A VAIN PURITAN GRANDMOTHER
T
here was a certain family prominent in affairs in the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, with members resident in England, New England,
and the Barbadoes. They were gentlefolk—and gentle folk; they were of
birth and breeding; and they were kindly, tender, affectionate to one
another. They were given to much letter-writing, and better still to
much letter-keeping. Knowing the quality of their letters, I cannot
wonder at either habit; for the prevalence of the letter-keeping was
due, I am sure, to the perfection of the writing. Their letters were
ever lively in diction, direct and lucid in description, and widely
varied in interest; therefore they were well worthy of preservation,
simply for the owner’s re-reading. They have proved so for all who have
brushed the dust from the packages and deciphered the faded words.
Moreover, these letters are among the few family letters of our two
centuries which convey, either to the original reader or to his
successor of to-day, anything that could, by most generous construction
or fullest imagination, be deemed equivalent to what we now term News.
Of course their epistles contained many moral reflections and ample
religious allusions and aspirations; and they even transcribed to each
other, in full, long Biblical quotations with as much exactness and
length as if each deemed his correspondent a benighted heathen, with no
Bible to consult, instead of being an equally pious kinsman with a
Bible in every room of his house.
Their name was Hall. The heads of the family in early colonial days
were the merchants John Hall and Hugh Hall; these surnames have
continued in the family till the present time, as has the cunning of
hand and wit of brain in letter-writing, even into the seventh and
eighth generation, as I can abundantly testify from my own private
correspondence. I have quoted freely in several of my books from old
family letters and business letter-books of the Hall family. Many of
these letters have been intrusted to me from the family archives;
others, especially the business letters, have found their way, through
devious paths, to our several historical societies; where they have
been lost in oblivion, hidden through churlishness, displayed in pride,
or offered in helpfulness, as suited the various humors of their
custodians. To the safe, wise, and generous guardianship of the
American Antiquarian Society fell a collection of letters of the years
1663 to 1684, written from London by the merchant John Hall to his
mother, Madam Rebekah Symonds, who, after a fourth matrimonial
venture,—successful, as were all her marriages,—was living, in what
must have seemed painful seclusion to any Londoner, in the struggling
little New England hamlet of Ipswich, Massachusetts.
I wish to note as a light-giving fact in regard to these letters that
the Halls were as happy in marrying as in letter-writing, and as
assiduous. They married early; they married late. And by each marriage
increased wonderfully either the number of descendants, or of
influential family connections, who were often also business
associates.
Madam Symonds had four excellent husbands, more than her share of good
fortune. She married Henry Byley in 1636; John Hall in 1641; William
Worcester in 1650; and Deputy Governor Symonds in 1663. She was,
therefore, in 1664, scarcely more than a bride (if one may be so termed
for the fourth time), when many costly garments were sent to her by her
devoted and loving son, John Hall; she was then about forty-eight years
of age. Her husband, Governor Symonds, was a gentle and noble old
Puritan gentleman, a New Englishman of the best type; a Christian of
missionary spirit who wrote that he “could go singing to his grave” if
he felt sure that the poor benighted Indians were won to Christ. His
stepson, John Hall, never failed in respectful and affectionate
messages to him and sedately appropriate gifts, such as “men’s knives.”
Governor Symonds had two sons and six married daughters by two—or
three—previous marriages. He died in Boston in 1678.
A triangle of mutual helpfulness and prosperity was formed by England,
New England, and the Barbadoes in this widespread relationship of the
Hall family in matrimony, business, kin, and friendly allies. England
sent to the Barbadoes English trading-stuffs and judiciously cheap and
attractive trinkets. The islands sent to New England sugar and
molasses, and also the young children born in the islands, to be
educated in Boston schools ere they went to English universities, or
were presented in the English court and London society. There was one
school in Boston established expressly for the children of the
Barbadoes planters. You may read in a later chapter upon the dress of
old-time children of some naughty grandchildren of John Hall who were
sent to this Boston school and to the care of another oft-married
grandmother. In this triangle, New England returned to the Barbadoes
non-perishable and most lucrative rum and salt codfish—codfish for the
many fast-days of the Roman Catholic Church; New England rum to
exchange with profit for slaves, coffee, and sugar. The Barbadoes and
New England sent good, solid Spanish coin to England, both for
investment and domestic purchases; and England sent to New England what
is of value to us in this book—the latest fashions.
