night reminded us that we had rambled far from the city; nor knew we where we were. Observing a cart-road not far from us, we struck into it, and followed it, till we arrived at a comfortable farm-house, where we were kindly welcomed and hospitably entertained. In the morning we found our way back to the city.

Thus ended our ramble by the seaside. It was a day of romance-a day long to be remembered by us—a day bringing within our view more scenes of beauty and of sublimity than any other day I ever spent.

THE OLD HOMESTEAD.

I KNOW not what can produce in the heart of man more sad emotions than a visit, after an absence of years, to the home of his childhood. The changes of earth seem not materially to affect us, when they occur gradually before our eyes. But if we are absent for a time, and then return, all the mutations of men, of things, and of circumstances, meet us at once with overwhelming. power. We feel as might one returned from the spiritland to look again for an hour on the scenes of earth.

About noon, of a summer day, I was approaching the rural neighborhood, the scene of my earliest recollections. The first thing I saw, which awoke me from the reverie into which I had fallen, was a tall column of white marble peering up in a rural cemetery, near the old church where I used to worship God. The cemetery had been laid out and consecrated when I was a boy, and I recollected being present when the first interment was made in it—that of an old man, of whitened locks and decrepit form, who had for many years occupied in the church the same seat. I climbed over the massive wall that inclosed the sacred ground, to read the name on the white column. It was that of my first classical teacher, a man of letters and a man of God, one who had first pointed out to me the way of science, and encouraged me to walk therein. In the same inclosure were other graves, some marked by no stone, and yet I well remembered them; for in one had been sleeping more than a third of a century the gentle being who first taught my heart to love.

Through an avenue of the dark forest, I saw the green hill-side that sheltered the old mansion, in which my youth was passed, and the vale through which flowed the little brook from the perennial spring, that furnished water for the household. Along the winding foot-path, up hill, down valley, and over plain, I wended my solitary way, till I stood on the spot, where once rose the venerable mansion, with its heavy timbers and spacious dimensions. But no house was there. Nothing remained but the scattered stones, which once formed its foundation. Not a sound was heard but the chirping of the cricket beneath what had been the old hearth-stone. I threw down my carpet-bag on the stone, and started for a ramble over the hill, and plain, and valley, to see if I could find any familiar imprint of the past. And more than that, I desired, if possible, to restore for one brief hour the impressions of childhood—to be, if possible, a child again to feel once more the joyous buoyancy of other days. I went to the spring near the alder brook. It was bubbling up, fresh and cool, from its sandy bed, just as it did

"When I a child, and half afraid,

Around its verdant margin played."

I kneeled by its brink, and drank one long, refreshing draught. It seemed as if I had never tasted so cool, pure, and sweet water. I sauntered along by the brook that wound its devious way through the valley. The trout darted at my approach into his deep and dark retreat, just as he used to do when I was accustomed to bait for him the cruel hook. Leaving the brook I ascended to the plain, to seek out the bower of evergreens, under whose dark shade I had passed many a summer hour. The same trees were there still. The wind was discoursing inimitable music through the tassels of the same pine, that threw its waving branches over me years

ago. The same robin, that used to sing on the dry limb of an old oak, seemed there still. The same swallow, that used to build its nest on the eaves of the barn, still flitted by me. The little mound, that the woodchuck had made in excavating his burrow, still remained. Tree, shrub, and flower-hill, vale, and plain-bird, beast, and insect all appeared just as they did long ago. But myself-myself alone was changed. I could not be a child again. I tried to call up the spirit of childhood, but it would not come at my bidding. I would have drank of some lethean waters, and forgotten the sorrows and bereavements of life, but the cup evaded my lips. Wearied and sad, I lay down on a bed of leaves, beneath a cluster of pines, and slept, and dreamed of other days. I heard sweet voices, voices long since hushed in death. I saw the forms of the departed. A mother was bending over me, as I lay upon my bed, and was bathing my burning temples. A gentle playmate was sitting by me, as we were conning our lesson in the old school-house. A graceful and lovely being came and walked by my side to the old church. And then--for dreams pay little respect to time or distance-I stood at the gate of my own cottage home, far away to the west. There ran to meet me, and stood with her bright eyes peeping through the fence, a fair and beauteous child, just

"Gathering the blossoms of her fourth bright year.”

I opened the gate-I rushed to my long-lost child-I clasped her in my arms-I printed one impassioned kiss on her angelic brow, and then I awoke. All the beauteous forms were gone. The mother that bathed my fevered brow, the gentle boy that sat by my side in the schoolroom, and the graceful being that walked with me to the house of God, were all sleeping side by side in the old church-yard. And the child-I had laid her, one summer evening, quietly to rest by my side. I had awoke

in the morning, and found her sick. I had watched over her with intense agony all that day and the following night, and early the next morning I had seen her die; and I had buried her in a solitary grave, in a rural bower, that I might protect her place of rest from the careless tread of the thoughtless, and the rude desecration of the brute.

ever,

The sun was near setting when I awoke from my dreamy sleep beneath the pines. I had some miles to travel before I could reach my temporary home in the city. I therefore proceeded on the shortest possible route. This happened to be along the railroad track. Between me and the city lay the railroad bridge, nearly a mile long, across the bay. The cars from Boston would be along that evening, and the bridge would be an awkward place to be overtaken by them. I supposed, howI had the advantage in time, and could get over the bridge before they came up. I had, however, got but about half way over, when I heard the steam horse ripping and rushing, and tearing and snorting, behind me. To return or proceed was out of the question. There was room enough for the train to pass me, but I did not like to come so near its wind. So I leaped from the bridge on to a telegraph post, which stood upright in the water, a few feet from the track, and clung there, like a cat frightened by dogs, till the train had dashed by me. The rush with which the engine passed overset all my notions of velocity. As soon as the train was well out of sight, I crawled back on to the bridge, and without any more hairbreadth escapes arrived safely at my lodgings.