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I like to think that if there is a God, he wouldn't judge the people he created in his own image simply because they have different attractions than the norm.

Wot's this now?

Elsewhere match that bloom of theirs, ye cannot, save in Salem, where they tell me the young girls breathe such musk, their sailor sweethearts smell them miles off shore, as though they were drawing nigh the odorous Moluccas instead of the Puritanic sands.

But roses only bloom in summer; whereas the fine carnation of their cheeks is perennial as sunlight in the seventh heavens.

And the women of New Bedford, they bloom like their own red roses.

So omnipotent is art; which in many a district of New Bedford has superinduced bright terraces of flowers upon the barren refuse rocks thrown aside at creation's final day.

And in April, high in air, the beautiful and bountiful horse-chestnuts, candelabra-wise, proffer the passer-by their tapering upright cones of congregated blossoms.

In summer time, the town is sweet to see; full of fine maples -- long avenues of green and gold.

You must go to New Bedford to see a brilliant wedding; for, they say, they have reservoirs of oil in every house, and every night recklessly burn their lengths in spermaceti candles.

In New Bedford, fathers, they say, give whales for dowers to their daughters, and portion off their nieces with a few porpoises a-piece.

Can Herr Alexander* perform a feat like that? *Popular magician of the time.

One and all, they were harpooned and dragged up hither from the bottom of the sea.

Yes; all these brave houses and flowery gardens came from the Atlantic, Pacific, and Indian oceans.

Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion, and your question will be answered.

Whence came they? how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?

Yet, in spite of this, nowhere in all America will you find more patrician-like houses; parks and gardens more opulent, than in New Bedford.

Nay, good sir. The sea has been rolling on since the dawn of time; so, too, have I roamed the Earth.

The streets do not run with milk; nor in the spring-time do they pave them with fresh eggs.

It is a land of oil, true enough: but not like Canaan; a land, also, of corn and wine.

The town itself is perhaps the dearest place to live in, in all New England.