University of Virginia Library

ANN ELLSWORTH.

Shakspeare.

About one mile from the pretty village of
N—, that stretches along the banks of the
fertile Connecticut, there lived, some thirty
years since, a farmer by the name of Williams.
He was a good man, in the Yankee sense of
the term, that is, industrious and thriving, and
accounted honest and pious—for he lived
aboveboard, paid all his contracts punctually,
and belonged to the church. So he was called
a good man, and on many accounts he truly
deserved the epithet; but there was one foil to
his virtues—he was avaricious.

The acquisition of property is, in our country,
so very creditable, that probably many
who yield themselves slaves to the love of money
are not aware of the dominion it exercises
over their hearts and passions. They do not
intend to love the world, or the things thereof,
unduly; but they want to have the comforts of
life, and the means of entertaining their friends,
and somewhat to bestow in charity, and a portion

for their children, and many other items,
which appear indispensable; and thus they
deem the eagerness with which they go on increasing
their hoards, but the duty they owe
themselves, families and society.

I have said Williams was a thriving man, indeed
he was rich for the sphere in which he
moved. He cultivated his excellent farm with
great care, the eye of the traveller was always
arrested by his charming situation, and it was
often remarked that so quiet and pleasant a
residence must be the abode of content and
happiness. How little of either are dependent
on worldly prosperity!

Both Williams and his wife loved the world
so well they had but little love to bestow on
each other; and though they both toiled hard,
and rose up early, and sat up late, and eat `the
bread of carefulness,' it was not from the sympathy
of affection, but to become rich. They
gained their wishes; but then they found, as all
will find, that whenever worldly desires are inordinately
indulged, their gratification is sure
to bring disappointment and vexation, if not
misery, to the worldling. They thought, and
people generally said, that all their uneasiness
was caused by the untoward behaviour of their
only son. Obed Williams was one of those common
characters, and they are much the most
numerous class, which seem to have no distinguishing
lineament, but take their form and
pressure entirely from surrounding objects and
accidental circumstances. He was in infancy
rather a sickly child, and so his mother

constantly indulged him in every whim—and
in childhood he was, chiefly in consequence
of that indulgence, cross and wilful; and then
his father, who made Solomon's mode of government
his standard, as constantly whipped
him for every fault, and it is difficult to decide
which mode of treatment had the worst effect
on his disposition. To complete his evil destiny,
it was often whispered in his ear, and that
too by his own mother, that he was a rich man's
only child, and would, sometime, inherit a large
estate, and have it in his power to do just as
he pleased. Should it excite wonder that, as
he grew towards manhood, and therefore found
himself exempted from corporal punishment, he
displayed a selfish, sullen, overbearing temper?
His parents, by their injudicious management
had increased, if not kindled it; and they were
punished by his wilfulness and disobedience.
But still Mr. Williams hoped that if his son
married a good wife he would improve, and with
his usual sagacity, when pecuniary profit was in
question, he had selected such an one for Obed.

`Your cousin, Ann Ellsworth, will be here
to-morrow,' said Mr. Williams—`and, Obed,
I do hope you will not show any of your contrary
temper, but be sociable and endeavour to
please her. Ann is a girl worth pleasing, for
she will have a fortune of four thousand dollars;
—and her mother, before she died, consented
that Ann should marry you.'

`What, whether I choose it, or no?' said
Obed, looking up with an expression of features
between a simper and a sneer.

`You will choose it, Obed,' replied his father,
in a soothing tone. `Ann was very handsome
when I saw her last, which is about three
years ago. It was when her mother died, and
I wished to bring the girl right home with me
and have her learn to work; but she was so
anxious to go back to her school, and her mother
had promised her she should go and complete
her education. I don't call such an
education complete by any means; but I did not
like to contradict sister then, as she had been
very loath to sign her name to the will that
obliges Ann to forfeit her fortune if she marries
without my consent. I pressed that matter,
and gained my point, and let sister have
her own way in the rest.'

`May be Ann will not like me,' said Obed,
with an expression of thought which his face
seldom wore.

`She must like you, or lose her property,
or it will be forfeited to me if she marries
without my consent—and I shall not give it to
any one but you. But say nothing to Ann
about it. Girls always like to have their own
way in marrying, and seldom love those their
friends choose, so I have contrived to keep
the matter a secret except from a few who
were witnesses in the matter. You must try
to please your cousin, and as soon as you can
persuade her to marry you I will put you in
possession of all her fortune, and one third of
my own estate.'

