And that by equal right is meant, 'tis plain,
The right by force or fraud whate'er they list to gain.
Thus like the Feds, to reason they pretend,
Suspect our motives, and decry our end.

Where action too with counteraction jars,
And wild misrule 'gainst order fiercely wars,
Anti-philosophers with scorn reject

Th' enlight'ning doctrines of our favour'd sect;
Bigots of mouldy creeds, that long ago
The Goddess Reason taught were idle show,
Their superstitious whims and habits hold,
Reject the new and cleave unto the old:
In vain reform in Gallic mantle drest,
Unbinds her zone, and wooes them to her breast,
And innovation's meretricious smile
Attempts their rigid firmness to beguile.
Strange that such prejudice in chains should bind
In our enlighten'd days the human kind!
Fools must they be, by dulness sure possess'd,
In their old way contented to be blest,
When novelty, with all-alluring charms
Of untried systems, lures them to her arms.

SUSANNA ROWSON,

THE author of the popular little romance of Charlotte Temple, of many books of greater labor and of less fame, and of the lyric of America, Commerce, and Freedom, was born about the year 1762. Her father was William Haswell, a British naval officer, who in 1769 was wrecked in company with his daughter on Lovell's Island, on the New England coast, after which they settled at Nantasket, where the father, a widower, married again, and whence he was compelled to depart, as a British subject, on the breaking out of the Revolutionary war.

His daughter appears to have followed him to London, where in 1786 she married William Rowson, leader of the band attached to the Royal Guards in London.* Her first work was published the same year, a novel, entitled Victoria; followed by Mary, or the Test of Honor, the matter of which was partly put into her hands by the bookseller; A Trip to Parnassus, a Critique on Authors and Performers, Fille de Chambre, the Inquisitor, or Invisible Rambler, Mentoria, and Charlotte Temple. Of the latter twentyfive thousand copies were sold in a few years. It is a tale of seduction, the story of a young girl brought over to America by a British officer and deserted, and being written in a melodramatic style has drawn tears from the public freely as any similar production on the stage. It is still a popular classic at the cheap book-stalls and with travelling chapmen. The Inquisitor is avowedly modelled on Sterne, and the honest heart of the writer has doubtless a superior sensibility, though the sharp wit and knowledge of the world of the original are not feminine qualities, and are not to be looked for from a female pen.

In 1793 Mrs. Rowson came with her husband to America, under an engagement with Wignell, the manager of the Philadelphia theatre. She had appeared in England in the provincial theatres, and was successful in light comedy and musical pieces. While engaged on the stage in America she wrote The Trials of the Heart, a novel; Slaves in Algiers, an opera; The Volunteers, a farce found

* Buckingham, in his Personal Memoirs, speaks of "the sublime and spirit-stirring tones of this gentleman's trumpet, when he played for the Boston Handel and Haydn Society, the accompaniment to the air in the Messiah, The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised.'"

ed on the whiskey insurrection in Pennsylvania ;and another farce, The Female Patriot. While at Baltimore in 1795, she wrote a poetical address to the armies of the United States, which she entitled The Standard of Liberty, and which was recited on the stage by Mrs. Whitlock before the military companies of the city. The bird of Jove, after attending the fortunes of Æneas and the Latins, is made to descend on the shores of Columbia, where the eagle becomes the standard of virtue and freedom. The next year she appeared with her husband at the Federal Street Theatre, in Boston, for a single season, during which she wrote a comedy, Americans in England, which was acted for her benefit and farewell of the stage. She then opened a school at Medford, afterwards at Newton, and subsequently at Boston. Her industrious pen meanwhile was not idle. In 1798 she published, in Boston, Reuben and Rachel, or Tales of Old Times, the scene of which was laid in Maine. In 1804 her Miscellaneous Poems appeared, by subscription, as usual. She appears on the title-page "Preceptress of the Ladies' Academy, Newton, Mass." The chief contents of the volume are The Birth of Genius, an Irregular Poem; Birth-day Ode to John Adams, 1799; Eulogy to the Memory of Washington; Maria, not a Fiction, a ballad of the Charlotte Temple material; occasional verses, and some translations from Virgil and Horace. They are for the most part echoes of English verse, occasionally imperfect, but mainly expressive of the generous woman's heart. A few boisterous songs, of a mannish order, may be set down to her theatrical life, and may be considered as a healthy support of her sentimental writing. The Choice, though one of the numerous imitations of Pomfret, may be taken as suggestive of the character of the writer. Her poem on the Rights of Woman shows her to have had but moderate ideas on that subject compared with some urged at the present day. A single verse, the first of a little poem entitled Affection, is proof sufficient of her gentle nature, and the felicitous expression which she sometimes achieved.

