often carried on its movement, when other moving powers failed, by the momentum stored in their vast body.  Sometimes, too, they have kept it back by their vis inertia, when its wheels were like to grind the bones of some old canonized error into fertilizers for the soil that yields the bread of life.  But the mainspring of the world’s onward religious movement is not in them, nor in any one body of men, let me tell you.  It is the people that makes the clergy, and not the clergy that makes the people.  Of course, the profession reacts on its source with variable energy.—­But there never was a guild of dealers or a company of craftsmen that did not need sharp looking after.

Our old friend, Dr. Holyoke, whom we gave the dinner to some time since, must have known many people that saw the great bonfire in Harvard College yard.

—­Bonfire?—­shrieked the little man.—­The bonfire when Robert Calef’s book was burned?

The same,—­I said,—­when Robert Calef the Boston merchant’s book was burned in the yard of Harvard College, by order of Increase Mather, President of the College and Minister of the Gospel.  You remember the old witchcraft revival of ’92, and how stout Master Robert Calef, trader of Boston, had the pluck to tell the ministers and judges what a set of fools and worse than fools they were—­

Remember it?—­said the little man.—­I don’t think I shall forget it, as long as I can stretch this forefinger to point with, and see what it wears.  There was a ring on it.

May I look at it?—­I said.

Where it is,—­said the little man;—­it will never come off, till it falls off from the bone in the darkness and in the dust.

He pushed the high chair on which he sat slightly back from the table, and dropped himself, standing, to the floor,—­his head being only a little above the level of the table, as he stood.  With pain and labor, lifting one foot over the other, as a drummer handles his sticks, he took a few steps from his place,—­his motions and the deadbeat of the misshapen boots announcing to my practised eye and ear the malformation which is called in learned language talipes varus, or inverted club-foot.

Stop! stop!—­I said,—­let me come to you.

The little man hobbled back, and lifted himself by the left arm, with an ease approaching to grace which surprised me, into his high chair.  I walked to his side, and he stretched out the forefinger of his right hand, with the ring upon it.  The ring had been put on long ago, and could not pass the misshapen joint.  It was one of those funeral rings which used to be given to relatives and friends after the decease of persons of any note or importance.  Beneath a round fit of glass was a death’s head.  Engraved on one side of this, “L.  B. AEt. 22,”—­on the other, “Ob. 1692”

My grandmother’s grandmother,—­said the little man.—­Hanged for a witch.  It does n’t seem a great while ago.  I knew my grandmother, and loved her.  Her mother was daughter to the witch that Chief Justice Sewall hanged and Cotton Mather delivered over to the Devil.—­That was Salem, though, and not Boston.  No, not Boston.  Robert Calef, the Boston merchant, it was that blew them all to—­