naturally collected birds from ocean and forest, from upland and meadow. At their doors, they had the useful cock and hen, the brilliant mallard-duck, and the sentinel white goose. At early dawn, those notes of chanticleer calling upon every sleeper to rise, and take a draught of undiluted morning air from the fountain of the day-those notes are so clear and powerful and strange that we should go a hundred miles to hear them, if the bird had never been domesticated. The inmates of the log-hut listen to this noble creature, speaking to them with the authority of a major-general on parade. They love this faithful bird, this once wild Indian pheasant; and they cherish him with the affection of a friend. And is he not truly a wonderful bird? Wherever he is, he has good health, strong lungs, and spirits like a young lover. All climates agree with him; and the poets of all times have sung his praises. Our fathers wisely guarded him and his family as a secret treasure.

And was there ennui in the log-hut on the banks of the Mystic? If so, the birds alone could have dissipated it. The oriole, the robin, and the thrush, the swallow, the humming-bird, and the wren, were enough to put all despondency to flight. How could they be sad, who saw the sandpipers coming in flocks, and heard the plovers whistling on the hill? How could they be sad, who could hear the blue-jay screaming in the thicket, or the kingfisher rattling by the river's side? What human heart could despond, when it witnessed the lark soaring towards heaven in his spiral flight, as if to carry his prayer of faith to the very throne of mercy? In every bird, there is something to please and to instruct

In those unbroken solitudes of Nature, our forefathers had the privilege of witnessing the marvellous contrasts exhibited by the feathered tribes. With what wonder must they have watched the wild-goose, of which it may almost be said, that he breaks his fast at Baffin's Bay, takes his lunch in Medford Pond, and plumes himself at nightfall in a southern

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bayou! How different from him the laughing-loon, catching minnows in the shallows of a creek! Mark the majestic sailing of the eagle through the deep of air; and contrast this with the bittern, driving his post in the meadow. Then there is the owl, Nature's watchman, waiting for the dawning of his day, which is sundown. Listen to his midnight love-note, which seems discord and sighs hooted at the moon; and see him shoot through a tangled forest in the dark, as if every tree and twig made way for him! And, last of all, give an ear to the whippoorwill, as he sings with clear and healthy note his matins and vespers.

Group together all these joys and teachings of animated nature, each so friendly to man, and all so abundant and so lofty, and how could the witnesses of them be weary or sorrowful? We believe they were not; but, on the contrary, they joined the general chorus with loving and devoted hearts, making the whole earth an altar of thanksgiving, and the whole heavens the witness of their joy.

DAILY AND DOMESTIC HABITS.

We may get the truest ideas of these by watching, through two days, all the plans and movements of that family in the log-hut on the banks of the Mystic. We will take Saturday and Sunday. Let us look closely. The father is a strong man of forty-six, with a true Puritan heart; and his wife is seven years his junior, with good health and without anxiety. Their first child is a son, eighteen years old; the next is a daughter of sixteen; then come three boys, their ages fourteen, eleven, and eight; and the youngest child is a daughter, aged six. Of hired men or women, they had none. Extra help came from what they called "change work."

Let us first mark the cares and labors of the farmer and his boys. Saturday was a busy day with them; although one day's or one year's experience was almost exactly like another's.

To rise early was not considered worthy of any remark; while not rising early would have been deemed a crime. To be up before daylight was a matter of course with every family. The father was expected to move first; to strike a light with flint and steel; to kindle a fire under the kettle in which the water for the porridge was to be boiled. This done,

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