Midway between the two extremities,on the eastern shore of the lake,is a valley between two hills,which come down to the very edge of the lake,leaving only room enough for a road between their base and the water.This valley,half a mile in width,has been long settled,and here for a century or more has stood the old Anchor Tavern.Afamous place it was so long as its sign swung at the side of the road:famous for its landlord,portly,paternal,whose welcome to a guest that looked worthy of the attention was like that of a parent to a returning prodigal,and whose parting words were almost as good as a marriage benediction;famous for its landlady,ample in person,motherly,seeing to the whole household with her own eyes,mistress of all culinary secrets that Northern kitchens are most proud of;famous also for its ancient servant,as city people would call her,--help,as she was called in the tavern and would have called herself,--the unchanging,seemingly immortal Miranda,who cared for the guests as if she were their nursing mother,and pressed the specially favorite delicacies on their attention as a connoisseur calls the wandering eyes of an ******* to the beauties of a picture.
Who that has ever been at the old Anchor Tavern forgets Miranda's "A little of this fricassee?-it is ver-y nice;"or "Some of these cakes?You will find them ver-y good."Nor would it be just to memory to forget that other notable and noted member of the household,--the unsleeping,unresting,omnipresent Pushee,ready for everybody and everything,everywhere within the limits of the establishment at all hours of the day and night.He fed,nobody could say accurately when or where.There were rumors of a "bunk,"in which he lay down with his clothes on,but he seemed to be always wide awake,and at the service of as many guest,at once as if there had been half a dozen of him.
So much for old reminiscences.
The landlord of the Anchor Tavern had taken down his sign.He had had the house thoroughly renovated and furnished it anew,and kept it open in summer for a few boarders.It happened more than once that the summer boarders were so much pleased with the place that they stayed on through the autumn,and some of them through the winter.
The attractions of the village were really remarkable.Boating in summer,and skating in winter;ice-boats,too,which the wild ducks could hardly keep up with;fishing,for which the lake was renowned;varied and beautiful walks through the valley and up the hillsides;houses sheltered from the north and northeasterly winds,and refreshed in the hot summer days by the breeze which came over the water,--all this made the frame for a pleasing picture of rest and happiness.But there was a great deal more than this.There was a fine library in the little village,presented and richly endowed by a wealthy native of the place.There was a small permanent population of a superior character to that of an everyday country town;there was a pretty little Episcopal church,with a good-hearted rector,broad enough for the Bishop of the diocese to be a little afraid of,and hospitable to all outsiders,of whom,in the summer season,there were always some who wanted a place of worship to keep their religion from dying out during the heathen months,while the shepherds of the flocks to which they belonged were away from their empty folds.
What most helped to keep the place alive all through the year was the frequent coming together of the members of a certain literary association.Some time before the tavern took down its sign the landlord had built a hall,where many a ball had been held,to which the young folks of all the country round had resorted.It was still sometimes used for similar occasions,but it was especially notable as being the place of meeting of the famous PANSOPHIAN SOCIETY.
This association,the name of which might be invidiously interpreted as signifying that its members knew everything,had no such pretensions,but,as its Constitution said very plainly and modestly,held itself open to accept knowledge on any and all subjects from such as had knowledge to impart.Its President was the rector of the little chapel,a man who,in spite of the Thirty-Nine Articles,could stand fire from the widest-mouthed heretical blunderbuss without flinching or losing his temper.The hall of the old Anchor Tavern was a convenient place of meeting for the students and instructors of the University and the Institute.Sometimes in boat-loads,sometimes in carriage-loads,sometimes in processions of skaters,they came to the meetings in Pansophian Hall,as it was now commonly called.
These meetings had grown to be occasions of great interest.It was customary to have papers written by members of the Society,for the most part,but now and then by friends of the members,sometimes by the students of the College or the Institute,and in rarer instances by anonymous personages,whose papers,having been looked over and discussed by the Committee appointed for that purpose,were thought worth listening to.The variety of topics considered was very great.
The young ladies of the village and the Institute had their favorite subjects,the young gentlemen a different set of topics,and the occasional outside contributors their own;so that one who happened to be admitted to a meeting never knew whether he was going to hear an account of recent arctic discoveries,or an essay on the ******* of the will,or a psychological experience,or a story,or even a poem.