Mrs. Rowson also compiled several educational works, a Dictionary, two Systems of Geography, and Historical Exercises. She was also a contributor to the Boston Weekly Magazine. Her last distinct publication appears to have been in 1822, the two volumes entitled, Biblical Dialogues between a Father and his Family: comprising Sacred History from the Creation to the Death of our Saviour Christ, the Lives of the Apostles, the Reformation, &c. Mr. and Mrs. Alworth, in this book, living on the Connecticut, communicate in a series of conversations with their five children a variety of sacred information, derived from the works of Stackhouse, Poole, Prideaux, Calvert, and others. In the preface Mrs. Rowson professes herself attached to the tenets of the Protestant Episcopal Church, and states that she "has been engaged for the last twenty-five years in the instruction of young persons of her own sex." The style of the work is smooth and fluent.

Mrs. Rowson died in Boston, March 2, 1824.*

* An Obituary article in the Boston Gazette, reprinted in the Appendix to Moore's Historical Collections for 1824.

AFFECTION.

Touch'd by the magic hand of those we love,
A trifle will of consequence appear;
A flow'r, a blade of grass, a pin, a glove,
A scrap of paper will become most dear.
And is that being happy, whose cold heart
Feels not, nor comprehends this source of joy?
To whom a trifle can no bliss impart,

Who throw them careless by, deface, destroy?
Yes, they are happy; if the insensate rocks

Which the rude ocean beats, or softly laves,
Rejoice that they are mov'd not by the shocks,
Which hurl full many to untimely graves.
Yes, they are happy; if the polish'd gem,
On which the sun in varied colours plays,
Rejoices that its lustre comes from him,

And glows delighted to reflect his rays.
Not else. Though hearts so exquisitely form'd,
Feel misery a thousand different ways;
Yet when by love or friendship's power warm'd,
One look, whole days of misery repays.
One look, one word, one kind endearing smile,
Can from the mind each painful image blot:
The voice we love to hear can pain beguile,
List'ning the world beside is all forgot.
Tho' sharp the pang which friendship slighted gives,
Tho' to the eye a tear may force its way;
The cause remov'd when hope again revives,

Light beats the heart, and cheerful smiles the day. True, when we're forc'd to part from those we love, "Tis like the pang when soul and body's riven; But when we meet, the spirit soars above,

And tastes the exquisite delights of heaven.
Mine be the feeling heart: for who would fear
To pass the dreary vale of death's abode,
If certain, at the end, they should be near
And feel the smile of a benignant God?

TO TIME.

Old TIME, thou'rt a sluggard; how long dost thou stay;

Say, where are the wings, with which poets adorn thee?

Sure 'twas some happy being, who ne'er was away From the friend he most lov'd, and who wish'd to have shorn thee,

First drew thee with pinions; for had he e'er known
A long separation, so slow dost thou move,
He'd have pictured thee lame, and with fetters bound

down;

So tedious is absence to friendship and love.

I am sure thou'rt a cheat, for I often have woo'd thee

To tarry, when blest with the friend of my heart: But you vanish'd with speed, tho' I eager pursued thee,

Entreating thee not in such haste to depart. Then, wretch, thou wert deaf, nor wouldst hear my petition,

But borrow'd the wings of a sparrow or dove; And now, when I wish thee to take thy dismission Till those hours shall return, thou refusest to

move.

BONNET.

The primrose gay, the snowdrop pale, The lily blooming in the vale,

Too fragile, or too fair to last,

Wither beneath th' untimely blast,
Or rudely falling shower;

No more a sweet perfume they shed,
Their fragrance lost, their beauty fled,
They can revive no more.
So hapless woman's wounded name,
If Malice seize the trump of fame;
Or Envy should her poison shed
Upon the unprotected head

Of some forsaken maid;
Tho' pity may her fate deplore,
Her virtues sink to rise no more,

From dark oblivion's shade.

THE CHOICE.

