ness, in formal devotion; but never yet has it returned to me, without bringing with it the associations of awe, and love, and humble piety, which are connected with the sunny tranquillity and unbroken quiet of a Puritan Sabbath.

GOVERNOR WENTWORTH.

Pray you, use your freedom;

And so far, if you please, allow me mine,
To hear you only; not to be compelled
To take your moral potions.

MASSINGER.

We left Portsmouth on a fine morning in August, to visit the White Hills. The land in the neighborhood of the commercial capital of the Granite State lies in fine ridges, interspersed with large intervales of alluvial soil, comprising some of the most fertile sections of New England. Some fine country seats are to be seen just out of the town, with handsome parks, and wellkept lawns. The farms are highly cultivated, and the large fruit orchards of choice and thrifty trees, indicate the industry and taste of the owners.

The lands all around us, as we drove along, were lying fallow, clad in soft gray, or green, or russet clothing; dotted with slender poplars, lessening in the distance, up to the low, far range of azure hills; patches of wood were scattered all over the landscape, and cattle and sheep in every picturesque attitude, demanding in vain the pencil of some old Dutch master. And then the glorious vivifying breezes, awakening all the unconsciousness and the confidence of existence; the

very vitality of life-its blessing, its hope, and its joy! I do not believe the richest portion of England can boast of more profuse and crowded vegetation, where Nature seems to have poured out at once all the treasures of her lap. The waving of the heavy wheat, ripe to the harvest; the dark green fields of Indian corn; the plains of vines, loaded with the weight of their treasures, and showing their golden sides above the vegetation they rioted in, almost realized to the eye of Fancy the fabled dreams of the Gardens of the Hesperides.

In Stratham especially, we remarked several farms of great beauty, over which were scattered clumps of the elm and maple, and on the borders of the little stream, the rich green willow. It was here that Judge Wingate, for a long time the oldest graduate of Har vard College, and one of the prominent members of Congress under the administration of Washington, lived and died. The influence he exerted over the inhabitants of the town, in keeping alive a spirit of improvement, and encouraging a good taste in husbandry, is still to be observed in the farms of his neighbors, and in the intelligence and enterprise of the people. was a genuine country gentleman of the old school; courteous to strangers, a dear lover of hospitality, and never so much delighted as when he saw happy human faces gathered around his social board. His mansion, although not so large as those of some of the neighboring gentry, could always furnish beds for friends and

He

casual visitors. I have never encountered more genuine comfort and hilarity, than at his fireside. Go when you would, you were always sure to meet a cordial greeting, and a room full of company, and the gay old man the youngest of the party. The good Judge especially loved to make his house a scene of enjoyment to young folks; and his heart in the winter of life, like the hardy evergreen, showed all the freshness of spring to the children around him.

It was afternoon before we reached the old town of Dover. The entrance from the south, down a long street shaded by graceful trees, with its white-painted houses on each side, makes a pleasant impression on the traveller; more pleasant, perhaps, from the succession of delicious pictures which are presented in the ride from Portsmouth-garden, and lawn, cottage, hamlet, and village-all composed of the same objects, it is true, but in a variety of combination that precludes all weariness or satiety. There is a beauty in all the farm-houses you pass, which is exceedingly attractive, from the neatness within and without, and the more to be remarked, as many of them are rude, lowly, and time-stricken structures. The white-washed fences and walls look cleanly and carefully kept; the honey-suckle and jessamine, clustering roses and graceful laburnums, with their thick blossoms overhanging and festooning the doors and windows with sweet drapery, add a charm, so rare with us, but strongly reminding one of the cottage homes of England.

With an attention all alive to the beautiful, you drive into Dover, whose tall spires, pointing like needles to the sky, afford a promise which is not disappointed. The fine hotels; the chaste architecture of many of the buildings; the noble manufactories; and especially the neat and imposing churches; all conspire to make Dover one of the most beautiful towns in New Hampshire. And then its glorious prospects! -most glorious of all from Mount Pleasant! That is indeed a spot of rare and unsurpassed beauty. There lies before you the village, sleeping in its sweet valley, surrounded by hills the most romantic, of every form and position, up the sides of which grow the ivy and laurel, with thick hemlocks waving their banners of dark and luxuriant foliage from the very top. Below you winds the home-loving Cochecho, as if loath to leave the bright valley of its meandering, and through the trees you catch glimpses of the blue sky, vieing in its far-off beauty and clear depths with the far-famed sky of Italy. We lingered on the hill until day faded, rejoicing in one of the finest sunsets I ever beheld, and then returned to our inn.

After supper, tempted by the soft airs of the evening, we strolled about the town. All seemed as busy and bustling as it had been during the day. The shops were brilliantly lighted, and thronged with crowds of girls just released from the spinning-jennies and looms of the factories. Knots of politicians were assembled in different points and corners of the streets, discussing