up with gray rocks. Below us we saw,-not the Duddon, for it is hidden in a deep, rocky channel, but the vale so well known through Wordsworth's description of it, in his notes to his Duddon sonnets. Down we went into it, first by the green track across the fell, and then by a steep, stony road, which landed us at last among the farmsteads of the vale, and the gray stone cottages, each overshadowed by its massive sycamores or light birch, and surrounded by its field-plots.

Of course, our first inquiry was for the church and Robert Walker's tomb; and we were told to follow the road above the brook till we came to Newfield. A sweeter walk than this, the two miles from the ridge of Walna Scar to Seathwaite Church,-can scarcely be found; nor a more complete contrast than between the wildness of the moor, and the rich, broken ground of the vale, with its wooded and rocky knolls, its full stream, prosperous homesteads, and fertile fields. When we reached the church, we found it little loftier or larger than the houses near. But for the bell, we should hardly have noticed it for a church on approaching; but when we had reached it, there were the porch, and the little graveyard, with its few tombs, and a spreading yew, encircled by the seat of stones and turf, where the early comers sit and rest till the bell calls | them in. Here we now sat and rested, looking, as it were, into the minds of those who, in the last century, occupied the same spot, and looked upon the same scene, although listening for a voice long since hushed. It was in 1735, or 1736, that the wonderful pastor entered upon this cure; and he left the world just as I was entering it,-in 1802;-a link sufficient to make me feel the interest of a contemporary mingled with that of a retrospect into a past century. His tomb was before us as we sat; and the grave of his wife, which, as a descendant tells

to tell the time to the neighbours who have no clocks; but it looks very like a monument to the diligent pair who worked while it was day, and have been removed, like all else, by time.

Just outside the churchyard wall is a white cottage, so humble, that we doubted whether it could be the parsonage; yet the climbing roses, and glittering evergreens, and dear lattices, and pure, uncracked walls, looked as if it might be. We walked slowly past the porch, and saw a kind-looking, elderly woman, who told us that it was indeed Robert Walker's dwelling, and invited us in to see the scene of those marvellous charities of sixty-six years. Here it was that the Sunday messes of broth were served. Hither it was that, in winter, he sent the benumbed children in companies from the school in the church, to warm themselves at the single household fire, while he sat by the altar during all the school hours, keeping warmth in him by the exercise of the spinningwheel. Looking abroad, we saw that there is a schoolhouse now; and we admired the healthy⚫ looks of the children about the doors. While examining the gravestone of the pastor, we were accosted by an elderly man, who told us that he was the grandson of Robert Walker's sister. This, the present pastor, mourns over the change of times, and is offended at it. Mr. Walker's pride was in allowing no dissenter to meddle with his people, and in being able to say that "he had not one dissenter of any denomination whatever in the whole parish." Now, the Wesleyans have opened a chapel at Ulpha, which draws away some of the flock; and others have ceased to come to church since the attempts to get copper from the neighbouring hills,-the miners enticing the people to diversion on Sundays. The old stocks are gone, the present curate observes; and the new families are different. There used to be from seventy to ninety worshippers in the mornings, and from fifty to seventy in the evenings; and now there are seldom more than seventy. Thus do "possessions vanish, and opinions change," even in this stronghold of the parish priest! It is a blessing to us that he has bequeathed an example which teaches us the insignificance of possessions, and unites, with regard to itself, all opinions.

ANOTHER Sabbath dawns--all calm and bright
Are earth and sky, and Peace on snow-white wings
Floats down, and by her saint-like influence brings
To hallowed rest the storms and fears of night,
Hushing our hearts in unison with Light,

And Love, and Happiness, till the spirit springs
In adoration to the King of kings,

Its Father and its God, for Rest and Light:
Rest from the toils and cares of daily life,
Light from the Spirit and His written will,-

A day when we may pause from earthly strife,
And gain a sense of blessedness to fill
Our hearts with praise, for means and mercies given,
Here to prepare our souls for endless life in Heaven.

THE journey from Albany to Boston in those days, was on horseback. The long ranges of the Taghcanic and the Hoosic Mountains, now surmounted a dozen times every day by the iron horse, had not then even a stage road over them. Our travellers arrived in the beautiful valley of the Pontoosuc, (the Deer-runway,) at the close of a hard day's ride. It was already dark before they descended the rugged sides of the Taghcanic. Not a house was to be seen, nor a light within the vision, save one in the distance, which seemed to be moving. They still went onward till they reached the margin of a small, but most beautiful lake, on the east shore of which was a thick growth of large hemlocks and pines. The waters were pure and bright, seeming to rejoice to receive the stars and the heavens, and to reflect them back, true as a mirror. The young officer stopped here, and told his fair companion that it was in vain to attempt to go further. He could not be sure of finding the path, or if he did, of finding any human habitation.

The weary

girl heard him with the same confidence that she would a brother, and merely said, that she should soon sleep on horseback, unless they did stop somewhere. After tying the horses, Buel struck a light, kindled a camp-fire, and then selected a spot, dry and warm, between the trees, for a sleeping-place for the lady. It was to him a short work to cut crotched sticks, cover them with hemlock boughs, like a tent, and strew the ground over thickly with the same. Then spreading his camp-cloak on the boughs for a bed, told the young lady he considered that good enough for a princess. She duly admired it, protested against taking the cloak from him, and inquired what he was to do.

"Do? Why, Miss Hamilton, I must keep sentry, partly to feed the horses with the few oats I have with me, partly to keep the fire agoing, and partly to watch against all intruders, and peradventure to thinks I to myself.' But what in the world are we to do for supper?"

"Are you hungry?"

"Why, as to that I could eat; but I am an old woodsman. But you, what will you do?"

"Oh! I am not hungry. You know how I ate your lunch at noon."

"I wish I had more of the same, but hold! what comes there?"

Around the point of land which projected far into the lake, came a bright light, seemingly dancing on the waters, and suspended by nothing. Buel knew instantly that it was a canoe, and that behind that blazing torch must be an Indian, spearing fish. In an instant, for the canoe had not evidently seen the fire on the shore before, the torch was extinguished. Quite as quickly did Buel snatch his hat, and with it pour water on his camp-fire, so that the grove and the lake were again in total darkness. The canoe lay motionless on the water, its dark outlines barely visible. Not a word was now spoken. In a whisper, Kate was told to lie down out of the way, should a bullet chance to come in the dark. But Buel stepped noiselessly behind a large hemlock, and was still. The canoe moved along, but no paddle was taken out of the water to show its flash. Again it stopped, and Buel started-for he thought he could just discern the rattle of a rattlesnake. With equal caution he gave three very low whistles. The paddle was instantly in motion, and the canoe shot towards him. "Me know 'em whistle," said the Indian, but in a low voice.

"Why, Cassiheeno, my good fellow, I thought I left you wounded and sick. How came you here?"

"Come cross through woods."

"That's very plain. But come ashore. We must talk."

"Indian must eat first."

"Poor fellow, I have not a mouthful to give you."