I ask no more than just to be
From vice and folly wholly free;
To have a competent estate,
Neither too small, nor yet too great;
Something of rent and taxes clear,
About five hundred pounds a year.

My house, though small, should be complete,
Furnished, not elegant, but neat;
One little room should sacred be
To study, solitude, and me.

The windows, jessamine should shade,
Nor should a sound the ears invade,
Except the warblings from a grove,
Or plaintive murm'rings of the dove.
Here would I often pass the day,
Turn o'er the page, or tune the lay,
And court the aid and sacred fire
Of the Parnassian tuneful choir.
While calmly thus my time I'd spend,
Grant me, kind Heaven, a faithful friend,
In each emotion of my heart,
Of grief orjoy, to bear a part;
Possess'd of learning, and good sense,
Free from pedantic insolence.
Pleas'd with retirement let him be,
Yet cheerful, midst society;
Know how to trifle with a grace,
Yet grave in proper time and place.

Let frugal plenty deck my board,
So that its surplus may afford
Assistance to the neighb'ring poor,
And send them thankful from the door.
A few associates I'd select,
Worthy esteem and high respect;
And social mirth I would invite,
With sportive dance on tiptoe light;
Nor should sweet music's voice be mute,
The vocal strain, or plaintive lute;
But all, and each, in turn agree,
Tafford life sweet variety;
To keep serene the cheerful breast,
And give to solitude a zest.

And often be it our employ,
For there is not a purer joy,
To wipe the languid grief-swoln eye,
To sooth the pensive mourner's sigh,
To calm their fears, allay their grief,
And give, if possible, relief.

But if this fate, directing Heaven
Thinks too indulgent to be given,
Let health and innocence be mine,
And I will strive not to repine;
Will thankful take each blessing lent,
Be humble, patient, and content.

THE INDEPENDENT FARMER.

When the bonny grey morning just peeps from the

skies,

And the lark mounting, tunes her sweet lay;

With a mind unincumbered by care I arise,
My spirits, light, airy, and gay.

I take up my gun; honest Tray, my good friend,
Wags his tail and jumps sportively round;
To the woods then together our footsteps we bend,
'Tis there health and pleasure are found.

I snuff the fresh air; bid defiance to care,
As happy as mortal can be;

From the toils of the great, ambition and state,
"Tis my pride and my boast to be free.

At noon, I delighted range o'er the rich soil,
And nature's rough children regale:

With a cup of good home-brew'd I sweeten their toil,

And laugh at the joke or the tale.

And whether the ripe waving corn I behold,
Or the innocent flock meet my sight;

Or the orchard, whose fruit is just turning to gold,
Still, still health and pleasure unite.

I snuff the fresh air; bid defiance to care,
As happy as mortal can be;

From the toils of the great, ambition and state,
'Tis my pride and my boast to be free.

At night to my lowly roof'd cot I return,

When oh, what new sources of bliss;

My children rush out, while their little hearts burn,
Each striving to gain the first kiss.

My Dolly appears with a smile on her face,
Good humour presides at our board;

What more than health, plenty, good humour, and

peace,

Can the wealth of the Indies afford?

I sink into rest, with content in my breast,
As happy as mortal can be;

From the toils of the great, ambition and state,
Tis my pride and my boast to be free.

AMERICA, COMMERCE, AND FREEDOM.
How blest a life a sailor leads,
From clime to clime still ranging;
For as the calm the storm succeeds,
The scene delights by changing.
When tempests howl along the main,
Some object will remind us,
And cheer with hopes to meet again
Those friends we've left behind us.
Then under snug sail, we laugh at the gale,
And tho' landsmen look pale, never heed 'em;
But toss off a glass, to a favourite lass,

To America, Commerce, and Freedom.

And when arrived in sight of land,
Or safe in port rejoicing,
Our ship we moor, our sails we hand
Whilst out the boat is hoisting.
With eager haste the shore we reach,
Our friends, delighted, greet us;
And, tripping lightly o'er the beach,
The pretty lasses meet us.

When the full flowing bowl has enliven'd the soul,
To foot it we merrily lead 'em,

And each bonny lass will drink off a glass,
To America, Commerce, and Freedom.

Our cargo sold, the chink we share,
And gladly we receive it;
And if we meet a brother Tar,

Who wants, we freely give it.
No free born sailor yet had store,
But cheerfully would lend it;

And when 'tis gone, to sea for more,

We earn it, but to spend it.

