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position just so far from the river's brink, that it cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plunging in.

It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy cel, and speckled frog, and the mud turtle, whom continual washing cannot clcanso. It is the very same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its obscene life and noisome olor. Thus we scc, too, in the world, that some persons assimilato only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which supply good and beau. tificd results—the fragrance of celestial flowers-to the daily life of others.

The reader must not, from any testimony of mino, contract a dislike towards our slumberous stream. In the light of a calm and golden sunset, it becomes lovely beyond expression; the more lovely for the quietude that so well accords with the hour, when even the wind, after blustering all day long, usually hushes itself to rest. Each tree and rock, and every blade of distinctly imaged, and, however unsightly in reality, assumes ideal beauty in the reflection. The minutest things of carth, and the broad aspect of the firmament, are pictured equally with. out effort, and with the samo felicity of success. All the sky glows downward at our fect; the rich clouds float through the unrulled bosom of the stream, like heavenly thoughts through a peaceful heart. We will not, then, malign our river as gross and impure, while it can glorify itself with so adequato a picture of the Ileaven that broods above it; or, if we remember its tawny hue and the muddiness of its bed, let it be a symbol that the earthliest human soul has an infinite spiritual capacity, and may contain the better world within its depths. But, indeed, the same lesson might be drawn out of any mud.puddle in the streets of a city-and, being taught us everywhere, it must be true.

Come; we have pursued a somewhat devious track, in our

grass, is

vaid to the battle-ground. Here we are, at the point where the river was crossed by the old bridge, the possession of which was se immediate object of the contest. On tho hither side, grow wo or three elms, throwing a wide circumference of shade, but wuch must have been planted at some period within the threetee years and ten that have passed since the battle-day. On the farther shore, overhung by a clump of elder-bushes, we iscera the stone abutment of the bridge. Looking down into Se river, I once discovered some heavy fragment of the timbers,

green with half a century's growth of water-moss; for, during Soutiength of time, the tramp of horscs and human footsteps have scal, skong this ancient highway. The stream has here about the breadth of twenty strokes of a swimmer's arm; a space not movie, when the bullets were whistling across. Old people, who dwell hereabouts, will point out the very spots, on the xera bank, where our countrymen fell down and died; and, *tras side of the river, an obelisk of granite has grown up from

so that was fertilized with British blood. The monument, s more than twenty feet in height, is such as it befitted the mabitants of a village to erect, in illustration of a matter of local rest, rather than what was suitable to commemorate an epoch national history. Still, by the fathers of the village this famous land was done ; and their descendants might rightfully claim the lege of building a memorial.

As humbler token of the fight, yet a more interesting one than se granite obelisk, may be seen close under the stone-wall, which qarates the battle-ground from the precincts of the parsonage. is the grave-marked by a small, moss-grown fragment of ves the head, and another at the foot-the grave of two Besed soldiers, who were slain in the skirmish, and have ever see slept peacefully where Zechariah Brown and Thomas Davis tied them. Soon was their warfare ended ;—a wcary night.

from Boston—a rattling volley of musketry across the CONTENTS OF PART J.

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The Author makes the Reader acquainted with his Abode.

Between two tall gate.posts of rough hewn stone (the gate itself having fallen from its hinges, at some unknown epoch), we beheld the grey front of the old parsonage, terminating the vista of an avenue of black ash trecs. It was now a twelvemonth since the funeral procession of the venerable clergyman, its last inhabitant, had turned from that gate-way towards the village burying. ground. The wheel-track, leading to the door, as well as the whole breadth of the avenue, was almost overgrown with grass, affording dainty mouthfuls to two or three vagrant cows, and an old white horse, who had his own living to pick up along the road. side. The glimmering shadows, that lay half asleep between the door of the house and the public highway, were a kind of spiritual medium, seen through which, the edifice had not quite the aspect of belonging to the material world. Certainly, it had little in common with those ordinary abodes, which stand so imminent upon the road that every passer-by can thrust his head, as it were, into the domestic circle. From these quiet windows, the figures of passing travellers looked too remote and dim to disturb the sense of privacy. In its near retirement, and accessible seclusion, it was the very spot for the residence of a clergyman; e man not estranged from human life, yet enveloped, in the midst of it, with a veil woven of intermingled gloom and brightness. It PART I.


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