We approach nearer still, and come among the civic institutions.  This is the pillory, yonder the stocks, and there is a large wooden cage, a terror to evil-doers, but let us hope empty now.  Round the meeting-house is a high wooden paling, to which the law permits citizens to tie their horses, provided it be not done too near the passage-way.  For at that opening stands a sentry, clothed in a suit of armor which is painted black, and cost the town twenty-four shillings by the bill.  He bears also a heavy matchlock musket; his rest, or iron fork, is stuck in the ground, ready to support the weapon; and he is girded with his bandoleer, or broad leather belt, which sustains a sword and a dozen tin cartridge-boxes.

The meeting-house is the second to which the town has treated itself, the first having been “a timber fort, both strong and comely, with flat roof and battlements,”—­a cannon on top, and the cannonade of the gospel down below.  But this one cost the town sixty-three pounds, hard-earned pounds, and carefully expended.  It is built of brick, smeared outside with clay, and finished with clay-boards, larger than our clapboards, outside of all.  It is about twenty-five feet square, with a chimney half the width of the building, and projecting four feet above the thatched roof.  The steeple is in the centre, and the bell-rope, if they have one, hangs in the middle of the broad aisle.  There are six windows, two on each of the two sides, and two more at the end, part being covered with oiled paper only, part glazed in numerous small panes.  And between the windows, on the outside, hang the heads of all the wolves that have been killed in the township within the year.  But the Quakers think that the wolves have cheated the parish and got inside, in sheep’s clothing.

The people are assembling.  The Governor has passed by, with his four vergers bearing halberds before him.  The French Popish ambassadors, who have just arrived from Canada, are told the customs of the place, and left to stay quietly in the Governor’s house, with sweetmeats, wines, and the liberty of a private walk in the garden.  The sexton has just called for the minister, as is his duty twice every Sunday, and, removing his cocked hat, he walks before his superior officer.  The minister enters and passes up the aisle, dressed in Geneva cloak, black skull-cap, and black gloves open at thumb and finger, for the better handling of his manuscript.  He looks round upon his congregation, a few hundred, recently seated anew for the year, arranged according to rank and age.  There are the old men in the pews beneath the pulpit.  There are the young men in the gallery, or near the door, with ruffs, showy belts, gold and silver buttons, “points” at the knees, and great boots.  There are the young women, with “silk or tiffany hoods or scarfs,” “embroidered or needle-worked caps,” “immoderate great sleeves,” “cut works,”—­a mystery,—­“slash apparel,”—­another