Then drink round, my boys, 'tis the first of our joys, To relieve the distress'd, clothe and feed 'em; "Tis a task which we share, with the brave and the fair,

In this land of Commerce and Freedom.

TABITHA TENNEY.

MRS. TABITHA TENNEY, the author of the popular Adventures of Dorcasina Sheldon, was born at Exeter, N. H., in 1762. She was the daughter of Samuel Gilman, whose paternal ancestors constituted a great part of the community of that place. Her father died in her infancy, and she was left to the sole care of her pious and sensible mother, who was a descendant of the Puritan stock of Robinson, which also composed a large portion of the early population of the town of Exeter. As female education at that time was very circumscribed, she had but few early advantages excepting those which she received from her mother's excellent example of industry and economy, and the few well chosen books which she selected for her daughter's improvement.

Books and literary companionship were her greatest delight. She acquired a facility and correctness of language which gave her noticeable freedom and elegance in conversation.

In 1788 she was married to the Hon. Samuel Tenney, then a resident in Exeter, and formerly a Surgeon in the American army during the Revolutionary war. He was elected a member of Congress in 1800. She accompanied her husband to Washington several winters, and her letters from that place are specimens of her talent at graphic description, as well as illustrative of the fashion and manners of the times.

Her first publication was a selection from the poets and other classical writers, for the use of young ladies, entitled the New Pleasing Instructor. Some time after this she produced her romance of Female Quixotism.* This is, as its title implies, one of the numerous literary progeny of Cervantes' immortal satire. It resembles in one respect more closely its original than most of its family, turning like Don Quixote on the evils of reading romances. In place, however, of the leanvizored Don, we have a blooming, delicate young lady; and to continue the contrast, in exchange for the ponderous folios, in which even the light literature of those ages of learning was entombed, have the small volume novels of the Rosa-Matilda school of the past century, the vapid sentimental stuff which is now driven even from the bookstalls. Dorcas Sheldon is the only daughter of a wealthy father, and soon after her birth loses her mother. Left by a fond father to follow her own wishes she takes to reading novels, and so saturates her mind with their wishy-washy contents, that she determines herself to be a heroine. Her

Female Quixotism: Exhibited in the Romantic Opinions and Extravagant Adventures of Dorcasina Sheldon. Felix quem faciunt aliena pericula cautum.

In plain English

Learn to be wise by others' harm,

And you shall do full well.

In 2 vols. Boston: J. P. Peaslee, 1829. The early editions of popular novels become exceedingly scarce. We have te. with no earlier copy than this.

first step is to become qualified for a romantic career by metamorphosing her plain baptismal Dorcas into Dorcasina; her next to refuse a suitor, a solid man of property, of suitable age and approved by her father, whose wooing is of too straightforward and business-like a character to suit her Lydia Languish requirements; and her next, to repair daily to a romantically-disposed arbor to read and meditate. She has a confidante, not the white-muslined nonentity who would be naturally looked for beside a Tilburina, but a sturdy, sensible, country-bred waiting-maid, Betty, a female Sancho Panza.

Time wears on with Miss Dorcasina. Her retired residence and equally secluded mode of life are unfavorable to her aspirations for adventures, and she reaches her thirty-fourth year without a second offer.

At this period an adventurer, passing a night at the village inn, hears of the heiress and determines to carry her off. He dresses the next afternoon in his best, and repairs to the bower frequented by Dorcasina. An interview is thus obtained, the lady swallows the bait, the scamp forges letters of introduction, and is on the point of accomplishing his purpose when he is obliged to decamp. Dorcasina will believe nothing to his discredit, and is for some time inconsolable.

Her next suitor is a waggish student, a youngster as full of practical jokes as his prototype of Boccaccio or Chaucer, or contemporary of Yale College. He somewhat ungallantly selects Dorcasina as his victim. He thickens his plot by appearing, after having made a powerful first impression in propriâ personâ, as an injured female, making a violent assault on Dorcasina and Betty:

Betty,

The next day, as evening approached, Dorcasina desired Betty to attend her to the grove. being on many accounts unwilling to go, on her knees entreated her mistress to give up the project. But, finding her resolutely bent on fulfilling her engagement, the faithful creature, in spite of her averBion to the adventure, and of her apprehensions of ghosts and goblins, could not bear the idea that her mistress should go to the wood, at that hour unaccompanied. She therefore followed her footsteps, in silent trepidation.

