fearfull and blasphemous curses, and prayres
that God would return evill upon the heads of this complaynant and his
children after him," etc.

The transcript was long, alleging various similar offences. Its perusal
recalled to my mind several hints and obscure allusions, and one or two
brief histories of the proceedings in this case, which may be found
in ancient books relating to the Colony. These proceedings between
Beardsley and Brice were famous in their day, and were thought little
creditable to the head of the Beardsley family. That he himself partook
of the general opinion is shown by the circumstance that the matter
was diligently hushed up in that day; and those most familiar with the
ancient records of the State averred, that upon the pages of the missing
volume was spread matter amply sufficient to account for its theft and
destruction by the late Col. Isaac Beardsley.

The details of this ancient quarrel have perished out of remembrance.
The chief substance of it was, however, a lawsuit which ended in the
rich man's obtaining possession of the poor man's land. Brice, a yeoman
of vindictive, obstinate, and fearless character, had insulted his
opponent, who was a magistrate, had threatened his life, and otherwise
so bore himself that his oppressor procured him to be whipped at the
cart's tail, and to be held to give large sureties for the peace, with
the alternative penalty of banishment. The bitter vehemence of Brice's
curses was remarkable even among the dry phrases of the complaint;
and tradition relates that his fearful imprecations even caused his
dignified opponent, the magistrate, to turn pale and tremble.

I was sure, too, that among the stores of the Library I had seen some
memorial of Brice as well as of Beardsley; but could not at the time
call up any remembrance more definite than an impression that this
memorial was something which had belonged to a descendant of Joab Brice,
who had been in his youth a soldier in the old French War, and later a
subaltern in the "State line" during the Revolution.

The Library room, in which I was reading, is a large, lofty hall, fitted
with dark bookcases, heavy and huge as if for giants, singularly perfect
in point of inconvenience and inaccessibility, and good only in that
they bore a certain architectural proportion to the great height and
expanse of the dark room. My desk was so placed that my back was toward
the entrance, which was the balustraded opening