A sturdy gentleman of solemn port,
Whose eyes are lobster-like in gaze, whose paunch
Is full and hungry ever, his step
Demure and confident as though he trod
On holy pavements always.
The little official is the type of timid, obsequious sextons, who hang upon the eyelids of the vestry and the clergyman, or any in authority. He always appears in character. and is sure of being laughed at. He bears about him with the best grace in the world the utmost extent of the ridiculous.
As a specimen of the dialogue, we give the first scene between the Deacon and Ambla, in which he seeks to entrap her.
“Deacon. I should be sorry to know your age was racked
With pains, and vexed with old unquietness:
Sleep you well o’ nights?
Ambla. I’m thankful for the rest
I find, and if the other villagers take
What I lose I’m thankful still.
Deacon. You seek your bed
Early, I hope, as doth become your age.
Ambla. A little walk on Maple Hill, a meditation
At the down-falling of the sun, and I
Am lapped in sleep.
Deacon. Dream you much now,
My aged friend—we at our age, that is, at yours,
Sometimes forego our dreams.
Ambla. I have not dreamed
A dream, for three and twenty years,
Except awake.
Deacon. Was there no vision in your sleep last night?
You heard of Margaret Purdy’s death at Groton?
Her spectre, ’tis given out, passed over this house
Of yours—in a white flame at midnight.
Ambla. An angel, she, to honor so this low
Unworthy roof!
Deacon. You think well, then, of her, do you?
She was no praying woman, I am told.
Ambla. There is a silent service, sir, I’ve heard
It said, keeps up its worship at the heart
Although the lips be closed.
Deacon. What! prayer irregular and chance begot!
Sad orthodoxy! I, Deacon Perfect Gidney,—
A humble pattern to this lowly parish,
Am used to have a different way-—
I snuff my candle with a prayer,
And with a prayer wind up my watch,
And go to prayer at striking of the clock,
The great one, my learned grandfather’s gift,
In the Hall; and kindle with a prayer
My morning fire.
This is compact and straightforward, nothing wanting, nothing superfluous.
The American writer who can sustain five acts of a play at this standard is an
acquisition!