Being arrived at the or they seated themselves on the turf. They had not sat long, when, instead of the expected lover, a female entered, and placing herself by the side of Dorcasina, accosted her in the following manner: 'You will, perhaps, be surprised, when I inform you that I know you did not come here with the expectation of meeting a woman. Philander was the person whom you expected to see; but know, abhorred rival, that I have effectually prevented his meeting you this night, and am now come to enjoy your disappointment. I would have you to know, you witch! you sorceress! that you have robbed me of the heart of my lover; and I am determined to be revenged."

Dorcasina, as might naturally be expected, was astonished at this address, and remained for some moments in a profound silence. At length, she attempted to justify herself, by saying that she was sorry to be the cause of pain to any one; that, from her own experience, she knew too well the power of love, not to commiserate any person who nourished a hopeless passion; that she had never yet seen Philander, to her knowledge; that this interview was none of her seeking; and that she had consent

ed to it, at his earnest entreaty, on the express condition that it should never be repeated. She concluded by declaring that, as she now found he had been false to another, she would immediately retire, and hold no further intercourse with him.

This mildness served, in appearance, but to irritate the supposed female. "I know your arts too well," cried she, raising her voice, "to believe a syllable of what you say. It is all mere pretence, and you will consent to meet him again the very first opportunity. But you shall not go on thus practising your devilish arts with impunity. Your basilisk glance shall not thus rob every man of his heart, and every woman of her lover or husband. Those bewitching eyes, that cause mischief wherever they are seen, I will tear them from their orbits." Thus saying, she laid violent hands on the terrified Dorcasina; tore off her hat; pulled her hair; and was proceeding to tear off her handkerchief, when Betty, seeing her mistress so roughly handled, started up in her defence, and attacking the stranger with great fury, compelled her to quit Dorcasina in order to defend herself. Dorcasina, thus liberated, darted out of the grove and fled towards the house with all speed, leaving Betty to sustain the combat alone. Finding herself deserted, and her antagonist much her superior in strength, Betty endeavored likewise to make her escape; but her attempt was unsuccessful. She was held, cuffed, pulled by the hair, twirled round and round like a top, shaken and pushed up against the trees, without mercy; the person who thus roughly handled her, exclaiming, all the time, "You ugly old witch, I'll teach you to carry letters, and contrive meetings between your mistress and my lover; you pander, you go-between!" Poor Betty begged for mercy in the most moving terms, protesting that she had said everything to dissuade her mistress from this meeting; but the enraged virago would not suffer her to go till she had stripped off her upper garments (her gown being a short one and of no great value), torn them to rags, and scattered them about the arbor. She then suffered her to depart, telling her, at the same time, that if ever she caught her engaged in the same business again, she would not only divest her of her clothes, but strip off her old wrinkled hide.

In further prosecution of his deviltry, he persuades a conceited barber that Dorcasina has fallen in love with him at church. The gull readily agrees to repair to the usual trystingplace, where we introduce him to the reader :

Monday being come, the barber, arrayed in his Sunday clothes, with his hair as white as powder could make it, set out, at four o'clock, for the arbor, which had been pointed out to him by Philander; who, previous to this time, judging that Puff would arrive at an early hour, had taken possession of a thick tree, to enjoy, unobserved, the coming scene. The barber found the hour of waiting very tedious. He sung, he whistled, and listened attentively to every passing noise; when, at length, his ears were saluted by the sound of female voices, which were no other than those of Dorcasina and her attendant. "Betty," said the former, "you may seat yourself with your knitting work, without the arbor, and at a small distance from it; for it would not be treating the young man with delicacy, to admit a third person to witness his passion." Betty did as she was desired; and the little barber no sooner discovered Dorcasina approaching the arbor, than, stepping forward and taking her hand, he addressed her with the utmost familiarity: “Gad, my dear, I began to be very impatient, and was afraid you

had changed your mind; but I am very glad to see you at last! Pray, my dear, be seated."