`I should think you might give me one half,'
replied Obed, with a dissatisfied and sullen

air, `I don't see why old folks want to keep
everything for themselves.'

Mr. Williams regarded his son with that
look of bitter anguish which the discovery of
ingratitude in a child excites in a parent's
heart. There were no soothing reflections to
allay the sting; something in his own breast
whispered that he deserved chastisement; that
he had been guilty of the sin of covetousness,
while professing the most disinterested concern
for his orphan niece, and remorse for the
part he had acted in obtaining the will, and
an indefinite dread, that somehow, his own
child was to be the instrument of punishing
his fault, came so home to his mind and conscience,
that, covering his face with his hands,
the tears he could not restrain he allowed to
flow.

Obed was not naturally hard-hearted, and
touched with this exhibition of sorrow he wished
to comfort his father, but not knowing what
to say, he stood twirling his hat till Mr. Williams,
with that feeling of impatience which
self reproach awakens in the unhumbled heart,
angrily bade him go about his business.

Obed departed whistling.

`Pray where do you keep your books, cousin
Obed?' said Ann Ellsworth, the morning but
one after her arrival. `I have searched every
part of the house, and excepting the Bible, find
nothing worth reading, and I really want something
to amuse me.'

`I should never think of looking for a book
to amuse myself.'

`And what do you like?' inquired Ann.

`O, hunting and fishing in the summer,
and skating and playing checkers in the winter.'

Ann laughed, but Obed had sufficient penetration
to discern that what he had said had
not raised him in her esteem; and as he really
wished to please her, he attempted to apologize
for his want of taste and literature.

`We have but little time to spend in reading,'
said he, `or my parents have none. I,
to be sure, am not hurried, for I will not
drudge on the farm, and I suppose I should
have liked reading as well as you do if I had
only had entertaining books; but father never
would buy anything but land and cattle, and
all he thinks about is getting money. He has
laid up as much as I shall want to spend, and
that's one good thing; so there is no need of
my working; and as I have nothing to read, I
must hunt, and fish, and play checkers.'

Ann had now learned that her cousin was
idle and illiterate, and though she knew nothing
of the defects of his temper, yet so completely
did his self-exposure destroy the favorable
opinion which his good looks,—for if a
fine manly form, regular features, and fair
complexion, constitute beauty, he was really
very handsome,—had inspired, that she never,
from that hour, thought him agreeable.

`You will find books enough if you go down
to Mrs. Grant's,' said Mrs. Williams, to the
reiterated wishes of her niece for something
to read. `They are always reading, though

they are so poor I don't know how they can
afford to spend their time.'

`Who is Mrs. Grant, and where does she
live?' asked Ann.

`O, she is a poor widow, and with her four
daughters, lives in a little house, down in what
we call the valley, about half a mile off.'

`A poor widow, living in a small house,'
thought Ann, as, glancing her eye around the
handsome apartment in which she was seated,
she pondered the propriety of a visit.

`They are poor enough,' continued Mrs.
Williams, `and have nothing only what they
earn by taking in work and braiding straw.'

`Braiding straw!' thought Ann, as she
surveyed in a mirror her own elegant dress,
and she almost resolved to think no more of
the Grants.

`And yet,' resumed her aunt, `to hear them
talk about their books, you would think they
did nothing but read; and then they are all so
proud of Charles.'

`And who is Charles?' inquired Ann.

`O, he is their brother, the oldest of the
family; and he was a very ill-looking child,
and he don't look much better now. I wish
you could see him beside of Obed. But
Charles was called a good scholar, and somehow
he has got along in his studies, wonderfully,
quite beyond my expectations; for he
has studied law, and is now practising, though
he is only two years older than Obed. But
Obed thinks, I 'spose, that he is rich enough
without studying.'

Ann Ellsworth was a little capricious, for
she had been a petted child; and gay and high
spirited, for she was very fair, and had been
flattered,—but she had good sense, and whenever
she reflected, her decisions were sure to
be influenced by reason and right principles.
She did reflect on what her aunt had communicated,
and the conclusion was to seek the
acquaintance of the Miss Grants.

