native gift of literary expression, his liveliness as a correspondent—so different from the ‘formalism’ of the period, of which he complains—his love of home and kindred, his pleasant and even his grim humor; on the other, the deeply emotional nature of Fanny Lloyd
, thrilling not only with the thought of separation from past benefactors, but also with the new life just then beginning to stir under her bosom.
The same Providence
by which slavers made their impious voyages in safety, attended the ship hearing its passengers, visible and invisible, from Nova Scotia
, in the spring-time of 1805; whose arrival was the unsuspected event of the year in the third city of Massachusetts1
—for the six or seven thousand inhabitants were celebrating rather the building of the new Court House on the Mall, the founding of the Social Library
, and the opening of Plum Island turnpike and bridge, or making careful note of the thirty days drought in July and August.
On the 10th of December,2
in a little frame house, still standing on School Street, between the First Presbyterian Church, in which Whitefield
's remains are interred, and the house in which the great preacher died,—and so in the very bosom of orthodoxy,—a man-child was born to Abijah and Fanny3 Garrison
, and called, after an uncle who subsequently lost his life in Boston harbor
, William Lloyd Garrison