Guide Needed: One Convenient Husband (Mills & Boon Desire) (The Pearl House, Book 6)

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Table of contents

• By Will Levington Comfort
• Fiona Brand Book List - FictionDB
• Needed: One Convenient Husband (Mills & Boon Desire) (The Pearl House, Book 6)
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She tries to tempt Hester and Dimmesdale to sink further into sin. The real Mistress Hibbins was executed for witchcraft. John Wilson. This character advises Dimmesdale to try to find out from Hester who the father of her child is.

By Will Levington Comfort

When Hester refuses to reveal this information, Wilson delivers a sermon about adultery to the crowd watching Hester on the scaffold. Master Brackett. Master Brackett is the jailer who brings Chillingworth to Hester as she sits in prison. The Sexton. The sexton asks Dimmesdale about the red letter A that appeared in the sky that night. The Shipmaster. This character is the captain of the ship on which Hester, Pearl, and Dimmesdale hope to leave Boston.

The shipmaster tells them that Roger Chillingworth also plans to be on the ship. The woman and her daughter pictured to the right are wearing long dresses and caps, typical Puritan garb such as Hester and Pearl might have worn. The basket carried by the woman might hold food she has gath- ered from the forest or her garden, a par- cel from a shop, her sewing, or some food for a sick neighbor.

The man pictured to the left is wearing an outfit that would have been common to colonial Puritans—knee breeches, coat, cape, and hat. This is a footnote. This is another footnote.

Fiona Brand Book List - FictionDB

WWordsForEverydayUse invariably phonetic here adj. It is a little remarkable, that—though disinclined to talk overmuch of myself and my affairs at the fireside, and to my personal friends—an autobiographical impulse should twice in my life have taken possession of me, in addressing the pub- lic.

The first time was three or four years since, when I favored the reader—inexcusably, and for no earthly reason, that either the indulgent reader or the intrusive author could imagine—with a description of my way of life in the deep quietude of an Old Manse. The truth seems to be, however, that, when he casts his leaves forth upon the wind, the author addresses, not the many who will fling aside his vol- ume, or never take it up, but the few who will understand him, better than most of his schoolmates and lifemates.

It is scarcely decorous, however, to speak all, even where we speak impersonally. But—as thoughts are frozen and utter- ance benumbed, unless the speaker stand in some true rela- tion with his audience—it may be pardonable to imagine that a friend, a kind and apprehensive,2 though not the closest friend, is listening to our talk; and then, a native reserve being. Quick to understand. King Derby. Elias Hasket Derby — , a merchant and ship owner 5. Types of boats. It will be seen, likewise, that this Custom-House sketch has a certain propriety, of a kind always recognized in literature, as explaining how a large portion of the following pages came into my possession, and as offering proofs of the authenticity of a narrative therein contained.

This, in fact— a desire to put myself in my true position as editor, or very little more, of the most prolix among the tales that make up my volume3—this, and no other, is my true reason for assuming a personal relation with the public. In accomplish- ing the main purpose, it has appeared allowable, by a few extra touches, to give a faint representation of a mode of life not heretofore described, together with some of the charac- ters that move in it, among whom the author happened to make one.

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In my native town of Salem, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old King Derby,4 was a bustling wharf—but which is now burdened with decayed wooden warehouses, and exhibits few or no symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps, a bark or brig,5 half-way down its melancholy length, discharging hides; or, nearer at hand, a Nova Scotia schooner, pitching out her cargo of firewood— at the head, I say, of this dilapidated wharf, which the tide often overflows, and along which, at the base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many languid years is seen in a border of unthrifty grass—here, with a view from its front windows adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence across the harbor, stands a spacious edifice of brick.

From the loftiest point of its roof, during precisely three and a half hours of each forenoon, floats or droops, in breeze or calm, the banner of the republic; but with the thir- teen stripes turned vertically, instead of horizontally, and thus indicating that a civil, and not a military post of Uncle.

Its front is ornamented with a portico6 of half a dozen wooden pillars, supporting a balcony, beneath which a flight of wide granite steps descends towards the street. Over the entrance hovers an enormous specimen of the American eagle, with outspread wings, a shield before her breast, and, if I recollect aright, a bunch of intermingled thunderbolts and barbed arrows in each claw.