A Puritan Dame. A Puritan Dame.
When I ponder on the conditions of life in Ipswich at the time these
letters were written—the few good houses, the small amount of tilled
land, the entire lack of all the elegancies of social life; when I
think upon the proximity and ferocity of the Indian tribes and the ever
present terror of their invasion; when I picture the gloom, the dread,
the oppression of the vast, close-lying, primeval forest,—then the rich
articles of dress and elaborate explanation of the modes despatched by
John Hall to his mother would seem more than incongruous, they would be
ridiculous, did I not know what a factor dress was in public life in
that day.
Poor Madam Symonds dreaded deeply lest The Plague be sent to her in her
fine garments from London; and her dutiful son wrote her to have no
fear, that he bought her finery himself, in safe shops, from reliable
dealers, and kept all for a month in his own home where none had been
infected. But she must have had fear of disaster and death more
intimately menacing to her home than was The Plague.
She had seen the career of genial Master Rowlandson, a neighbor’s son,
full of naughtiness, fun, and life. While an undergraduate at Harvard
College he had written in doggerel what was termed pompously a
“scandalous libell,” and he had pinned it on the door of Ipswich
Meeting-house, along with the tax-collector’s and road-mender’s notices
and the announcement of intending marriages, and the grinning wolves’
heads brought for reward. For this prank he had been soundly whipped by
the college president on the College Green; but it did not prevent his
graduating with honor at the head of his class. He was valedictorian,
class-orator, class-poet—in fact, I may say that he had full honors. (I
have to add also that in his case honors were easy; for his class, of
the year 1652, had but one graduate, himself.) The gay, mischievous boy
had become a faithful, zealous, noble preacher to the Puritan church in
the neighboring town of Lancaster; and in one cruel night, in 1676, his
home was destroyed, the whole town made desolate, his parishioners
slaughtered, and his wife, Esther Rowlandson, carried off by the savage
red-men, from whom she was bravely rescued by my far-off grandfather,
John Hoar. Read the thrilling story of her “captivation” and rescue,
and then think of Madam Symonds’s finery in her gilt trunk in the
near-by town. For four years the valley of the Nashua—blood-stained,
fire-blackened—lay desolate and unsettled before Madam Symonds’s eyes;
then settlers slowly crept in. But for fifty years Ipswich was not
deemed a safe home nor free from dread of cruel Indians; “Lovewell’s
War” dragged on in 1726. But mantuas and masks, whisks and drolls, were
just as eagerly sought by the governor’s wife as if Esther Rowlandson’s
capture had been a dream.
There was a soured, abusive, intolerant old fellow in New England in
the year 1700, a “vituperative epithetizer,” ready to throw mud on
everything around him (though not working—to my knowledge—in cleaning
out any mud-holes). He was not abusive because he was a Puritan, but
because “it was his nature to.” He styled himself a “Simple Cobbler,”
and he announced himself “willing to Mend his Native Country,
lamentably tattered both in the upper Leather and in the Sole, with all
the Honest Stitches he can take,” but he took out his aid in loud
hammering of his lapstone and noisy protesting against all other
footwear than his own. I fancy he thought himself another Stubbes. I
know of no whole soles he set, nor any holes he mended, and his
“Simple” ideas are so involved in expression, in such twisted
sentences, and with such “strange Ink-pot termes” and so many Latin
quotations and derivatives, that I doubt if many sensible folk knew
what he meant, even in his own day. His words have none of the
directness, the force, the interest that have the writings of old
Stubbes. Such words as nugiperous, perquisquilian, ill-shapen-shotten,
nudistertian, futulous, overturcased, quaematry, surquedryes,
prodromie, would seem to apply ill to woman’s attire; they really fall
wide of the mark if intended as weapons, but it was to such vain dames
as the governor’s wife that the Simple Cobbler applied them. Some of
the ministers of the colony, terrified by the Indian outbreaks,
gloomily held the vanity and extravagance of dames and goodwives as
responsible for them all. Others, with broader minds, could discern
that both the open and the subtle influence of good clothes was needed
in the new community. They gave an air of cheerfulness, of substance,
of stability, which is of importance in any new venture. For the
governor’s wife to dress richly and in the best London modes added
lustre to the governor’s office. And when the excitement had quieted
and the sullen Indian sachem and his tawny braves stalked through the
little town in their gay, barbaric trappings, they were sensible that
Madam Symonds’s embroidered satin manteau was rich and costly, even if
they did not know what we know, that it was the top of the mode.
