Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from Eve Effingham, Vol. 2 of 3: Or, Home
Internally, the Wigwam had gradually been undergoing improvements ever since that pe riod which, in arts, if not in chronology; might be termed the dark ages of Otsego. The great hall had long before lost its cha racteristic decoration of the severed arm of Wolf, a gothic paper that was better adapted to the really respectable architecture of the room, being its substitute; and even the urn that was thought to contain the ashes of Queen Dido, like the pitcher that goes too often to the well, had been broken in a war of extermination that had been carried on against the cobwebs by a particularly notable house keeper. Old Homer, too, had gone the way of all baked clay; Shakspeare himself had dis. Solved into dust.
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