However this may be, I should say there never had been a book like this of Iris,—­so full of the heart’s silent language, so transparent that the heart itself could be seen beating through it.  I should say there never could have been such a book, but for one recollection, which is not peculiar to myself, but is shared by a certain number of my former townsmen.  If you think I over-color this matter of the young girl’s book, hear this, which there are others, as I just said, besides myself, will tell you is strictly true.

THE BOOK OF THE THREE MAIDEN SISTERS.

In the town called Cantabridge, now a city, water-veined and gas windpiped, in the street running down to the Bridge, beyond which dwelt Sally, told of in a book of a friend of mine, was of old a house inhabited by three maidens.  They left no near kinsfolk, I believe; whether they did or not, I have no ill to speak of them; for they lived and died in all good report and maidenly credit.  The house they lived in was of the small, gambrel-roofed cottage pattern, after the shape of Esquires’ houses, but after the size of the dwellings of handicraftsmen.  The lower story was fitted up as a shop.  Specially was it provided with one of those half-doors now so rarely met with, which are to whole doors as spencers worn by old folk are to coats.  They speak of limited commerce united with a social or observing disposition—­on the part of the shopkeeper,—­allowing, as they do, talk with passers-by, yet keeping off such as have not the excuse of business to cross the threshold.  On the door-posts, at either side, above the half-door, hung certain perennial articles of merchandise, of which my memory still has hanging among its faded photographs a kind of netted scarf and some pairs of thick woollen stockings.  More articles, but not very many, were stored inside; and there was one drawer, containing children’s books, out of which I once was treated to a minute quarto ornamented with handsome cuts.  This was the only purchase I ever knew to be made at the shop kept by the three maiden ladies, though it is probable there were others.  So long as I remember the shop, the same scarf and, I should say, the same stockings hung on the door-posts.—­You think I am exaggerating again, and that shopkeepers would not keep the same article exposed for years.  Come to me, the Professor, and I will take you in five minutes to a shop in this city where I will show you an article hanging now in the very place where more than thirty years ago I myself inquired the price of it of the present head of the establishment. [ This was a glass alembic, which hung up in Daniel Henchman’s apothecary shop, corner of Cambridge and Chambers streets.]