Governor Symonds’s home in Ipswich was on the ground where the old
seminary building now stands; but the happy married pair spent much of
the time at his farm-house on Argilla Farm, on Heart-Break Hill, by
Labor-in-vain Creek, which was also in Ipswich County. This lonely
farm, so sad in name, was the only dwelling-place in that region; it
was so remote that when Indian assault was daily feared, the general
court voted to station there a guard of soldiers at public expense
because the governor was “so much in the country’s service.” He says
distinctly, however, concerning the bargain in the purchase of Argilla
Farm, that his wife was well content with it.
Penelope Winslow. Penelope Winslow.
There were also intimate personal considerations which would apparently
render so luxurious a wardrobe unnecessary and unsuitable. The age and
health of the wearer might generally be held to be sufficient reason
for indifference to such costly, delicate, and gay finery. When Madam
Symonds was fifty-eight years old, in 1674, her son wrote, “Oh, Good
Mother, grieved am I to learn that Craziness creeps upon you, yet am I
glad that you have Faith to look beyond this Life.” Craziness had
originally no meaning of infirmity of mind; it meant feebleness,
weakness of body. Her letters evidently informed him of failing health,
but even that did not hinder the export of London finery.
Governor Symonds’s estate at his death was under £;3000, and Argilla
Farm was valued only at £;150; yet Madam had a “Manto” which is marked
distinctly in her son’s own handwriting as costing £;30. She had money
of her own, and estates in England, of which John Hall kept an account,
and with the income of which he made these purchases. This manteau was
of flowered satin, and had silver clasps and a rich pair of embroidered
satin sleeves to wear with it; it was evidently like a sleeveless cape.
We must always remember that seventeenth-century accounts must be
multiplied by five to give twentieth-century values. Even this
valuation is inadequate. Therefore the £;30 paid for the manteau would
to-day be £;150; $800 would nearly represent the original value. As it
was sent in early autumn it was evidently a winter garment, and it must
have been furred with sable to be so costly.
In the early inventories of all the colonies “a pair of sleeves” is a
frequent item, and to my delight—when so seldom color is given—I have
more than once a pair of green sleeves.
“Thy gown was of the grassy green
Thy sleeves of satin hanging by,
Which made thee be our harvest queen
And yet thou wouldst not love me.
Green sleeves was all my joy,
Green sleeves was my delight,
Green sleeves was my Heart of Gold,
And who but Lady Green-sleeves!”
Let me recount some of “My Good Son’s labors of love and pride in
London shops” for his vain old mother. She had written in the year 1675
for lawn whisks, but he is quick to respond that she has made a very
countrified mistake.
“Lawn whisks is not now worn either by Gentil or simple, young or old.
Instead whereof I have bought a shape and ruffles, what is now the ware
of the bravest as well as the young ones. Such as goe not with naked
neckes, wear a black whisk over it. Therefore I have not only bought a
plain one you sent for, but also a Lustre one, such as are most in
fashion.”
John Hall’s “lustre for whisks” was of course lustring, or lutestring,
a soft half-lustred pure silk fabric which was worn constantly for two
centuries. He sent his mother many yards of it for her wear.
We have ample proof that these black whisks were in general wear in
England. In an account-book of Sarah Fell of Swarthmoor Hall in 1673,
are these items: “a black alamode whiske for Sister Rachel; a round
whiske for Susanna; a little black whiske for myself.” This English
Quaker sends also a colored stuff manteo to her sister; scores of
English inventories of women’s wardrobes contain precisely similar
items to those bought by Son Hall. And it is a tribute to the devotion
of American women to the rigid laws of fashion, even in that early day,
to find that all whisks, save black whisks and lustring ones, disappear
at this date from colonial inventories of effects.
She wrote to him for a “side of plum colored leather” for her shoes.
This was a matter of much concern to him, not at all because this
leather was a bit gay or extravagant, or frail wear for an elderly
grandmother, but because it was not the very latest thing in leather.
He writes anxiously:—
“Secondly you sent for Damson-Coloured Spanish Leather for Womans
Shoes. But there is noe Spanish Leather of that Colour; and Turkey
Leather is coloured on the grain side only, both of which are out of
use for Women’s Shoes. Therefore I bought a Skin of Leather that is all
the mode for Women’s Shoes. All that I fear is, that it is too thick.