Their dwelling, a low house, containing only
three small rooms, besides a little one in the
garret which had been the study of Charles,
and was now his sisters' library, stood in a
quiet nook about twenty rods from the high
road, at the foot of a green hill; and the front
of the building was almost entirely covered
and concealed by woodbine, and lilaes, and
prime rose bushes, then in full blossom. Ann
loved flowers, and books, and intelligent conversation;
at Mrs. Grant's she found them all,
and after a few days' intercourse she could not,
very complacently, reflect on the foolish prejudice
which had so nearly prevented her from
cultivating the acquaintance of this amiable
family, merely because they were poor, lived
in a small house, and braided straw. There
is, in sincere piety, an elevating principle,
which never fails to dignify its possessor.
Let the poor inhabitant of a cottage feel himself
an heir of eternal glory, and envy at the
prosperity of his rich neighbour, and repinings
at his own hard fortune, vain regrets and idle
wishes, are all repressed. He bows submissively
to the dispensations of that Providence

which has in this life assigned him a lowly lot;
and looking only to the glorious prize set before
him, his mind and conversation are, perhaps
insensibly to himself, imbued with the
purity and moral grandeur of that faith which
is destined to inherit a throne in heaven. The
devotion of Mrs. Grant was thus pure and
elevated. She had none of that morose, mystical,
mechanical affectation of piety which is
dependent on settled phrases, and stated seasons.
Her worship was not dictated by fear,
but inspired by love. `Our Father which art
in heaven,' always suggested to her heart the
idea of a tender, benevolent and holy parent,
who was constantly watching over her and
hers for good; and when afflictions came they
were but the chastenings of his mercy. It
was impossible that Ann Ellsworth should become,
as it were, domesticated beneath the
peaceful roof of Mrs. Grant without observing
the difference that existed between its inmates
and that of her uncle's elegant dwelling. In
the latter, all was hurry and anxiety, labor
and care; exemplifying the truth of the wise
man's remark, that `the abundance of the rich
will not suffer him to sleep.'

And then the acquisition of riches brought
no enjoyment, except merely, the idea of possessing
them. The elegant and costly furniture
that decked the parlour of Mrs. Williams,
instead of awakening in her mind elegance of
taste, only suggested ideas of the money it had
cost, and the care and trouble which would be
necessary to preserve it from injury. She feared

to have her husband or child set their feet on
the carpeted floor, and whenever they did, then
were sharp reproofs on her part, saucy retorts
from her son, and surly grumblings from the
lord of the mansion on the inconvenience to
which such newfangled decorations subjected
him.

But at Mrs. Grant's, all was quietness and
affection; and though they were necessitated
to earn their livelihood, they did not neglect to
cultivate that refinement of feeling, mind, and
manners, which gives a zest to social intercourse.
Mrs. Grant possessed great decision
of character. This quality is rare in woman;
whether in consequence of her more delicate
organization, or the dependent situation in
which nature and education have placed her,
is of no consequence to inquire. While she
has judicious friends and kind protectors, she
can very well dispense with that kind of energetic
decision displayed by men, which seems
to be attained only by deep reflection, when the
mind has been tasked to judge of the fitness of
a proposition with reference to its ultimate importance
alone, and when that is clear, feels
prepared to encounter every obstacle the world
can raise to its accomplishment. Such decision
only becomes necessary to woman in adversity.
Let no one imagine its exertion contributes
to the happiness of a female. It may
be her duty, it should never be her desire.

There is no human mind exempt from weaknesses.
Mrs. Grant had hers, and the most
prominent one was the fondness with which

she doted on her children, especially her son.
Her neighbours declared she was never heard
to converse five minutes without mentioning
Charles. She certainly contrived very soon
to introduce his name to Ann Ellsworth; and
tell of his genius, and discretion, and kind heart;
always adding, that under Heaven, he was all
her dependence. `The girls,' she would say,
`are good, and industrious, and obedient; but
what can girls do? Charles takes thought for
us all. He assists me, and advises them, and
provides for himself; and it is all owing to him,
that his sisters are so well educated. He gave
them all their books, and taught them when he
was here, and writes to them now he is away,
and never seems weary of the task. He gave
me, too, my large Bible, because my eyes had
grown weak, and I never open it without thanking
Heaven for having blessed me with such a
son. I want, Miss Ellsworth, you should see
him. He is not handsome, to be sure, nothing
so handsome as Obed Williams, but when
you are once acquainted with him, you will not
notice his plainness. I do wish he would come
home while you are here.'

