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    * I am here ! but not rejoicing With thine idle gladness ; From the music round us voicing I but gather sadness ; Thou sittest on a tree uprooted ,

    Which shall no more be leav'd or fruited ; Those minstrel birds , the bird of prey , Or winter and its want , shall slay ; Those insects are each other ' slaughter ; And the sweet music of the water , Yon emerald cavern ' s mystic river , The falling earth strikes dumb for ever ! *

    I would reply ; but , hark to that pure strain Those wiser bards sing in the boughs again !

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    92 American Sketches .

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    JOTTED DOWN DURING A COUNTRY RAMBLE 1 H NEW ENGLAND . 1 light heart and a thin pair of breeches go through the world . ' Now , thought I , as I have as much of the one as cost me two dollars and a half , and as much of the other as falls to the lot of any common man , why should not I make a try ? So , without more ado , I packed up a compendious bundle , containing a

    miscellany not very unlike that of the man with the great nose when he entered the town of Strasburg . I had been shut up for six months in a narrow room in a narrow street in Boston . I will just gallop off to the lakes , said I , skip over the Green Mountains , climb the highlands of New Hampshire , and be back again with such luck as may betide me . No sooner said than done ; the next morning , at one o ' clock , I found myself in the stage bound for Northampton .

    The waning moon hung low in the east , faintly gilding % he spires of the city , and the still waters of the bay reflected her beams , unruffled by a breeze . We rattled off at a great pace , # . nd soon lost sight of " busy Boston . The night was cool , and , as we proceeded into the country , we found a thick mist , that , as the morning broke , settled into the valleys ; and they thus appeared like great lakes full of islands ' , from the hills and tree tops rising above the surface of white fog . The rising sun dissipated this

    great sea of vapour , and all became verdant and smiling . We stopped to breakfast at the village of Framingham . ' Pray , Mr . Landlord , where is the post-office V asked I of the man as he stood at his bar . ( This is the post-office / replied he . * And where Is the postmaster V l Why I am postmaster . ' ' I dare say , then , you have a letter for me . ' ' I'll look , returned he ; so fumbling among the punch-bottles and segar-boxes on a § helf behind him , he drew it out , ' You have a way of mixing

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    AMERICAN SKETCHES ,

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    # \ y *

• Citation
  • Monthly Repository (1806-1838) and Unitarian Chronicle (1832-1833), Feb. 2, 1835, page 92, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/mruc/issues/vm2-ncseproduct2642/page/12/