But my Coz. Eppes told me yt such thin ones as are here generally used,
would by rain and snow in N. England presently be rendered of noe
service and therefore persuaded me to send this, which is stronger than
ordinary. And if the Shoemaker fit it well, may not be uneasy.”
Perhaps his anxious offices and advices in regard to fans show more
curiously than other quotations, the insistent attitude of the New
England mind in regard to the latest fashions. I cannot to-day conceive
why any woman, young or old, could have been at all concerned in
Ipswich in 1675 as to which sort of fan she carried, or what was
carried in London, yet good Son John writes:—
“As to the feathered fan, I should also have found it in my heart to
let it alone, because none but very grave persons (and of them very
few) use it. That now ’tis grown almost as obsolete as Russets and more
rare to be seen than a yellow Hood. But the Thing being Civil and not
very dear, Remembering that in the years 64 and 68, if I mistake not,
you had Two Fans sent, I have bought one now on purpose for you, and I
hope you will be pleased.”
Evidently the screen-fan of Pocahontas’s day was no longer a novelty.
His mother had had far more fans that he remembered. In 1664 two
“Tortis shell fanns” had gone across seas; one had cost five shillings,
the other ten shillings. The following year came a black feather fan
with silver handle, and two tortoise-shell fans; in 1666 two more
tortoise-shell fans; in 1688 another feather fan, and so on. These many
fans may have been disposed of as gifts to others, but the entire trend
of the son’s letters, as well as his express directions, would show
that all these articles were for his mother’s personal use. When finery
was sent for madam’s daughter, it was so specified; in 1675, when the
daughter became a bride, Brother John sent her her wedding gloves, ever
a gift of sentiment. A pair of wedding gloves of that date lies now
before me. They are mitts rather than gloves, being fingerless. They
are of white kid, and are twenty-two inches long. They are very wide at
the top, and have three drawing-strings with gilt tassels; these are
run in welts about two inches apart, and were evidently drawn into
puffs above the elbow when worn. A full edging of white Swiss lace and
a pretty design of dots made in gold thread on the back of the hand,
form altogether a very costly, elegant, and decorative article of
dress. I should fancy they cost several pounds. Men’s gloves were
equally rich. Here are the gold-fringed gloves of Governor Leverett
worn in 1640.
Gold-fringed Gloves of Governor Leverett. Gold-fringed Gloves of
Governor Leverett.
Of course the only head-gear of Madam Symonds for outdoor wear was a
hood. Hats were falling in disfavor. I shall tell in a special chapter
of the dominance at this date and the importance of the French hood.
Its heavy black folds are shown in the portraits of Rebecca Rawson
(here), of Madam Simeon Stoddard (here), and on other heads in this
book. Such a hood probably covered Madam Symonds’s head heavily and
fully, whene’er she walked abroad; certainly it did when she rode a
pillion-back. She had other fashionable hoods—all the fashionable
hoods, in fact, that were worn in England at that time; hoods of
lustring, of tiffany, of “bird’s-eye”—precisely the same as had Madam
Pepys, and one of spotted gauze, the last a pretty vanity for summer
wear. We may remember, in fact, that Madam Symonds was a
contemporary—across-seas—of Madam Pepys, and wore the same garments;
only she apparently had richer and more varied garments than did that
beautiful young woman whose husband was in the immediate employ of the
king.
Arthur Abbott was the agent in Boston through whom this London finery
and flummery was delivered to Madam Symonds in safety; and it is an
amusing side-light upon social life in the colony to know that in 1675
Abbott’s wife was “presented before the court” for wearing a silk hood
above her station, and her husband paid the fine. Knowing womankind,
and knowing the skill and cunning in needlework of women of that day, I
cannot resist building up a little imaginative story around this
“presentment” and fine. I believe that the pretty young woman could not
put aside the fascination of all the beautiful London hoods consigned
to her husband for the old lady at Ipswich; I suspect she tried all the
finery on, and that she copied one hood for herself so successfully and
with such telling effect that its air of high fashion at once caught
the eye and met with the reproof of the severe Boston magistrates. She
was the last woman, I believe, to be fined under the colonial sumptuary
laws of Massachusetts.