Ann cordially joined in the wish; the letters
he sent his sisters were often shown her, and
combined, with what she otherwise heard, to
give her a high opinion of his talents and
character. Her situation in her uncle's family
had grown almost intolerable. She was so
wearied with their eternally reiterated complaints
of bad health, and bad weather, bad
crops, and bad markets, which coustituted the

chief topics of their discourse, when together;
when separated, they were usually complaining
of each other. Obed thought his parents
cross and stingy—they called him idle and extravagant,—and
poor Ann had to hear it all.
One beautiful forenoon, in the month of August,
Ann called at Mrs. Grant's, as usual, to
pass an hour, but found them all engaged in
preparation, as if for some expected guest.
The floor of their little parlour was newly
sanded, the fire-place filled with fresh green
boughs, and the few flowers their garden at
that late season afforded, were gathered and
placed in glass tumblers, disposed on the mantel-piece.

`We have just received a letter from
Charles,' said Mrs. Grant, her face radiant
with smiles, `and we expect him every moment.
I can truly say I am glad, and I hope
I am grateful. We did not expect him this
month,—and he is coming now. But do, my
dear Miss Ellsworth, sit down; the girls will
hardly be at leisure to walk with you at present,—but
if you will stay till Charles comes,
I presume he will be happy to take a ramble,—
and you can all go together.'

Ann excused herself from staying, by pleading
engagements at home; and as she slowly
and solitarily pursued the path to her uncle's,
she reflected much on the insufficiency of
wealth to confer happiness on a family, whose
members are neither united by the confidence
of affection towards each other, nor by gratitude
and love to the Giver of every good.

Charles Grant arrived, and in due time was
introduced to Ann; and the fair reader undoubtedly
expects to hear of their mutual and
immediate prepossession in each other's favor.
Charles Grant, however, was not a man with
whom a woman would be very likely to fall in
love with at first sight. He was plain, almost
to ugliness, small and thin, with harsh features,
and sallow complexion, and gray eyes,
—and the only redeeming point in his appearance,
was a finely formed forehead, around
which his dark hair gracefully clustered. But
he was so intelligent and agreeable, and affectionate
to his mother and sisters, and so
gentlemanly, Ann could not help esteeming
his character, and delighting in his society.
Three weeks he allowed for his visit, and said,
during that time, he should trace all the haunts
of his childhood; and he usually persuaded
his sisters and Ann to accompany him in his
rambles and excursions. Obed Williams, also,
dressed in his `very best,' always was
there, for jealousy of the superior abilities of
Charles, and fears that he would gain the
favor of Ann, had operated to make Obed fancy
himself violently in love with his cousin; and
he studiously endeavoured to display advantageously
before her, what he considered of vast
importance, his fine person. He had better
have staid at home. Ann did often see
Charles and Obed beside each other, but it
was when the one was all animation,—his
plain features glowing with intelligence, and
his gray eye sparkling with the wit and vivacity

that flowed so enchantingly from his lips—
while the other stood in stupid or wondering
silence,—his handsome features dull and unvarying
as a barber's block.

It was then that the heart of Ann confessed
the truth of the poet's assertion, that

and though she did not look and love, she listened
with such undisguised pleasure, for her
mind was all artlessness, that before the `three
little weeks' were expired, Charles had dared
to whisper his admiration, and had not been forbidden
to hope. Obed, at the discovery of his
cousin's partiality for his rival, was filled with
rage and envy. He declared Charles was
wholly influenced by pecuniary motives, and
that Ann, like all young ladies, who fancy themselves
educated, despised the laboring class,
and thought a professional man only worthy her
smiles. This is an observation often urged by
farmers. The fault is all their own. No class
of men in our own country, are so independent
as the agriculturists, and none would be more
respected, did they only cultivate their minds as
assiduously as their acres. They plead want of
leisure;—let them improve what they have—
the stormy days—the long winter evenings—
opportunities are not wanting—books are within
their reach—the road to honor and high
station is open before them, and yet they sit
down, not contentedly to be sure, for the soul
of an American cannot rest contented in ignorance
and obscurity, while light, and knowledge,
and energy, and enterprise are with the
spirit of liberty, abroad in the world; but they
sit down in envious repinings, at the fate which
has assigned them the task of tilling the earth,
when they should be exerting themselves to
obtain that knowledge which will confer honor
and dignity on their employment.

