have become attached names that indicate something of the supernatural,
or such as are intended to excite apprehension. What stout heart does
not stand dismayed before a real dungeon? A prison under ground is
something awful to contemplate. Whose hair does not stand on end at the
thought of possible confinement in a dark, damp, cold stone
prison-house, with rusty-hinged or even sealed doors, where no window
opens to the light of day; where no friendly voice is ever heard; where
liberation is impossible, and where, cursed with the remainder of life,
one is doomed to a miserable existence till the mortal and the immortal
separate? Deliver us from such terrors as these!

In visiting Dungeon Rock, however, like most places of a similar
character, we find there is no especial reason for fear, notwithstanding
the indicative name, and the many blood-curdling traditions connected
therewith.

It was a fine autumn day, when, together with some friends, we mustered
courage to pay our respects to this now famous spot. We found our way
thither from the city of Lynn by horse-cars, a part of the way by a
barge and on foot. The driver of the barge, like most drivers of such
vehicles, displayed no small amount of scientific driving. Why it is
that almost all scientific driving generally results in some mishap, we
are unable to determine. But we conclude that the particular science to
which we refer is usually engendered by the driver having his elbow
crooked at some bar before the journey commences. On all such occasions
stops are quite common; branches of trees are not avoided, and they
threaten to destroy our best suits, or brush us altogether from our
seats; the brakes do not work; the traces get unhitched; an immense whip
is flourished and cracked; the horses become unmanageable; frightened
women in a high key scream "Mercy!" and the ride becomes not only