I bought it on a summer's day,—
The summer sun was shining bright,
The summer birds were singing gay
In every grove, on every spray;
And as I went my homeward way,
Ah me! I was a happy wight.
And when I stopped,

a foolish boy,

Upon a mossy stone I sat,

And wept to think how blest I was;
And as I wept, kissed the cause

Of all my tears, and hope, and joy,
My new felt hat.

Ah! summer days are sweet and long,
But summer days are quickly told;
And new felt hats are passing strong,
But cannot bear the rain and cold.
They said that mine was getting old ;
But still I wore, I brushed it still,
And still it was my Sunday's best ;
And when within the pew I sat,
In ruffled shirt and speckled vest,
How carefully I watched thee, lest
Some wicked one should work thee ill,
My new felt hat !

And winter past, and jocund spring,
With skies of blue and leaves of green,

And countless birds upon the wing,
Came back, and round us every thing
Burst forth in renovated sheen.
Did I say all? Yes, all, save one;
Nor watering dew nor warming sun

Brought spring or summer more to that :
All past was now its early pride,
All broken in its pasteboard side,
And so it lost its dye, and died,
My poor felt hat.

A mournful emblem I may see.
The fairest flowers are first to die,
The brightest fruits the soonest fall;
The worm will live, — the butterfly,
One little hour may be his all;

The patriot stern, that will not bow
Nor to the monarch bend the knee,
But bears his country's wrongs, as thou
Didst bear the blows were meant for me, -
The fairest flowers of womankind,
Of warmest heart, and brightest mind,
Of sweetest eye, and liveliest chat,
May live one short, one summer day;
Then, for this world too pure and true,

Will lose their beauty and decay,

Scarce prized till they are lost;— like you,
My old felt hat.

And next

So much for first flights in authorship. came comparisons of what had been read since we parted, and new explorations in the fields of literature. The earlier English poets and ancient bards in translations, we were sufficiently acquainted with to revere from afar ; but they occupied a secondary place in our affections. Thomson, Goldsmith, Cowper, came nearer home. Scott was read, reread, recited. Campbell was a familiar household minstrel. Southey was dearly prized for

But

his pathos, manly simplicity, high-toned goodness, endlessly various versification, and, above all, for his rich imagination as exhibited in the Curse of Kehama and Thalaba, whose fluent melodies charmed us unweariedly. And, by somewhat incongruous juxtaposition, Byron was our idol. Strange it seems now to recall the feverish excitement with which we gave ourselves up to Childe Harold, the Bride of Abydos, the Siege of Corinth, &c., our favorite being Manfred. Coleridge, too, wove round us his mysterious spell in the Ancient Mariner, Christabel, and Genevieve, though of course we were yet unripe for his more solemn strains. our grand discovery was Wordsworth ; — discovery, I say, for we had never heard more than his name, certainly, when, taking up a volume that lay on the table, we chanced on Peter Bell, and read it aloud with intensest interest. The Idiot Boy, The Cumberland Beggar, The White Doe of Rylstone, and all his simpler tales and poems, followed in swift succession, and cordially did we thank their author for the springs of pure and serene joy which his touches of natural feeling opened in our hearts. But we were not absorbed in poetry. Now were the enrapturing days of the Waverley Novels, which, sitting side by side, we scampered through, with eyes on a race to reach the bottom of the page. We were never tired, either in poring over Hogarth's works, and tracing out in minutest details the tragi-comic aspect of life's tapestry turned wrong side out. Don Quixote, too, in a beautifully illustrated copy, was a serviceable counterpoise to our over-wrought enthusiasm. As I remember, moreover, James was fond of studying some volumes of Cuvier's Animal Kingdom, which he found in his father's library, being

rather attracted than repelled by their classifications and technicalities; and his vigorous mind drew in the practical information needed for nutriment, from works of travels, and history. Still, undeniably, the poets were our cherished guides, and it was in their company that we learned wonder, trust, and hope.

Our vacations were by no means, however, mainly passed within doors, or in beholding life through the magic glass of imagination. We still kept up our habits of pedestrian excursions, and were passionately as ever fond of angling. Regularly we spent several weeks at Nahant, where his mother, attracted by health and taste, resided during the summer. Her cottage stood upon the ridge of the promontory, overlooking the bay encircled by the beaches of Beverly and Gloucester, from the long-stretching village of Lynn to the looming headlands of Cape Ann, with the brown steeps of Egg Rock, girdled by foam, on the east. There our daily delight was

sun break in glory from the

to see from the piazza the glittering water, and then to watch the flock of fishingboats, with pointed sails, skimming across the blue surface like sea-birds on the wing. When the dew was off the herbage, and breakfast done, with poles, lines, and bait in order, we started for the rocks, soothing consciencethat would now and then upbraid us for our wholesale murders by the specious plea of earning a dinner. But again let me do our hearts no more than justice, by asseverating, that "sport" formed a trifling ingredient only in the fascination, which morning after morning enticed us to broil in sunshine upon the projecting ledges till face and hands were blistered, and to crawl through clefts slippery with seaweed yet dripping with the wave's last pulsation. Our joy was in the silvery glister of the

horizon, the undulating, on-rolling ocean, the slow-gathering, graceful swells, the crested billows with their locks. of spray, and the melodious roar with which the exultant sea embraced the shore in ever fresh espousals. Spite of romance, we earned at once a dinner and an appetite; yet often our poles dropped from listless hands, and baitless hooks were entangled in the water-plants, while dreamily we gazed into the green, sun-lighted caverns of the deep, or fancy took flight through vistas where the main and sky met and mingled.

But boyhood's yachting trip must now be ended, and the merchantman launched for the voyage of life. At the age of eighteen, James entered the countingroom of his uncle, Colonel Thomas H. Perkins, whose house was then, and for so long a period, a leader in the Canton trade. Here, for two years and more, he punctually discharged the drudging duties of clerk in a large establishment, and was trained by strict routine to climb step by step to business efficiency and skill; and hence, too, in due time, might he have risen to become, according to the purpose of his munificent relative, a partner in one of the most substantial and gainful firms of his native city. But he felt that an exile from books to ledgers was turning him into a mere copying-machine; the reserve of his superiors shut him out from such views of commercial enterprise as might have awakened his intellect and energy; association with his fellowclerks, though friendly, and enlivened with humorous. chat, did not feed his longing for earnest intercourse, while their experiences only deepened his sense of the inequalities and hardships of mercantile life; and above all, as he learned to know his own tastes and aspirations,