throb in his thumbs; I was impressed for the time with the thought that mother was there blessing him. We were neither of us frightened, as we used to be at the idea of spirits, but were drawn up closer to her grave; encouraged, thrilled with strange and sweet sensations, and at last melted to tears. Over that sacred grave and my brothers pledged ourselves to high resolutions of virtue, and promised to befriend each other with entire devotion until death. Then the attraction was dissolved, and we passed around the yard.

I

I was struck, for the first time, with the progress of Hope in our world, as I traced its records on those graves. The first one we came to, had a headstone in good preservation, and we read the date of 1630. The person seemed to have died a Christian, and left mourners, but how were their sentiments described on that stone? By words that seemed to have been written more in fear than х hope. And there were the cross-bones and a ghastly death's head grinning upon us, as if in scorn of hope and a future life.

We turned away in gloom, and while passing to another grave, I asked myself if, after all, we had no more hope of the dead than was expressed for John Eldon, two hundred years ago? If the spirit were buried with the body, and slept through eternity, with only the release of the final week? And if death were really as ghastly as his picture above those ugly cross-bones?

The next grave was that of a young maiden, buried fifty years later, and about ten years before Salem witchcraft days. She too was a Christian, and was evidently

a favorite heart of an eminent family. She must have been beautiful: she must have been cultivated and accomplished. She died in hope; but that too was a time of darkness, and how faintly was that hope expressed! Yet the time till the resurrection was slightly shortened ; the death's-head had relaxed its grim features a little; the cross-bones had disappeared, and a bright sun was rising in the distance and shedding heavenly light.

From Julia Putnam's grave we passed to David Johnson's. He died in 1730, two years before Washington was born, and I saw a great change. The progress of hope had been rapid as the rolling years, and on this grave the death's-head almost smiled; the rising sun shone brighter; there was a rude cut of an evergreen on the head-stone, and an hour-glass to show the time was short; and if the epitaph might be believed, the resurrection was quite near at hand.

We passed to another grave, the grave of a little child, and the death's- head had disappeared; roses were sculptured in its place, and the inscription told us the beautiful boy had passed to the bosom of his Savior, where his afflicted parents would soon meet him again, and find him a cherub of light. What a progress hope had made in the last fifty years! I seemed to trace the change on the sky, as it passed from a dreary eclipse to the cheerful splendor of the summer morning. I wept sweet tears of joy, and passed to another grave. That was made the last year. It was Mary Taylor's grave. A beautiful monument stood at the head, and the mound was covered with flowers still in bloom. A wreath of roses encircled the

crown of the monument, and two smiling angels appeared upon the tablet, bearing the maiden to heaven, while she was gazing eagerly to spy the pearly gates, and seemed actually rising from the marble; and the epitaph said: "SHE IS NOT HERE; FOR SHE IS RISEN.

We lingered till sundown, and passing out of the gate, we met Friend Buxton, who invited us to visit his house the next day. On the corner of Summer and Essexstreets we met little William Knowlton, the Crazy Juror, and found that in his fits of madness, which still continued to return, he was full of projects that were going to reform and bless mankind. He was now in that mood, and he told me he had just invented a medicine, with which he would raise Merrill Clark from the dead, and by the sale of which he would get money enough to turn every prison into an asylum, and give a home to every poor forsaken orphan child. I almost wished that every man who had offended his own conscience would show such a spirit of repentance, even if others called him mad.

6*

XV.

AUNT DORCAS set a fine breakfast before us, and we would have relished it on any common occasion, but we were so eager to get to Friend Buxton's, we took it in less than ten minutes, and were tripping across the fields, and through "Paradise," before the dew was off the grass. We received a hearty welcome at my dear old home. The Quaker reserve was laid aside all day, and Nathan, Lydia and Hannah vied with each other in quiet inquiries and genial talk.

After the greetings and first questions and answers were exchanged, and while I still wore my shawl, I ran over the house; took a peep into the garden and orchard, and tasted apples from my favorite trees, to renew my early memories. Then with a pippin in my hand, and my hair all over my face, I romped through some of the rooms again, and reviewed the pictures, and went to the barn and looked at "Sammy" and "Pidey," the old horse and cow which had often taken food from my hand; and finding (as I fancied) that the kind old creatures remembered me, I gave each of them an apple, and heard them craunch down the luxury with the heartiest zest, and returned and threw myself into Nathan's easy chair and

repeated all my questions and answers, as if a word had not been said.

Then who should steal up the steps as softly as a cat, and peep her smiling face into the door, but our old friend, Bessie Plympton !

“Walk along in, Bessie, never wait for an invitation, when thee comes here; thee's always welcome, walk in; here's a girl that wants to see thee," said uncle Nathan, smiling, crossing his legs, and smoothing back his hair.

"I know'd she was here, and I could'nt wait a mite longer. I's lookin to see ef she's altered a great sight since I seen her last. Good! She looks more like her mother'n ever, now, but she needn't be proud, she'll never look haff so well. I guess Maircy's forgot old black Bess, it's so long sin she seen me, but I could'nt wait a mite longer, I wanted to see her so bad."

We were soon shaking hands, and saying do?" a dozen times.

"how do you

mother

Then said Bessie, "Go'n set down agin yender, and let me look at ye. Ye'r jist as big as I thort ye'd ebber be, and now ye laughs agin, I see more of yer about ye,-there! that was yer mother right out! how good it is to look at ye; but don't be proud, ye'll never look haff so well as yer mother did when she was a gal, nor when she hild ye in her lap. And if here aint Waltie too! Waltie ought ter let me kiss like to kiss a poor colored wench. it's lookin a heap too handsome for his own good, I's afeared; and them crinklin locks!-nice to look at, but unfort'nit, I's afeard for Waltie. But if he does dew

him, but he wouldn't Ah, that perty face!