The colors of Madam Symonds’s garments were seldom given, but I doubt
that they were “sad-coloured” or “grave of colour” as we find Governor
Winthrop’s orders for his wife. One lustring hood was brown; and
frequently green ribbons were sent; also many yards of scarlet and pink
gauze, which seem the very essence of juvenility. Her son writes a list
of gifts to her and the members of her family from his own people:—
“A light violet-colored Petti-Coat is my wife’s token to you. The
Petti-Coat was bought for my wife’s mother and scarcely worn. This my
wife humbly presents to you, requesting your acceptance of it, for your
own wearing, as being Grave and suitable for a Person of Quality.”
Even a half-worn petticoat was a considerable gift; for petticoats were
both costly and of infinite needlework. Even the wealthiest folk
esteemed a gift of partly worn clothing, when materials were so rich.
Letters of deep gratitude were sent in thanks.
The variety of stuffs used in them was great. Some of these are wholly
obsolete; even the meaning of their names is lost. In an inventory of
1644, of a citizen of Plymouth there was, for instance, “a petticoate
of phillip &; cheny” worth £;1. Much of the value of these petticoats
was in the handwork bestowed upon them; they were both embroidered and
elaborately quilted. About 1730, in the Van Cortlandt family, a woman
was paid at one time £;2 5s. for quilting, a large amount for that day.
Often we find items of fifteen or twenty shillings for quilting a
petticoat.
Embroidered Petticoat Band. Embroidered Petticoat Band.
The handsomest petticoats were of quilted silk or satin. No pattern was
so elaborate, no amount of work so large, that it could dismay the
heart or tire the fingers of an eighteenth-century needlewoman. One
yellow satin petticoat has a lining of stout linen. These are quilted
together in an exquisite irregular design of interlacing ribbons,
slender vines, and long, narrow leaves, all stuffed with white cord.
Though the general effect of this pattern is very regular, an
examination shows it is not a set design, but must have been drawn as
well as worked by the maker. Another petticoat has a curious design
made with two shades of blue silk cord sewed on in a pattern. Another
of infinite work has a design outlined in tiny rolls of satin.
These petticoats had many flat trimmings; laces of silver, gold, or
silk thread were used, galloons and orrice. Tufts of fringed silk were
dotted in clusters and made into fly-fringe. Bridget Neal, writing in
1685 to her sister, says:—
“I am told las is yused on petit-coats. Three fringes is much yused,
but they are not set on the petcot strait, but in waves; it does not
look well, unless all the fringes yused that fashion is the plane
twisted fring not very deep. I hear some has nine fringes sett in this
fashion.”
Anxiety to please his honored mother, and desire that she should be
dressed in the top of the mode, show in every letter of John Hall:—
“I bought your muffs of my Coz. Jno. Rolfe who tells me they are worth
more money than I gave for them. You desired yours Modish yet Long; but
here with us they are now much shorter. These were made a Purpose for
you. As to yr Silk Flowered Manto, I hope it may please you; Tis not
the Mode to lyne you now at all; but if you like to have it soe, any
silke will serve, and may be done at yr pleasure.”
In 1663 Pepys notes (with his customary delight at a new fashion,
mingled with fear that thereby he might be led into more expense) that
ladies at the play put on “vizards which hid the whole face, and had
become a great fashion; and _so_ to the Exchange to buy a Vizard for my
wife.” Soon he added a French mask, which led to some unpleasant
encounters for Mrs. Pepys with dissolute courtiers on the street. The
plays in London were then so bold and so bad that we cannot wonder at
the masks of the play-goers. The masks concealed constant blushes; but
wearers and hearers did not stay away, for neither eyes nor ears were
covered by the mask. Busino tells of a woman at the theatre all in
yellow and scarlet, with two masks and three pairs of gloves, worn one
pair over the other. Suddenly out came disappointing Queen Anne with
her royal command that the plays be refined and reformed, and then
masks were abandoned.
Blue Brocade Gown and Quilted Satin Petticoat. Blue Brocade Gown and
Quilted Satin Petticoat.
Masks were in those years in constant wear in the French court and
society, as a protection to the complexion when walking or riding.