Ann Ellsworth did not despise Obed because
he was a farmer, but because he was idle and
illiterate. Neither was the choice of Charles
Grant influenced by pecuniary motives; yet
had Ann, with her tastes and education, been
poor, he would hardly have dared to whisper
his love, till he had acquired the means of
supporting her in the style which she would
probably have expected from a husband in his
station. But all such objections were now
obviated by the fortune she would inherit; and
while he felt, that had he possessed a princedom,
Ann would still be the object of his affection,
in preference to any woman he had
ever seen, he did not hesitate to avow his partiality
because the world might say he was
mercenary.

Mr. Williams listened to the application of
Charles, for consent to marry his niece, with
an air in which anger and exultation were
strangely blended. `You are doubtless thinking
that Ann has a fortune at her command,'
said he, with a sneer.

`I have not asked your consent for her fortune,
but for her,' dryly observed Charles.

`My consent is indeed of some consequence
in this matter,' returned Mr. Williams, with
affected solemnity: `But I have my duty to perform.
Read that paper, Mr. Grant.'

It was the `last will and testament' of Mrs.
Ellsworth; and Charles there learned that the
consent of Mr. Williams to the marriage of
Ann was necessary, otherwise her fortune was
forfeited to her uncle.

`And read this 'ere paper, too, Mr. Grant,'
continued Mr. Williams.

It was a paper expressing the wishes of Mrs.
Ellsworth that her daughter should marry Obed
Williams.

`You see how I am situated,' resumed
the crafty old man. `My sister, knowing her
daughter was gay and giddy, and that her fortune
would attract the young sparks, who are
watching to obtain a rich wife, insisted that I
should take the girl and her property as my
own, and when she was old enough to marry,
give her to my son. My conscience will not
permit me to violate the trust.'

`Is the young lady apprized of this?' inquired
Charles.

`O, no—I hoped she would become attached
to Obed, and I think she will now, if no
other person attempts to engage her affections.
I have told you all, sir, because I believe you
are a reasonable young man, and will not
think it worth while to deprive the girl of her
fortune, just for a little foolish fancy. You
see, under all circumstances, I cannot give
you my consent.'

`Have you any objection to my character
or situation?'

`O, no—but I am determined she shall marry
Obed, and I do not think it my duty to give
you my consent.'

`And what if Miss Ellsworth should marry
me without it?'

`Then her property shall be my son's. It
was the dying request of my sister. The estate
was left her by my father, and she said it
should never go out of the family. My duty,
in such a case, is plain, sir.'

`You may look over the will as much as
you please,' resumed Mr. Williams, sarcastically.
`You'll find no flaws, by which you
can get the property, after you marry Ann, I
promise you. That 'ere will was drawn by as
cunning a lawyer as you are, sir.'

Charles did examine it, coolly and minutely,
till satisfied there were no flaws; he laid it
down, saying, `It is not merely on account of
the property that I display this interest. I
consider my happiness and that of Miss Ellsworth
involved. And though I will not believe
she can ever prefer your son, notwithstanding
he is heir to your estate, and has the reversion
of hers in his grasp; yet I own the possibility
that she may think our mutual poverty
should, for the present, prevent her from giving
me the right to protect her, troubles me.'

`Do you then intend to marry her without
my consent?'

`If I can obtain hers, I shall not hesitate on
account of the forfeiture.'

`You can do as you please, but I raly thought
you had more sense,' said Williams, tauntingly.

`And as little feeling and honor as—but good
morning, sir;' and slightly bowing, Charles departed
in search of his beloved. The conversation
of the lovers cannot be given at length, but
the conclusion was that Ann, either convinced
by the arguments or melted by the entreaties of
Charles, consented to wed him immediately.

`I would not urge you thus hastily to unite
your fate with mine,' said Charles, `while I am
poor, and incapable of supporting you as I
could wish, had you any relative, except this
avaricious uncle, with whom to reside. It is
evident that he covets your estate. We will
let him enjoy it undisturbed. You would not
surely preserve it by marrying Obed?'

`I cannot believe my dear mother, were she
living, would consent I should marry him,' said
Ann, weeping—`O why did she sign that cruel
paper?'

