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

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

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

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.

Whence came they?
how planted upon this once scraggy scoria of a country?
Go and gaze upon the iron emblematical harpoons round yonder lofty mansion, and your question will be answered.