'It was a light and cheerful afternoon,
Toward the end of the sunny month of June,
When the south wind congregates in crowds
The floating mountains of the silver clouds
From the horizon and the stainless sky
Opens beyond, like eternity.'

I WAS sitting meekly by the side of a very little and a very young lady, striving with exemplary diligence to protect my bare and bald head from the sun, by holding over it a parasol. My companion had, in the first place, usurped the reins, then taken the whip from my hand, and afterward, thinking that she could drive better on the raised seat I occupied, she demanded that. It was yielded. But then another difficulty arose her little feet, stretched down to their utmost, could not reach the bottom of the light wagon, by some eight inches. What was to be done? A footstool must be had. Ah! my hat would just answer the purpose. But my bald head! the sun!'

You shall have my parasol!'

Down went the hat, bottom upward - crack! went the whipaway flew the beautiful animals while the little witch, with the ends of her tiny feet just touching my hat-crown, a rein tightly grasped in each of her fairy-like hands, the brown curls wildly blowing about her face, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing, presented the loveliest specimen of a 'whip' that has ever yet greeted my eyes. I was particularly happy. I had been travelling for a month on what people call a 'pleasure tour.' That is to say, after long preparation, and at a very serious inconvenience, I had been able to leave New-York, with six weeks of 'cribbed' time, a trunk, carpetbag, over-coat, some money, and great expectations of pleasure. I had labored hard for four weeks fought for my meals on steamboats and at hotels got up early and went to bed late - rode all night broiled in the sun at noon-day and froze in the evening — and at length delivered my trunk, carpet-bag, over-coat and self, in safety at the house of a relative on the banks of the lake. As yet, my tour of pleasure had been laborious, in the highest degree. I had been a kind of supercargo to my baggage; and it seemed that the only thing I had actually accomplished, had been the safe transmission of the articles before enumerated, from New-York to Albany, thence to Saratoga, thence to Trenton Falls, thence to Rochester, Lewiston, Niagara Falls, Buffalo, and from thence to the place aforesaid, on my way 'bock agen.' It is my opinion, founded on sorrowful experience, that unless a man has a decided call for travel, he had better stay at home. Foreign parts, seen through the medium of our friends' eyes and descriptions, are like the prospects to which distance lends its enchantment. Approach them, visit them, and they have all the annoyances, draw-backs, and petty vexations of our own town and country. In short, the foreign parts that I have seen, are no 'great shakes,' and travelling for pleasure, in my humble opinion, 'is not the thing it is cracked up to be.'

But, as I was saying, before I slipped off into these general remarks, I was particularly happy while seated by the side of the pretty driver before mentioned. Two beautiful grays, of gentle blood

and high breeding, obeying implicitly the light rein which guided them, were flying along the sandy shore of the lake with a speed

almost incredible.

This sheet of water lies some three miles south of the village of in the interior of New-York. I mention this fact, because the lake is not noted in the 'Traveler's Guide,' and is off the main travel-for-pleasure-route, to Buffalo. If not the most beautiful, as I am inclined to think, it is at least one of the most beautiful of all the little gems which deck the Empire State. Its length is only sixteen miles, and in breadth it varies from one to two miles. And yet, if I had the arm of my reader of an afternoon like the one aforementioned, I could, in the course of a few hours' stroll along its borders, show him (or her) views as beautiful as ever the mind of painter conceived, or the hand of nature formed. Perhaps I am prejudiced in its favor. I ought to be so - for on its banks,

'I know a little blooming spot

That always looks as new and bright
As if 't were its eternal lot

To wear spring's coronal of light.'

That spot is the home of my childhood. Do not laugh, reader; I really have been young, and I am every day giving evidence, not only of my having once been a child, but of being one still.