`Probably when her mind was weakened by
sickness,' replied Charles. `I am convinced
your uncle used artifice to obtain it. But we
will leave him to Heaven and his own conscience,
and think no more of the matter. If
we cannot be rich, my love, we will be happy.'

Ann was a gay girl, and fond of society, but
she had good sense. She knew she had married
a poor man, and though she was a little
romantic, she did not allow herself to expect to
find in a cottage the luxuries of a palace, or
that her husband, from only the income of his
profession, could furnish for her the elegances

the rich are at liberty to enjoy. She did not,
therefore, anticipate the delight of residing in
a fine house, and the parade of a wedding party,
and morning calls, and evening entertainments—but
was contented to occupy a plain
apartment, plainly furnished, and pass the bridal
year busily employed with her needle, or
her books. It is true, she did, at times, during
the long days, feel a little moped—but when
the evening came, and freed Charles from his
office, how joyfully she greeted his step, and
exerted herself to soothe all his cares; and how
delightedly she listened to his instructions and
advice, while in unreserved confidence she told
him all she had read, and all she had thought.
Milton's heroine preferred to listen to the
truths of philosophy from her husband's lip,
rather than the angel's.

Charles, meanwhile, applied himself with
all the energy inspired by love and ambition,
to the prosecution of his business, and thought
every toil and perplexity repaid by the sweet
smiles that always awaited him by his own fire-side.
Thirty years have passed away since
they were married. Thirty years make little
alteration in the appearance of nature. It is
on man and his works that the characters of
time are impressed. And probably in no part
of the world are changes so apparent as in our
beloved country. The spirit of restlessness as
well as improvement, pervades our citizens.
This would naturally be the case with men,
when an extensive country is open before them,
and all are at liberty to remove withersoever

they please. The spirit of emigration is productive
of many good effects, and some melancholy
ones. There is a feeling of sadness in
the parent's heart while reflecting that the
household band, so fondly reared together, will
probably, in a few years, be so far, and so
widely severed. Let no man, while planning
his lofty dwelling, flatter himself he is building
for his own posterity—the son of his enemy
may inhabit there.

The parents of Obed Williams fondly imagined
the estate they had so eagerly toiled to gain
and improve, would be highly valued by their
son—but they had the grief and mortification
of seeing the part assigned him, on his marriage,
soon disposed of; and the chagrin and
sorrow they endured in consequence of his undutiful
and prodigal conduct, it was thought
hastened their death. Obed, then, for a few
years, revelled in luxury; but finally, increasing
debts began to harass him, and as the small
estimation in which he knew he had been held,
notwithstanding he was heir to the best estate
in the country, had always provoked him, he
disposed of his property, at a reduced price,
and departed for Ohio,—where he flattered
himself he should be considered a great man.
But the people in the western states have long
since learned to distinguish between the ignorant
adventurer who has nothing but his own
egotism to recommend him, and the man of enterprise
and intelligence seeking a wider sphere
for the exertion of his talents—and Obed Williams
gained nothing by the removal.

There is one event happeneth to all, and the
changes of time are alike on the evil and the
good. Thirty years have blanched the dark
locks of Charles, and planted wrinkles on the
fair face of Ann. The vivacity of youth and
the glow of beauty must decay, even the ardor
of imagination is chilled, and the light of
the understanding darkened by the cold pall
of years. There is but one earthly flower that
blooms unfading in our earthly path—it is the
true love of virtuous hearts. The lapse of
thirty years has wrought no change on the
affection of Charles and Ann. She listens as
delightedly to his conversation as when his
eloquence first won her smile; and that smile
is just as dear to him as when he first called
her his bride. But their situation is changed.
Thirty years of industry and economy have
given them an independent fortune, and what
is far better than gold, a name and a praise
for every excellence that dignifies human nature.
Satisfied with their portion of the world,
they wished to retire from its bustle, and
Charles Grant has lately purchased the farm
formerly owned by Mr. Williams. It was endeared
to him by many recollections. Its
shades had been the haunts of his boyhood—it
was there he won the heart of his beloved wife,
and above all, it was near the dwelling of his
aged mother. So he purchased, and is improving
the farm, and the passing traveller is
not now mistaken when he deems the beautiful
residence the abode of content and happiness.