orm, each impelled by a
motive: each motive strengthened by a master mind until it had become
imperative. Some, like Eben Williams behind his rickety horse, came
through fear; others through ambition; others were actuated by both;
and still others were stung by the pain of the sleet to a still greater
jealousy and envy, and the remembrance of those who had been in power. I
must not omit the conscientious Jacksonians who were misguided enough to
believe in such a ticket.

The sheds were not large enough to hold the teams that day. Jethro's
barn and tannery were full, and many other barns in the village. And
now the peace of mind of the orthodox is a thing of the past. Deacon
Lysander Richardson, the moderator, sits aghast in his high place as
they come trooping in, men who have not been to town meeting for ten
years. Deacon Lysander, with his white band of whiskers that goes around
his neck like a sixteenth-century ruff under his chin, will soon be a
memory. Now enters one, if Deacon Lysander had known it symbolic of the
new Era. One who, though his large head is bent, towers over most of
the men who make way for him in the aisle, nodding but not speaking,
and takes his place in the chair under the platform on the right of the
meeting-pause under one of the high, three-part windows. That chair
was always his in future years, and there he sat afterward, silent,
apparently taking no part. But not a man dropped a ballot into the box
whom Jethro Bass did not see and mark.

And now, when the meeting-house is crowded as it has never been before,
when Jonah Winch has arranged his dinner booth in the corner, Deacon
Lysander raps for order and the minister prays. They proceed, first,
to elect a representative to the General Court. The Jacksonians do not
contest that seat,--this year,--and Isaiah Prescott, fourteenth child
of Timothy, the Stark hero, father of a young Ephraim whom we shall hear
from later, is elected. And now! Now for a sensation, now for disorder
and misrule!

"Gentlemen," says Deacon Lysander, "you will prepare your ballots for
the choice of the first Selectman."

The Whigs have theirs written out, Deacon Moses Hatch. But who has
written out these others that are being so assiduously passed around?
Sam Price, perhaps, for he is passing them most assiduously. And what
name is written on them? Fletcher Bartlett, of course; that was on the
ticket. Somebody is tricked again. That is not the name on the ticket.