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106 and tyrannical, if power on a large scale had been vouchsafed her. She was mollified by our mode of treatment, which was a reverse of the code of paying tribute to Cæsar. My principal intercourse with her was in giving her something to read—for she read on "Sabba'-day," as she called it, and on the yearly fast-day—in carrying her pudding on Sunday noons, and baked beans on Saturday nights.

Of the last-named dish, which was so symbolical of the early customs of Norwich that a large province of the township was christened Bean-hill, it is fitting that I should speak particularly. It made its appearance on the supper-table of every householder who was able to compass its ingredients, at the closing day of the week; and with the setting sun that announced to the Israelite the termination of his Sabbath, warned these descendants of the Pilgrims that theirs had begun. A little boy of our acquaintance said honestly, "We never missed having baked beans but one Saturday night, and then our oven fell down"—a penal result which seemed to him both natural and just.

This nutritious and canonical dish of our forefathers was always received by the weaver-widow with complacence. A little conversation was wont to ensue, in which she evinced a good measure of intelligence and shrewdness, with those true Yankee features, keen observation of other people, and a latent desire to manage them. Her strongest sympathies hovered around the