s, the congregation would crowd toward the bed of coals raked out
in the middle of the brick floor from the old cannon stove: to do this
they must brush by the cedars which "Old Powderproof" had covered with
flour, in imitation of snow; and then Dutch Peter, as they complimented
him on his efforts, would whisper the astonishing invocation, "God be
tankful for all dish plessins and tings!"

[Illustration: CAR-BUILDING WORKS.]

[Illustration: RESIDENCE OF JOB JACKSON, ESQ.]

Modern improvement has a particular spite against the landmarks of
antiquity. The railroad to Baltimore slices off a part of the Swedish
graveyard--an institution much more ancient than the church which stands
on it. And the rock by old Fort Christina, upon which Governor
Stuyvesant--Irving's Stuyvesant--stood on his silver leg and took the
surrender of the Swedish governor-general, is now quarried out and
reconstructed into Delaware Breakwater.

Doubtless we dwell too fondly on the old memories, but it appears that
the souvenirs of this region are somewhat remarkable for their contrast
of nationalities. Perhaps the colonization of other spots would yield
better romances than any we have to offer; yet we cannot help feeling
that a better pen than ours would find brilliant matter for literary
effects in the paradise revealed to good Elizabeth Shipley by her
dream-guide.

Delawarean Wilmington is perhaps hardly known to the general public
except through two of its products. Everybody buys Wilmington matches,
and everybody knows that Du Pont's powder is made in the vicinity.
Ignoring the foundries and shipyards, the popular imagination recognizes
but these two commodities--the powder which could blow up the
obstructions to all the American harbors, and the match which could
touch off the train. A million dollars' worth of gunpowder and three
hundred thousand dollars' worth of matches are the annual product.

[Illustration: CAR-WHEEL CASTING WORKS.]

Eleuthere Irenee Du Pont, a French gentleman of honorable family,
appeared in Wilmington in 1802. The town had at that time hardly three
thousand inhabitants. He amazed all the quidnuncs by buying, for fifty
thousand dollars, Rumford Dawes' old tract of rocks on the Brandywine,
which everybody knew was perfectly useless. The stranger was pitied as
he began to blast away the stone. Out of a single rock, separated into
fragments, he built a cottage: it was a lonely spot, and the snakes from
the fissures