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ower shores,-ap in that caravansary on the banks of the stream where Ledyard launched his log canoe, and the jovial old Colonel used to lead the Commencement processions,—where blue Ascutney looked down from the far distance, and the hills of Beulah, as the Professor always called them, rolled up the opposite horizon in soft climbing masses, so suggestive of the Pilgrim's Heavenward Path that he used to look through his old “ Dollond" to see if the Shining Ones were not within range of sight,sweet visions, sweetest in those Sunday walks which carried them by the peaceful common, through the solemn village lying in cataleptic stillness under the shadow of the rod of Moses, to the terminus of their harmless stroll,—the patulous fage, in the Professor's classic dialect,—the spreading beech, in more familiar phrase,- (stop and breathe here a moment, for the sentence is not done yet, and we have another long journey before us,
-and again once more up among those other hills that shut in the amber-flowing Housatonic,-dark stream, but clear, like the lucid orbs that shine beneath the lids of auburn-haired, sherry-wine-eyed demi-blondes,—in the home overlooking the winding stream and the smooth, flat meadow; looked down upon by wild hills, where the tracks of bears and cata. mounts may yet sometimes be seen upon the winter snow ; facing the twin summits which rise in the fai Nortn, the highest waves of the great land-storm in all this billowy region,-suggestive to mad fancies of the breasts of a half-buried Titaness, stretched out by a stray thunderbolt, and hastily hidden away beneath the leaves of the forest,-in that home where seven blessed summers were passed, which stand in memory like the seven golden candlesticks in the beatific vision of the holy dreamer,
-in that modest dwelling we were just looking at, not glorious, yet not unlovely in the youth of its urab and mahogany,-full of great and little boys' playthings from top to bottom,—in all these summer or winter nests he was always at home and always welcome.
This long articulated sigh of reminiscences,--this calenture which shows me the maple-shadowed plains of Berkshire and the mountain-circled green of Grafton beneath the salt waves which come feel. ing their way along the wall at my feet, restless and soft-touching es blind men's busy fingers,-is for that friend of mune who looks into the waters of the Patapsco and sees beneath them the same visions which paint themselves for me in the green depths of the Charles.
--Did I talk all this off to the schoolmistress? Why, no,-of course not. I have been talking with you, the reader, for the last ten minutes. You dont think I should expect any woman to listen to such a sentence as that long one, without giving her a chance to put in a word ?
-What did I say to the schoolmistress ?Permit me one moment. I don't doubt your delicacy and good-breeding; but in this particular case, as ] was allowed the privilege of walking alone with a very interesting young woman, you must allow me to remark, in the classic version of a familiar phrase, used by our Master Benjamin Franklin, it is nullum tui negotii.
When the schoolmistress and I reached the school. room door, the damask roses I spoke of were so much heightened in color by exercise that I felt sure it would be useful to her to take a stroll like this every morning, and made up my mind I would ask her to let nie join her again.
EXTRACT FROM MY PRIVATE JOURNAL.
(To be burned unread.)
I am afraid I have been a fool; for I have tola as much of myself to this young person as if she were of that ripe and discreet age which invites confidence and expansive utterance. I have been low-spirited and listless, lately,—it is coffee, I think,-(I observe that which is bought ready-ground never affects the head,)--and I notice that I tell my secrets too easily when I am downhearted.
There are inscriptions on our hearts, which, like rhat on Dighton Rock, are never to be seen except at dead-low tide.
There is a woman's footstep on the sand at the side of my deepest ocean-buried inscription!
Oh, no, no, no! a thousand times, no ! - Yet what is this which has been shaping itself in my soul ?- Is it a thought ?—is it a dream ?-is it a pas. sion? Then I know what comes next.
-The Asylum stands on a bright and breezy hill; those glazed corridors are pleasant to walk in, in bad weather. But there are iron bars to all the windows.
When it is fair, some of us can stroll outside that very high fence. But I never see much life in those groups I sometimes meet ;-and then the careful man watches them so closely! How I remember that sad company I used to pass on fine mornings, when I was a schoolboy !—B., with his arms full of yellow weeds more from the gold mines which he discovered long before we heard of California.-Y., born to millions, crazed by too much plum-cake, (the boys said,) dogged, explosive,-made a Polyphemus of my weak-eyed schoolmaster, by a vicious flirt with a stick,-(the multi-millionnaires sent him a trifle, it was said, to buy another eye with ; but boys are jealous of rich folks, and I don't doubt the good people made him easy for life,)--how I remember them all!
I recollect, as all do, the story of the Hall of Ehlis, in “ Vathek," and how each shape, as it lifted ite hand from its breast, showed its heart,-a burning coal. The real Hall of Eblis stands on yonder sum
mit. Go there on the next visiting-day, and ask that figure crouched in the corner, huddled up like those Indian mummies and skeletons found buried in the sitting posture, to lift its hand-look upon its heart, and behold, not fire, but ashes.—No, I must not think of such an ending! Dying would be a much more gentlemanly way of meeting the difficulty. Make a will and leave her a house or two and some stocks, and other little financial conveniences, to take away her necessity for keeping school.-I wonder what nice young man's feet would be in
French slippers before six months were over! Well, what then? If a man really loves a woman, of course he wouldn't marry her for the world, if he were not quite sure that he was the best person she could by any possibility marry.
- It is odd enough to read over what I have just been writing. It is the merest fancy that ever was in the world. I shall never be married. She will; and if she is as pleasant as she has been so far, I will give her a silver tea-set, and go and take tea with her and her husband, sometimes. No coffee, I hope, though,—it depresses me sadly. I feel very miserably ;—they must have been grinding it at home.- Another morning walk will be good for me, and I don't doubt the schoolmistress will be glad of a little fresh air before school.
-- The throbbing flushes of the poetical inter