With the customary infirmity of temper that characterizes this unhappy fowl, she appears, by the fierceness of her beak and eye and the general truculency of her attitude, to threaten mis- chief to the inoffensive community; and especially to warn all citizens, careful of their safety, against intruding on the premises which she overshadows with her wings. Nevertheless, vixenly as she looks, many people are seeking, at this very moment, to shelter themselves under the wing of the federal eagle; imagining, I presume, that her bosom has all the softness and snugness of an eider-down pillow.

But she has no great tenderness, even in her best of moods, and, sooner or later—oftener soon than late—is apt to fling off her nestlings with a scratch of her claw, a dab of her beak, or a rankling wound from her barbed arrows. The pavement round about the above-described edifice— which we may as well name at once as the Custom-House of the port—has grass enough growing in its chinks to show that it has not, of late days, been worn by any multitudinous resort of business. In some months of the year, however, there often chances a forenoon when affairs move onward with a livelier tread.

Such occasions might remind the elderly citizen of that period, before the last war with England,7. On some such morning, when three or four vessels happen to have arrived at once—usually from Africa or South America—or to be on the verge of their departure thitherward, there is a sound of frequent feet, pass- ing briskly up and down the granite steps. Here, before his.

See the biography on page iv. Young men who worked in shipping houses often invested some of their money in trading ventures.

1. Needed: One Convenient Husband (Mills & Boon Desire) (The Pearl House, Book 6).
2. The Project Gutenberg eBook of She Buildeth Her House, by Will Levington Comfort..
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Homes for poor, often elderly, people. And he arose, and followed him. Here, too, comes his owner, cheerful or somber, gracious or in the sulks, accordingly as his scheme of the now accomplished voyage has been real- ized in merchandise that will readily be turned to gold, or has buried him under a bulk of incommodities, such as nobody will care to rid him of. Another figure in the scene is the outward- bound sailor, in quest of a protection; or the recently arrived one, pale and feeble, seeking a passport to the hospital.

Nor must we forget the captains of the rusty little schooners that bring firewood from the British provinces; a rough-looking set of tarpaulins, without the alertness of the Yankee aspect, but contributing an item of no slight importance to our decaying trade. Cluster all these individuals together, as they sometimes were, with other miscellaneous ones to diversify the group, and, for the time being, it made the Custom-House a stirring scene. More frequently, however, on ascending the steps, you would discern—in the entry, if it were summer time, or in their appropriate rooms, if wintry or inclement weather— a row of venerable figures, sitting in old-fashioned chairs, which were tipped on their hind legs back against the wall.

Oftentimes they were asleep, but occasionally might be heard talking together, in voices between a speech and a snore, and with that lack of energy that distinguishes the occupants of alms-houses,9 and all other human beings who depend for subsistence on charity, on monopolized labor, or anything else but their own independent exertions.

Needed: One Convenient Husband (Mills & Boon Desire) (The Pearl House, Book 6)

These old gentlemen—seated, like Matthew, at the receipt of cus- tom,10 but not very liable to be summoned thence, like him, for apostolic errands—were Custom-House officers. Do the officers take their jobs seri- ously? How do you know this? Furthermore, on the left hand as you enter the front door, is a certain room or office, about fifteen feet square, and of a lofty height; with two of its arched windows commanding a view of the aforesaid dilapidated wharf, and the third look- ing across a narrow lane, and along a portion of Derby Street.

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All three give glimpses of the shops of grocers, block-makers, slop-sellers,11 and ship-chandlers; around the doors of which are generally to be seen, laughing and gossiping, clusters of old salts,12 and such other wharf-rats as haunt the Wapping The room itself is cobwebbed, and dingy with old paint; its floor is strewn with gray sand, in a fashion that has elsewhere fallen into long disuse; and it is easy to con- clude, from the general slovenliness of the place, that this is a sanctuary into which womankind, with her tools of magic, the broom and mop, has very infrequent access.

In the way of furniture, there is a stove with a voluminous funnel; an old pine desk, with a three-legged stool beside it; two or three wooden-bottom chairs, exceedingly decrepit and infirm; and—not to forget the library—on some shelves, a score or two of volumes of the Acts of Congress, and a bulky Digest of the Revenue Laws.