Some half a mile from the foot of the lake, as you drive up along the eastern bank, you approach an old rambling house, half hid in a wilderness of trees. It is composed, as it were, of bits and scraps. The main body is one story and a half in height. To the right, is a wing, nearly as high, and quite as long as the edifice to which it purports to be an adjunct. On the left, is another wing, a little higher than the last, and about once and a half the length of the main body. In the rear, is quite a city of additions, in the shape of bed-rooms, bath-rooms, milk-rooms, buttery, pantry, etc. The house has the appearance of having been built as it was needed. When there was occasion for another hall, or parlor, or bed-room, instead of tearing down his old house, and building a new one in its place, the proprietor seems to have taken the very sensible course of tacking the necessary addition to the portions already built. I like this way of doing things. In the country, where there is plenty of room and plenty of opportunity for other exercise, it appears to me hardly worth while to fatigue one's-self with running up and down stairs. It strikes me, therefore, as far better to build on instead of up, and to extend the luxury of a first floor as far as possible, before we have recourse to a second or third.

The house, as I before remarked, is half hid among the trees. In front, those of the ornamental kind, with shrubs of almost every description, abound, but in the rear, fruit trees predominate. On one side stretches a beautiful and highly cultivated flower-garden, while behind is what to me is far more interesting, an excellent and very extensive vegetable-garden. Between the house and the latter, a little brook that has just escaped from its lone and shady passage through the forest, dances merrily and noisily along, hastening on in its course to the sunny fields below. Through them its laughing waters glide gaily

and pleasantly along, until they reach the quiet bosom of the lake. How often, when a boy, have my idle, heedless steps followed its winding course to its place of rest! How often have I wandered through the beautiful grove which covers the shore at its mouth, or sauntered along the winding, pebbly margin of the little bay which here puts in, as if to form for a period a quiet resting place to the new recruit before joining the main body of the waters. What wild hopes, in early life, have I here indulged! - what dreams for the future have here visited my boyish mind! — what vain wishes, what strong yearnings, what ambitious aspirations, have here first found existence ! As I visit the spot in after life, with the silver records of departed years thinly shading my brow, the marks of care, and toil, and suffering, deeply stamped upon my countenance, and think of the feelings which here once agitated my bosom, and contrast them with those that still remain — when I trace the history of each hope, each aspiration, from its inception here, and follow it through a long course of years to its final extinction when I think how differently my course in life has been shaped from that which I here marked out, and how vain and futile all my efforts and strivings have been against the tide of events, and the force of circumstances - I awake as it were from a long dream; I open my eyes upon the path I have been blindly pursuing; I see the nothingness of my life - the utter vanity of the pursuits that have engrossed my mind and wasted my energies and at length begin to feel, that I am indeed but an instrument in the hand of another, and that the ends I have attained have not been what I have striven for, but what He willed.

THE fleet grays, and the spirited driving of my young companion, soon brought me to the door of the mansion I have attempted to describe. Greetings, such as the home of one's childhood only afford, and those who have watched over one's infancy can alone bestow, awaited us. My young companion received a grand-mother's kiss and reproof for her late masculine exploit, while I, taking my cane, walked out, for the hundredth time since my return, to visit my old haunts. Every feature of the place to me had its association. I wandered on, my mind teeming with recollections, lingering here and there for a moment, about some well-remembered object, until I reached the grove which covers the shore of the lake. It had been a favorite spot of old. Its singular beauty had always made it attractive in my eyes; but it was not until I was under the influence of feelings that I wished to be known only to myself, that it became my constant place of resort. As I strolled through its devious paths, emotions that I thought long since smothered-feelings that I supposed had died within me years ago— revived and filled my bosom. Hours passed unheeded by me. It was among these trees, that I had loitered in times past, with the light arm of the young Grace Seymour linked in mine. On yonder bank, I had first dared to breathe to her my heart's deep feelings! It was at the foot of the crooked old button-wood tree, on the bank at my left, that I was seated, with her dripping form in my arms, when she recovered from her swoon,

caused more by fright than any injury she had sustained by the overturning of our light skiff, and thinking that I had rescued her from death, forgot for once all her coquetry, and told me that my love was returned. Yes, there is the very stone on which I sat, when I received the first and only kiss that love, other than that of kindred, has ever left upon my lips. Shall I go on with my recollections? Yes, I will out with that most bitter one.. On that green, mossy bank, far off to the right, my brother had seated me, when he opened the communication he knew would wring my heart. There it was, that I first learned that my young, my beautiful, my beloved Grace, had yielded to the persuasion of her father, and had consented to become the wife of a neighboring farmer. 'Oh!' I exclaimed, as I approached the spot, 'hadst thou proved true to thy vow, how different would have been my lot in life! How calmly and quietly would my days have flown! I should have lingered till now by the side of these peaceful waters, and in this sheltered nook. The storms of life which have shaken my frame, and bent my form, would have never reached me here. O, Grace! Grace!'

she

'What! - Harry!'

