Mrs. Widesworth, the actual, was a plump, well-to-do widow, of threescore years.  She lived among her fellow-creatures, but not of them,—­and that in a sense far more comfortable than Byronic misanthropy could imagine.  She managed to keep all the tumult and competition of this rough world just outside the little whitewashed fence which inclosed her premises.  No solitary saint of the Middle Ages floated in a more lofty independence of the foolish heresies of vulgar humanity.  The mission of woman must, of necessity, be identical with the mission of Mrs. Widesworth,—­and this was, to bestow a mellow patronage upon all creation.  That whatever is is right, and that this is the best possible of worlds, were to Mrs. Widesworth propositions which her perfect health and unmitigated prosperity continually proved.  That, in a theological point of view, everything was wrong, she considered an esoteric condiment to add piquancy to the loaves and fishes which Providence had set before her.

Concerning the eminent Twynintuft, it may be remarked that he had devoted a long life to elocution, and produced a bulky manual full of illustrative quavers.  And as it happened that his work was the first of the sort published in America, it obtained a pretty general circulation in schools and colleges, and was even patronisingly noticed in a British Review,—­at that time the apotheosis of our native authorship.  But, alas for the perishable nature of literary productions!  “Twynintuft on the Human Voice” had long been superseded, and lay comfortably buried in that cemetery of dead textbooks from which there is no resurrection.  Yet, as he had once been one of the notables of Foxden, the inhabitants of the town indulged themselves in the soothing fiction that his memory was still verdant among men, and did pious homage to his representative.

Until the correspondence of Colonel Prowley had drawn Miss Hurribattle to Foxden, Mrs. Widesworth reigned by divine right.  All quilting-bees and charitable fairs seemed but manifestations of her pervading vitality.  Every social detail was submitted to her arbitrament.  She hovered over the gossips of the town like Fate in a Greek tragedy,—­but it was a reformed Fate, with a wholesome respect for family and condition.

An entertainment widely famous as “Mrs. Widesworth’s Semiannual Singing-School” brought forth every spring and fall the entire strength of this excellent lady.  The origin of this festivity was of ancient date.  The early settlers in Foxden, while holding decided opinions concerning the mischief of church-organs, were unusually tolerant of vocal music.  They doubted not that a preached gospel might be worthily seconded by a vigorous psalmody.  Weekly meetings of the young men and maidens were allowed for practice, and the pot of beans, surmounted by its crisp coronal of pork, closed the evening in simple conviviality.  This singing-school had descended through the generations, and in solemn rotation visited the families of all