A tin pipe ascends through the ceiling, and forms a medium of vocal communication with other parts of the edifice. And here, some six months ago— pacing from corner to corner, or lounging on the long-legged stool, with his elbow on the desk, and his eyes wandering up and down the columns of the morning newspaper—you might have recognized, honored reader, the same individual who welcomed you into his cheery little study, where the sun- shine glimmered so pleasantly through the willow branches, on the western side of the Old Manse. But now, should you go thither to seek him, you would inquire in vain for the Loco- foco14 Surveyor.

The besom15 of reform has swept him out of office; and a worthier successor wears his dignity and pockets his emoluments. This old town of Salem—my native place, though I have dwelt much away from it, both in boyhood and maturer. Clothing sellers Old sailors Dockside area, named after the Wapping docking area of London Disparaging term once used for members of the Democratic party Broom Gallows Hill and New Guinea.

Gallows Hill was the site of the hangings during the Salem witchcraft hysteria. New Guinea was the part of Salem where immigrants from southern Europe first settled. Indeed, so far as its physical aspect is concerned, with its flat, unvaried surface, covered chiefly with wooden houses, few or none of which pretend to archi- tectural beauty—its irregularity, which is neither picturesque nor quaint, but only tame—its long and lazy street, lounging wearisomely through the whole extent of the peninsula, with Gallows Hill and New Guinea17 at one end, and a view of the alms-house at the other—such being the features of my native town, it would be quite as reasonable to form a sentimental attachment to a disarranged checkerboard.

And yet, though invariably happiest elsewhere, there is within me a feeling for old Salem, which, in lack of a better phrase, I must be content to call affection. The sentiment is proba- bly assignable to the deep and aged roots which my family has struck into the soil. It is now nearly two centuries and a quarter since the original Briton, the earliest emigrant of my name, made his appearance in the wild and forest-bordered settlement, which has since become a city. And here his descendants have been born and died, and have mingled their earthly substance with the soil; until no small portion of it must necessarily be akin to the mortal frame wherewith, for a little while, I walk the streets.

In part, therefore, the attachment which I speak of is the mere sensuous sympathy of dust for dust. Few of my countrymen can know what it is; nor, as frequent transplantation is perhaps better for the stock, need they consider it desirable to know. But the sentiment has likewise its moral quality. The figure of that first ancestor, invested by family tradition with a dim and dusky grandeur, was present to my boyish imagination, as far back as I can remember. It still haunts me, and induces a sort of home-feeling with the past, which I scarcely claim in reference to the present phase of the town.

I seem to have a stronger claim to a residence here on account of this grave, bearded, sable-cloaked, and steeple-crowned progenitor18— who came so early, with his Bible and his sword, and trode the unworn street with such a stately port, and made so large a figure, as a man of war and peace—a stronger claim than for myself, whose name is seldom heard and my face hardly known.

He was a soldier, legislator, judge; he was a ruler in the Church; he had all the Puritanic traits, both good and. He was likewise a bitter persecutor; as witness the Quakers, who have remembered him in their histories, and relate an incident of his hard severity towards a woman of their sect, which will last longer, it is to be feared, than any record of his better deeds, although these were many.

His son,19 too, inherited the persecuting spirit, and made himself so conspicuous in the martyrdom of the witches,20 that their blood may fairly be said to have left a stain upon him.



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So deep a stain, indeed, that his dry old bones, in the Charter Street burial-ground, must still retain it, if they have not crumbled utterly to dust! I know not whether these ancestors of mine bethought themselves to repent, and ask pardon of Heaven for their cruelties; or whether they are now groaning under the heavy consequences of them, in another state of being. At all events, I, the present writer, as their representa- tive, hereby take shame upon myself for their sakes, and pray that any curse incurred by them—as I have heard, and as the dreary and unprosperous condition of the race, for many a long year back, would argue to exist—may be now and henceforth removed.

Doubtless, however, either of these stern and black- browed Puritans would have thought it quite a sufficient retribution for his sins, that, after so long a lapse of years, the old trunk of the family tree, with so much venerable moss upon it, should have borne, as its topmost bough, an idler like myself. No aim, that I have ever cherished, would they recognize as laudable; no success of mine—if my life, beyond its domestic scope, had ever been brightened by suc- cess—would they deem otherwise than worthless, if not pos- itively disgraceful. What kind of business in life—what mode of glorifying God, or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation— may that be?