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was worthy to have been, pile of the timc-honored parsonages of England, in which, though many generations, a succession of holy occupants pass from youth to age, and bequeath cach an inheritance of sanctity to pervade the house and hover over it, as with an atmosphere.

Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse ever been profaned by a lay occupant, until that memorable summer-afternoon when I entered it as my home. A priest had built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other priestly men, from time to time, had dwelt in it; and children, born in its chambers, had grown up to assume the priestly character. It was awful to reflect how many sermons must have been written there. The latest inhabitant alone-he, by whose translation to Paradise the dwelling was left vacanthad penned nearly three thousand discourses, besides the better, if not the greater number, that gushed living from his lips. How often, no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue, attuning his meditations, to the sighs and gentle murmurs, and deep and solemn peals of the wind, among the lofty tops of the trecs ! In that variety of natural utteranccs, he could find something accordant with every passage of his scrmon, werc it of tenderness or reverential fear. The boughs over my head scumcd shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with rustling leaves. I took shaane to myself for having been so long a writer of idle stories, an] ventured to hope that wisdom would descend upon mo with the falling leavce of the avenuo ; and that I should light upon an inu llectual treasure in the Old Mansc, well worth those hoards od lang hidden gold, which people seek for in moss-grown houses. Profound trcatiscs of morality-a layman's unprofessional, and therefore unprejudiced views of religion ;-histories (such as Bancroft might have written, had he taken up his abode here, as be once purposed), bright with picture, gleaming over a depth of philosophic thought;—these were the works that might fitly have flowed from such a retirement. In the humblest event, I resolved

At least to achieve a novel, that shouli evolve some deep lesson, and should possess physical substance enough to stand alone.

In furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext or not fulfilling it, there was, in the rear of the house, the most lelightful little nook of a study that ever offered its snug seclusion o a scholar. It was here that Emerson wrote “Nature ;" for he vas then an inhabitant of the Manse, and used to watch the Assyrian dawn and the Paphian sunset and moonrise, from the ummit of our eastern hill. When I first saw the room, its walls vere blackened with the smoke of unnumbered years, and made till blacker by the grim prints of puritan ministers that hung -round. These worthies looked strangely like bad angels, or, at cast, like men who had wrestled so continually and so sternly with the devil, that somewhat of his sooty fierceness had been mparted to their own visages. They had all vanished now; a cheerful coat of paint, and golden tinted paper hangings, lighted up the small apartment; while the shadow of a willow-tree, that wept against the overhanging eves, attempered the cheery west. rn sunshine. In place of the grim prints, there was the sweet nd lovely head of one of Raphael's Madonnas, and two pleasant ittle pictures of the Lake of Como. The only other decorations vere a purple vasc of flowers, always fresh, and a bronzo one ontaining graceful ferns. My books (fow, and by no means choico; for they were chiefly such waifs as chance had thrown n my way) stood in order about the room, seldom to be disurbed.

The study had three windows, set with little old fashioned anes of glass, each with a crack across it. The two on the vestern side looked, or rather peeped, between the willow ranches, down into the orchard, with glimpses of the river hrough the trees. The third, facing northward, commanded a roader view of the river, at a spot where its hitherto obscure waters leam forth into the light of history. It was at this window that the clergyman, who then jwelt in the Manse, stood watching the outbreak of a long and deadly struggle between two nations ; he saw the irregular array of his parishioners on the farther side of the river, and the glittering line of the British, on the hither bank; he awaited, in an agony of suspense, the rattle of the musketry. It came--and thero nccded but a gentle wind to sweep the battle smoke around this quict house.

Perhaps the reader-whom I cannot help considering as my guest in the Old Manse, and entitled to all courtesy, in the way of sight-showing-perhaps he will choose to take a nearer view of the memorable spot. We stand now on the river's brink. It may well be called the Concord—the river of peace and quiet. ness—for it is certainly.the most uncxcitable and sluggish stream that ever loitered, imperceptibly, towards its eternity, the sea. Positively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a northwestern breeze is vexing its surface, on a sunshiny day. From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of becom. ing the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild frce mountain torrent. While all things clse are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away, in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright pebbly shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers between broad prairics, kissing the long meadow grass, and bathcs the overhanging boughs of elder bushes and willows, or the roots of elms and ash trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushics grow along its plashy shore the yellow water-lily spreads.its broad flat leaves on the margin, and the fragrant white pond-lily abounds, generally selecting a at least to achieve a novel, that shouli evolve soinc dcep lesson, and should possess physical substance enough to stand alone.

In furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext for not fulfilling it, there was, in the rear of the house, the most delightful little nook of a study that ever offered its snug seclusion to a scholar. It was here that Emerson wrote “Nature ;" for he was then an inhabitant of the Manse, and used to watch the Assyrian dawn and the Paphian sunset and moonrise, from the surmit of our eastern hill. When I first saw the room, its walls were blackened with the smoke of unnumbered years, and made still blacker by the grim prints of puritan ministers that hung around. These worthies looked strangely like bad angels, or, at least, like men who had wrestled so continually and so sternly with the devil, that somewhat of his soory ficrccncss had been imparted to their own visages. They had all vanished now; a cheerful coat of paint, and golden tinted paper hangings, liglaed up the small apartment; while the shadow of a willow.tree, that swept against the overhanging eves, attempered the cheery western sunshine. In place of the grim prints, there was the swect and lovely head of one of Raphael's Madonnas, and two pleasant little pictures of the Lake of Como. The only other decorations were a purple vase of flowers, always fresh, and a bronzo one containing graceful ferns. My books (few, and by no means choice ; for they were chiefly such waifs as chance had thrown in my way) stood in order about the room, seldom to be disturbed.

The study had three windows, set with little old fashioned panes of glass, each with a crack across it. The two on the western side looked, or rather poeped, between the willow branches, down into the orchard, with glimpses of the river through the trees. The third, facing northward, commanded a broader viow of the river, at a spot where its hitherto obscure waters gleam forth into the light of history. It was at this window that walk to the battle-ground. Here we are, at the point where the river was crossed by the old bridge, the possession of which was the immediate object of the contest. On the hither side, grow two or three elms, throwing a wide circumference of shade, but which must have been planted at some period within the three. score years and ten that have passed since the battle-day. On the farther shore, overhung by a clump of elder-bushes, we discern the stone abutment of the bridge. Looking down into the river, I once discovered some heavy fragment of the timbers, all green with half a century's growth of water-moss ; for, during that length of time, the tramp of horses and human footsteps have ceased, along this ancient highway. The strcam has here about the breadth of twenty strokes of a swimmer's arm; a space not too wide, when the bullets were whistling across. Old people, who dwell hereabouts, will point out the very spots, on the westem bank, where our countrymen fell down and died; and, on this side of the river, an obelisk of granite has grown up from the soil that was fertilized with British blood. The monument, not more than twenty feet in height, is such as it befitted the inhabitants of a village to erect, in illustration of a matter of local interest, rather than what was suitable to commemorate an epoch of national history. Still, by the fathers of the village this famous deed was done ; and their descendants might rightfully claim the privilege of building a memorial.

An humbler token of the fight, yet a more interesting one than the granite obelisk, may be seen close under the stone-wall, which separates the battle-ground from the precincts of the parsonage. It is the grave-marked by a small, moss-grown fragment of stone at the head, and another at the foot—the grave of two British soldiers, who were slain in the skirmish, and have ever since slept peacefully where Zechariah Brown and Thomas Davis buried them. Soon was their warfare ended ;—a wcary night. maach from Boston-a rattling volley of musketry across the

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