This familiar address, so different from what Dorcasina had been led to expect, and from what she had been accustomed to from O'Connor, so totally disconcerted her, that she was unable to answer a single word. She, however, did mechanically as she was desired, and seated herself upon the turf in silence. The barber placed himself by her, and still holding the hand which she had not attempted to withdraw, pitied her for what he thought her country timidity, and kindly endeavored to encourage her. "I suppose, my dear, you feel a little bashful or so! but don't be afraid to confess your love. Be assured you will meet with a suitable return; and that I shall be ever grateful and kind for being thus distinguished." Dorcasina, still more confounded by this strange speech, and wholly unable to comprehend its meaning, continued silent. The barber, after waiting some moments in vain for a reply, again began: Why, gad, my dear! if you don't intend to speak, you might as well have staid at home. Pray, now, afford me a little of your sweet conversation, if it is but just to say how much you love me."

Here Dorcasina could contain herself no longer. "I had thought, sir," said she, hesitating, "I had expected from your professions, a quite different reception from this." "Did you, indeed? Gad, my dear, you are in the right." Upon this he threw his arms round her neck, and almost stifled her with kisses. The astonished Dorcasina endeavored to disengage herself, but in vain; for the enraptured barber continued his caresses, only at intervals exclaim-. ing, "Gad, my dear, how happy we shall be when we are married. I shall love you infinitely, I am sure." Dorcasina, at length, finding breath, in a loud and angry tone, exclaimed, "let me go this moment; unhand me, sir. I will not endure to be thus treated."

Betty, who had hitherto sat quietly knitting upon a stump, hearing the angry voice of her mistress, darted towards the arbor, and instantly recognized little Puff, who had been once or twice at the house (though unseen by Dorcasina) to dress Mr. Sheldon, and whom she had observed to be a pretty, spruce young fellow. Her indignation being raised at the treatment of her mistress, she sprung upon him before he was aware of it, and gave him, with her large heavy hand, a rousing box on the ear; exclaiming, at the same time, in a tone of great contempt, "The little barber! as I hope to live,

ma'am."

This unexpected blow had the desired effect. Puff, surprised in his turn, instantly released the mistress, and turning about to the maid, desired to know what the d-1 she meant. Betty did not deign to answer him, but "stood collected in her might." Recollecting with indignation the treatment she had so lately received in this very spot, of which she now supposed him to be the instigator, and incensed at his unpardonable insolence to her mistress, she now rejoiced in an opportunity of taking an ample revenge, in kind, for all the affronts they had both received. Rudely grasping him, therefore, under one arm (for though naturally mild, she was a virago when exasperated), " You pitiful little scoundrel," she cried, "what is it you mean by thus insulting Miss Sheldon? You pretend for to inspire to love her, and decoy her here, on purpose to be impudent to her; besides setting some impudent varlet in women's clothes to insult me, t'other night." Thus saying, she boxed his ears with great fury, till the terrified barber bawled to her to desist; which she did not do till she was heartily tired.

Meanwhile, the wicked scholar, perched on the tree (determined if matters should come to extremi ty to descend and take the part of Puff), enjoyed the scene with the highest relish; being obliged to stuff the corner of his gown into his mouth, to prevent laughing aloud and spoiling the sport.

Other equally extravagant adventures follow, but all stop far short of matrimony. Meanwhile Dorcasina, by the death of her father, comes into possession of her thousand pounds per annum. Having exhausted her stock of sentimental fiction, she, in default of anything else, reads Roderick Random. Finding that hero to have, while a serving man, fallen in love with his mistress, she forthwith resolves that her hired man, John Brown, is in a like predicament, and being, of course, like Roderick, a gentleman born, is worthy of a like reward. John displays no love for the mistress, but is sensible of the agreeableness of the transition from master to man, and the banns are published. Dorcasina is saved by main force, a romantic abduction and imprisonment being planned and executed by her friends, one of whom, a lively young lady, vainly endeavors to supplant John by courting the susceptible lady in the disguise of a dashing young officer. John Brown is meanwhile bought off and sent off.

Dorcasina at last finds that men were deceivers ever, that married people, even married lovers, have cares and troubles from which celibacy is exempt, and settles down at last to an old age of

common sense.

Mrs. Tenney affords a good example of the literary character, her discipline of mind being associated with prudence in her affairs. She was uniform and methodical in her habits, and so frugal of her time as to execute much plain and ornamental work with her needle. Among her practical good services to the place of her residence, was the establishment of an old colored servant of her family in a house which became a popular place of entertainment as a rural retreat, with its "cakes and ale," and was known as "Dinah's Cottage." *

Mrs. Tenney died at Exeter, after a short illness, in 1837.

JOSEPH BARTLETT

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