fast as possible, in an unconquerable giggle. Father Morris
goes into the house, and we watch him at every turn, as, with the most
liberal simplicity, he makes himself at home, takes off his wig, wipes
down his great face with a checked pocket handkerchief, helps himself
hither and thither to whatever he wants, and asks for such things as he
cannot lay his hands on, with all the comfortable easiness of childhood.

I remember to this day how we used to peep through the crack of the
door, or hold it half ajar and peer in, to watch his motions; and how
mightily diverted we were with his deep, slow manner of speaking, his
heavy, cumbrous walk, but, above all, with the wonderful faculty of
"_hemming_" which he possessed.

His deep, thundering, protracted "A-hem-em" was like nothing else that
ever I heard; and when once, as he was in the midst of one of these
performances, the parlor door suddenly happened to swing open, I heard
one of my roguish brothers calling, in a suppressed tone, "Charles!
Charles! Father Morris has _hemmed_ the door open!"--and then followed
the signs of a long and desperate titter, in which I sincerely
sympathized.

But the morrow is Sunday. The old man rises in the pulpit. He is not now
in his own humble little parish, preaching simply to the hoers of corn
and planters of potatoes, but there sits Governor D., and there is Judge
R., and Counsellor P., and Judge G. In short, he is before a refined and
literary audience. But Father Morris rises; he thinks nothing of this;
he cares nothing; he knows nothing, as he himself would say, but "Jesus
Christ, and him crucified." He takes a passage of Scripture to explain;
perhaps it is the walk to Emmaus, and the conversation of Jesus with his
disciples. Immediately the whole start out before you, living and
picturesque: the road to Emmaus is a New England turnpike; you can see
its mile stones, its mullein stalks, its toll gates. Next the disciples
rise, and you have before you all their anguish, and hesitation, and
dismay talked out to you in the language of your own fireside. You
smile; you are amused; yet you are touched, and the illusion grows every
moment. You see the approaching stranger, and the mysterious
conversation grows more and more interesting. Emmaus rises in the
distance, in the likeness of a New England village, with a white meeting
house and spire. You follow the travellers; you enter the house with
them; nor do you wake from your trance unt