he rounded the cape that bears the name of England's maiden queen, and sped away on the billowy deep. No daring ax has yet touched those noble trees. There they stand yet, projecting their well-proportioned forms against the sky, from whatever point you approach the hill. Long may they stand! Palsied be the hand that would cut them down! He that would destroy such noble trees, adding such beauty to the landscape, and connecting the present with the past, would hardly scruple to break his grandfather's neck.

On the hill-side was a lone old apple-tree. How it came there I know not. Its age, genealogy, and history were involved in oblivious obscurity, deep as that which has gathered over the temples and pyramids of Egypt. It held the right of possession to the place it occupied, by a tenure so ancient, that the "memory of man ran not to the contrary." It was the common benefactor of the neighborhood. Its shade and its fruit were free for all. The traveler oft stopped to rest him beneath its branches, the school-boy spent his noontide recess about it, and the youth went there at twilight to dream of love. I know not but the old tree is there yet. If so, it must be getting far advanced in life. I have a filial affection for it; and if it were not, as is usually the case with aged trees, as well as aged people, so strongly attached to its native place, I would invite it to come and spend its last days here, by the side of my old beech.

Bubbling up from the gravelly soil on the hill-side was a pure spring of clear, cold water. It was none of your intermittent springs, such as flow by fits and starts-very profuse in their supply of water in a wet time, when you do not need it, and totally drying up when you do need it, thus constantly reminding you of the friendship of the selfish-but a perennial fountain, flowing the more profusely as the season advanced, and water

became scarce. In summer its waters grew cold, and in winter they grew warm, thus exhibiting marked independence of character, scorning to be influenced by the ever-varying temperature of the air and the earth. How refreshing on a hot summer day-a day so hot as to cause the pitch actually to fry in the pine trees-to kneel at the spring, and drink the clear, cold, sparkling waters, as they gushed up from the pure bosom of earth, into a basin of clean, white sand! It really makes me want to drink now to think of it.

On the north side of the hill was the blueberry patch. Alas! my western friends know not what a blueberry is. Like the pine, it grows only in a thin, poor, sandy soil. It is the finest of all wild fruits. But the greatest thing about the blueberries is the pleasure of picking them. In blueberry time the hill was no longer barren, at least of visitors. Matrons and maids, and boys and girls, and little children of all sorts and sizes, were there with their buckets and baskets. Merry and joyous were the blueberry days. I remember them well. Could I take another blueberry excursion, I should feel young again. At the southern base of the hill was the cranberry meadow. This modest little fruit loves to hide its blushing beauties beneath the vines and grass. It comes, too, at a time when all the other fruits fail-peeping up through the ice of winter, and disappearing only when the last snows of spring melt away. It grew in copious abundance about Barren Hill. Beyond the cranberry meadow was the bog, as the natives called it, for want of taste, I suppose, to select a better name. The bog, however, despite its unattractive name, was a beautiful feature in the landscape. It was covered with a dense growth of the finest evergreens in the world. They were principally fir. Few of my western readers have seen the fir-tree in its native glory. You have seen small

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specimens in the gardens and yards of the city. But he who would judge of the appearance of a forest of firs in their native swamps by the single specimens he sees in our gardens, would be about as wise as the man who carried about a single brick, exhibiting it as a specimen of his house. The straight trunk, regular branches, and deep green of the fir render it decidedly the handsomest tree that ever grew this side of Eden. The bog was rendered more beautiful in summer by the intermixture of juniper with the fir. This tree has a variety of names, such as juniper, hackmatack, tamarack, and larch. belongs to the pine family, but is not an evergreen. It forms, however, a beautiful forest. West of the hill, just over the river, was the city. A fine city it is, too A promontory makes out into the sea, terminating in a high headland. The promontory is some three or four miles long, and about one mile broad, and forms what is called a horseback ridge, inclining gently on each side to the sea. On this ridge the city is built. Every part of it is distinctly visible from Barren Hill. Its numerous spires, its noble Exchange, its lofty Observatory, and its forest of masts from the shipping in the harbor, afford a most enchanting spectacle to the dwellers on Barren Hill. Its bells, too, whether ringing merrily for nine at night, or chiming sweetly the call to church, or pealing sadly the knell of death, redouble their music by the echoes of the hill.

At the eastern base of the hill was the ocean-the old Atlantic, the deep, dark, dashing ocean. How wild its waves beat on the beach! How they dashed against the cliffs! How they bellowed in the dark caverns! When the weather was fair, the whole expanse seemed sometimes whitened with sails, and the waves seemed to sport and play on the beach. But when the storm came, the waters foamed, and dashed, and roared with incessant

thunder. There is something peculiar in the sound of waters. Did you ever listen to it? The little brook that babbles by your father's door makes music such as is not soon forgot. The cascade, as some rapid stream tumbles over the projecting rock, makes a still deeper impression. Niagara produces a sound which you can never forget. But the ocean has a voice of its own. It speaks in deep, solemn tones. They move the very soul, and stir up the deep, hidden feelings of nature.

On the whole, Barren Hill is not so mean a place. I have seen a great many places, in whose favor I could not say half so much. And I have not told all yet. I have said nothing of the herrings in the weirs, nor the clams on the flats, nor the shad in the river, nor the mackerel and codfish a little distance out on the ocean. Verily, I should like to pay the old hill a visit. I think I should know it, though I doubt whether it would know me, so changed am I since last my foot trod its rocky soil.

EPHRAIM BROWN;

OR, THE UNIVERSAL GENIUS.

WHEN I entered the academy, in one of the beautiful villages of New England, to pursue the usual course of study, preparatory to college, the first acquaintance I formed was with Ephraim Brown. Ephraim was the son of a very respectable physician in a neighboring town, and was sent to the academy to acquire the education necessary for the study of medicine. He was a goodlooking young man, and distinguished for his social virtues and gentlemanly habits. He was a fine scholar, of superior literary taste, and quite accomplished for a mere academician, in the classics, mathematics, and general literature. His moral character was irreproachable, and his sentiments religiously inclined. For several months he was my room-mate, and I learned to esteem him and to love him to such a degree, that a quarter of a century has not sufficed to annihilate, if at all to diminish, my high regard and warm affection for him.

Ephraim, however, in one respect, was a very singular case. He entertained an idea that he was a universal genius. At first he thought he would study medicine, and, if he did, he would bring about a thorough revolution in the study and practice of that art. He would reduce the science of anatomy to such perfection, as to leave nothing to be attempted. In physiology, he would make discoveries, which would keep all the world agog for a thousand years. In the healing of disease, he