Could it be? Yes! It was her voice. The very tone was the same as that in which she used to pronounce my name. But where was where was Grace? In the place of her who filled 'my mind's eye,' a matronly-looking lady, leading a fine stout boy with one hand, and extending the other toward me, smilingly approached.

6

'I half heard your soliloquy,' she exclaimed, and I am glad that I was near, to interrupt it. I have done the same thing before, you

know.'

Is it possible? Mrs. !' I answered, half stupified.

'Yes!' she replied, and Mrs. is too happy to see you once more, to suffer you to mope about here alone, trying to persuade yourself that you are miserable and unhappy; and so she has brought herself and her boy down to bear you company.'

There was no resisting this. My unhappiness 'took to itself wings and flew away.' On the very spot where I first learned that I had lost her, after a separation of years, I seated myself by her side, and with her boy playing at our feet, we talked of the past.

Long and interesting, and yet soothing to me, was the conversation which ensued. Every word of it is deeply engraven on my mind. It was the last I have had with her.

'Do you recollect, Harry,' said she, as she drew her shawl together, preparatory to her return; do you recollect the last evening we spent here? I know you have not forgotten it. How surpassingly beautiful was the night! Not a breath disturbed the waters of the lake, as they lay reflecting in a thousand silver rays the full summer moon above them. The grove, stretching as it does now far off to the right, with its tall forest-trees standing in their silent magnificence, contrasted so finely with the scene the left presented to us! There we could catch but a glimpse of cottage, as parts of it peeped out from among the more humble, yet not less beautiful, because useful trees which surround it: and do you recollect '

And do you recollect,' I interrupted her, 'how, when I had drawn your attention to the various beauties of this view, we sat down at

the foot of that old oak, which stretches out over the water, and after you had placed my head upon your lap, taken off my hat, and removed the hair from my brow, that the cool, fresh air from the lake might steal over it and refresh me; do you recollect how I then spoke to you of our love, and the strange mingling of pleasure and suffering that had marked it; and do you recollect

My companion was gone.

'GOOD NIGHT! Ah, no! the hour is ill,
Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

'How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood -
Then it will be good night!'

SHELLEY has another verse, which I wished to add, but feared to do so, as it contained expressions that I was not privileged to use toward the companion who had just left her benediction with me. It was eleven o'clock, and the night, as far as it had passed, had indeed been most good.' How could it be otherwise, when the low, sweet tones of a voice of unrivalled melody had been falling on my ears for four happy hours when thought after thought, clothed in words as beautiful and harmonious as themselves, had been conveyed to my mind? How could it be otherwise, when, as the boat glided slowly onward, a ray of the moon, struggling through an opening of the trees that lined the way, would for a moment light up with its bright radiance a face of singular fascination and inconceivable expression? How could it be otherwise, when youth, and beauty, and talent, were engaged in the Samaritan office of contributing to the enjoyment of age?

I know the idea of pleasure or comfort on board a canal-boat is rather contrary to received notions; but the truth must be told, and in all truth I will confess, that I had been seated with my companion on some trunks in the bow of a packet, gliding along with that noiseless, quiet, soothing movement that puts one asleep or musing, or makes him serenely, contentedly happy, according to his condition or circumstances. The latter, as will be easily imagined, from what has preceded this, was my condition.

I was on my return to New-York, after a long absence. I was in the presence of a young and beautiful woman. No smooth-faced or black-whiskered young beau was near to withdraw her attention from me; and as I listened to her soft, sweet voice, or marked the flashing of her dark eyes, as she grew earnest in her conversation, I

felt indeed serenely, contentedly happy. For the first time in my life, speed was no object. I could have looked with contempt on a locomotive. Canal-boat time, in my estimation, was not bad, considering all things; and as for sleeping on a string, with a man weighing three hundred pounds suspended above one, and another immediately below-all in a hot July night-it was not so intolerable.