Sometimes plain glass was fitted in the eye-holes. French masks had
wires which fastened behind the ears, or a mouthpiece of silver; or
they had an ingenious and simple stay in the form of two strings at the
corners of the mouth-opening of the mask. These strings ended in a
silver button or glass bead. With a bead held firmly in either corner
of her mouth, the mask-wearer could talk. These vizards are seen in old
English wood-cuts, often hanging by the side, fastened to the belt with
a small cord or chain. They brought forth the bitter denunciations of
the old Puritan Stubbes. He writes in his _Anatomie of Abuses_:—
“When they vse to ride abroad, they haue visors made of ueluet (or in
my iudgment they may rather be called inuisories) wherewith they couer
all their faces, hauing holes made in them agaynst their eies, whereout
they looke. So that if a man that knew not their guise before, shoulde
chaunce to meete one of theme, he would thinke he mette a monster or a
deuill; for face he can see none, but two broad holes against their
eyes with glasses in them.”
Masks were certainly worn to a considerable extent in America. As early
as 1645, masks were forbidden in Plymouth, Massachusetts, “for improper
purposes.” When you think of the Plymouth of that year, its few houses
and inhabitants, its desperate struggle to hold its place at all as a
community, the narrow means of its citizens, the comparatively scant
wardrobes of the wives and daughters, this restriction as to
mask-wearing seems a grim jest. They were for sale in Salem and Boston,
black velvet masks worth two shillings each; but these towns were more
flourishing than Plymouth. And New York dames had them, and the
planters’ wives of Virginia and South Carolina.
I suppose Madam Symonds wore her mask when she mounted on a pillion
behind some strong young lad, and rode out to Argilla Farm.
A few years later than the dates when Madam Symonds was ordering these
fashionable articles of dress from England a rhyming catalogue of a
lady’s toilet was written by John Evelyn and entitled, _Mundus
Muliebris or a Voyage to Mary-Land_; it might be a list of Madam
Symonds’s wardrobe. Some of the lines run:—
“One gown of rich black silk, which odd is
Without one coloured embroidered boddice.
Three manteaux, nor can Madam less
Provision have for due undress.
Of under-boddice three neat pair
Embroidered, and of shoes as fair;
Short under petticoats, pure fine,
Some of Japan stuff, some of Chine,
With knee-high galoon bottomed;
Another quilted white and red,
With a broad Flanders lace below.
Three night gowns of rich Indian stuff;
Four cushion-cloths are scarce enough.
A manteau girdle, ruby buckle,
And brilliant diamond ring for knuckle.
Fans painted and perfumed three;
Three muffs of ermine, sable, grey.”
Other articles of personal and household comfort were gathered in
London shops by her dutiful son and sent to Madam Symonds. The list is
full of interest, and helps to fill out the picture of daily life. He
despatched to her cloves, nutmegs, spices, eringo roots, “coronation”
and stock-gilly-flower seed, “colly flower seed,” hearth brushes (these
came every year), silver whistles and several pomanders and
pomander-beads, bouquet-glasses (which could hardly have been the bosom
bottles which were worn later), necklaces, amber beads, many and varied
pins, needles, silk lacings, kid gloves, silver ink-boxes, sealing-wax,
gilt trunks, fancy boxes, painted desks, tape, ferret, bobbin, bone
lace, calico, gimp, many yards of ducape, lustring, persian, and other
silk stuffs—all these items of transport show the son’s devoted
selection of the articles his mother wished. Gowns seem never to have
been sent, but manteaus, mantles, and “ferrandine” cloaks appear
frequently. Of course there are some articles which cannot be
positively described to-day, such as the “shape, with ruffles” and
“double pleated drolls” and “lace drolls” which appear several times on
the lists. These “drolls” were, I believe, the “drowlas” of Madame de
Lange, in New Amsterdam. “Men’s knives” occasionally were sent, and
“women’s knives” many times. These latter had hafts of ivory, agate,
and “Ellotheropian.” This Ellotheropian or Alleteropeain or
Illyteropian stone has been ever a great puzzle to me until in another
letter I chanced to find the spelling Hellotyropian; then I knew the
real word was the Heliotropium of the ancients, our blood-stone. It was
a favorite stone of the day not only for those fancy-handled knives,
but for seals, finger-rings and other forms of ornament.
A few books were on the list,—a Greek Lexicon ordered as a gift for a
student; a very costly Bible, bound in velvet, with silver clasps, the
expense of which was carefully detailed down to the Indian silk for the
inner-end leaves; “_Dod on Commandments_—my Ant Jane said you had a
fancie for it, and I have bound it in green plush for you.” Fancy any
one having a fancy for Dod on anything! and fancy Dod in green plush
covers!