keeps his memory disagreeably alive after a hundred years. The house
must have made a splendid appearance for many miles around; and the
glare of the old-fashioned festivities would be visible, doubtless, in
the streets of Salem, when he illuminated his windows to celebrate a
king's birthday, or some other loyal occasion. The barberry-bushes,
clustering within the cellars, offer the harsh acidity of their fruit
to-day, instead of the ripe wines which used to be stored there.

Descending the hill, I entered a green, seldom-trodden lane, which runs
along at a hundred yards or two from its base, and parallel with its
ridge. It was overshadowed by chestnut-trees, and bordered with the
prevalent barberry-bush, and between ran the track,--the beaten path of
the horses' feet, and the even way of either wheel, with green strips
between. It was a very lonely lane, and very pleasant in the warm,
declining sun; and, following it a third of a mile, I came to a place
that was familiar to me when I was a child, as the residence of a
country cousin whom I used to be brought to see. There was his old house
still standing, but deserted, with all the windows boarded up, and the
door likewise, and the chimneys removed,--a most desolate-looking place.
A young dog came barking towards me as I approached,--barking, but
frisking, between play and watchfulness. Within fifty yards of the old
house, farther back from the road, stands a stone house, of some dozen
or twenty years' endurance,--an ugly affair, so plain is it,--which was
built by the old man in his latter days. The well of the old house, out
of which I have often drunk, and over the curb of which I have peeped to
see my own boy-visage closing the far vista below, seems to be still in
use for the new edifice. Passing on a little farther, I came to a brook,
which, I remember, the old man's son and I dammed up, so that it almost
overflowed the road. The stream has strangely shrunken now; it is a mere
ditch, indeed, and almost a dry one. Going a little farther, I came to a