stiff, with the chin well out, and looking downward from beneath his
eyelids, upon those who address him, which, with his pursed up lips,
gives a decided impression of authority and unapproachableness. This
is Jahleel Woodbridge, Esquire.

Parson West is standing on the ground in front of him, his silver
headed cane tucked under one arm. His small person--he is not an inch
over five feet tall--is as neatly dressed as if just taken out of a
band-box, and his black, shining hose encase a leg and ankle which are
the chaste admiration of the ladies of the parish, and the source, it
is whispered, of no small complacency to the good man himself.

"What think you," he is saying to Squire Woodbridge, "will have been
the action of the convention? Will it have emulated the demagogic tone
of that at Hatfield, do you opine?"

"Let us hope not, Reverend Sir," responded the Squire, "but methinks
it was inexpedient to allow the convention to meet, although Squire
Sedgwick's mind was on that point at variance with mine. It is an
easier matter to prevent a popular assembly than to restrain its
utterances, when assembled."

"I trust," said the parson, looking around upon those standing near,
"that we have all made it a subject of prayer, that the convention
might be Providentially led to devise remedies for the inconveniences
of the time, for they are sore, and the popular discontent is great."

"Nay, I fear 'tis past hoping for that the people will be contented
with anything the convention may have done, however well considered,"
said Dr. Partridge. "They have set their hearts on some such miracle