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86 of her husband and children hangs in the Gallery of the Wadsworth Athenæum, seems to me, in its striking verisimilitude, to express some of the traits of character I have here delineated.

Two sisters of Colonel Wadsworth resided with his widow—single ladies advanced in years, of the most unassuming and intrinsic excellence. Heartfelt piety, an integrity that never swerved, diligent improvement of time, warm affections for those of kindred blood, and unsealed sympathy for the woes of all humanity, marked their blameless lives. In their own peculiar apartments they preferred the quaint furniture of ancient times, endeared by associations with beloved and departed parents. There were the straight-backed mahogany chairs, which long, careful rubbing, had given almost an ebony complexion, the small dark-framed mirrors of wonderfully rich, clear plates, the huge easy-chairs, capable of enveloping two good sized occupants, and the queer, clumsy cabinet, containing the volumes of Seed, South, and Sherlock, with some pamphlet sermons of their father, the Rev. Daniel Wadsworth, once the pastor of the church whose neighboring steeple, like a tutelary genius, looked in at their chamber window. There they dwelt in peace and honor. Respect for the sacredness of the Sabbath, for the ministers of religion, and for God's holy temple, had been incorporated with their infant training, and remained with them in age. No tale of suffering could be told them