The fewest draughts he drinks are three; the first, to quench the thirst past; the second, to quench the present thirst; the third, to prevent the future; I heard of a company of Low Dutchmen that had drank so deep, that, beginning to stagger, and their heads turning round, they thought, verily, they were at sea, and that the upper chamber where they were was a ship; insomuch that it being foul, windy weather, they fell to throwing the stools and other things out of the window, to lighten the vessel, for fear of suffering ship. wreck.

Thus have I sent your Lordship a dry discourse upon a fluent subject; yet I hope your Lordship will please to take all in good part, because it proceeds from

Your most humble and ready

Servitor,

J. H.

STANZAS.

DARK are thy forests, Sullivan; but yet
There is a mournful beauty in their shade,
When thy meek foliage, with the dew drops wet,
Thy grassy slopes, or thy green gladsome glade,
Or the brown wild-flower, or the oak leaf sear,
Which tell the tale of each departing year,
Life's merry moments seemingly upbraid.

Full many a tale could those old forests tell,
Full many a legend, had they tongues to speak,
Of the far-echoing whoop, the stern death knell,
The Indian council-fire, the savage shriek;

Or of the deadly fight with paler foe,

Or warrior chieftains, whose bleached bones lie low
Beneath some spreading beech or ground-moss weak.

Aye-many an Indian maiden's plighted vow,
Was breathed to Him the master of her scul,
In gentle, half-heard, whisperings and low;
Where the still waters of yon trout-stream roll;
Where many a warm and oft-repeated kiss;
Where many a pure and passionate caress,
Have hallowed yonder beauteous, rose-crowned knoll.

Those days are past, and now the green-wood rings
With the rude carol of the pioneers;

And where the sepulchre of Indian kings

Once was, there now the homely cottage rears

Its peaceful roof; and round, the fruitful fields
A welcome harvest to the woodman yields,
And peace and plenty to his garner brings.

Speak, if ye may-ye records of the Past;
And thou, old oak tree, whose gray withered trunk
For more than fourscore years has borne the blast
Of winter, and whose crimson leaves have drunk
Of the bright dew-drops which from heaven descend;
Say, mourn ye not your ancient masters' end,

With your old moss-grown limbs and branches shrunk?

Aye, the low south wind through your foliage green,
Sighs a sad answer as it dies away,

Like the Eolian's melancholy strain

Floating on Zephyr's breath at close of day;

I know those notes, and their deep echoes seem
Like the faint murmurs of a midnight dream,

A death-dirge as o'er hill and dale they stray.

Monticello, Sullivan Co., N. Y.

X.

THE GOLD.HUNTER;

A TALE OF MASSACHUSETTS.

What is here?

Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?"

Timon of Athens.

CHAPTER I.

Ir you would enjoy the country in perfection, you should leave the city at the precise time when the fashionable tourists are flitting homeward from their summer jaunts. When Saratoga is no longer populous, Nahant deserted, and Rockaway forsaken, then plunge yourself into the heart of rural life. Do this towards the latter part of September. Are you a sportsman? At that time partridges are rife. Are you a pedestrian? Then the air is cool and bracing, and a march of fourteen miles before breakfast is a "circumstance.' Ride you? In September the roads are in excellent condition. If you are a poet or a painter, choose this season for your ramblings. What glorious tints are on the rich, misty hills, so blue and undefined, their summits mingling with the soft autumnal sky. The hazy river winds along, filling its channel with melody and beauty; and the woods, where here and there a yellow leaf appears, now sombre but not melancholy, exert a gentle influence upon the soul. As the day steals on, the landscape brightens apace. The mist-wreaths curl up from the valleys, climb the mountains, and catching golden hues in the lofty vault of hea ven, pass away like the gossamer dreams of hope and love. The winding river reflects the deep azure of the sky, save where its ripples sparkle in the sun like shivered glass. The noon is sultry; but a grateful breeze tempers the heat as it sweeps from the depth of the cool woodlands, dimples lake and stream, and plays with the mimic billows of the grain-fields. The reaper stays his sickle for a moment, as he welcomes the freshening wind; and away speeds the viewless messenger, rustling the ears of maize, and brushing its golden tassels as they flicker in the sun. Your loud step in the stubble rouses the quail with her numerous family, and away they whizz to some secluded spot. The pumpkin-fields display

their huge orange-colored hoards; and association brings to mind the pleasures of Thanksgiving-its hearty hospitality and mirth, and rustic pleasantry. Prize this glorious season; for it is, alas! but transitory. Soon-too soon-Destruction will revel in field and forest. The maple will glow in its hectic beauty at the first kiss of the forest; the broad crown of the oak will become sere and rusty; the birch tree will turn yellow, and the graceful elm fade day by day. The fields will be deserted by the laborers, the sportsman will steal through rustling leaves, and the whole landscape assume a threadbare and forlorn appearance. Enjoy, then, the brief hour of glory and beauty; drink from the cup of bliss while its bubbles dance upon the brink.

Reader, did you never go to Hollywood? "Tis some fifty miles from Boston, in the heart of a hilly country; but oh! in the bosom of those stern hills there is many a spot of such luxuriant beauty, that the heart would dance in your bosom to behold them. The view of Hollywood, through the Green Gap, is worth five hundred miles of travel. Its amphitheatre of purple hills, its assemblage of grey crags and feathered knolls, its white buildings gleaming among the trees and reflected in the waters, its trim gardens and its winding brooks!—were I an artist, I might hope to paint them.

Many a happy hour have I passed at Holywood beneath the roof of Farmer Bolton, a jolly agriculturalist, who owns his hundred acres, and has a shrewish wife, a fine intelligent daughter, and a host of sturdy sons. The Farmer lives there yet. He is a Yorkshireman, and a good specimen of a rough, bluff, hospitable, hardhanded, hard-riding son of the North Countrie. He came to Hollywood many a long year ago, with what he termed a “ power of money ;" and well might he conceive it so, for it procured him a noble farm. Having made himself "comfortable loike," he purchased twenty head of cattle from a neighbor, and while concluding a bargan with the old gentleman, struck one with his daughter, a tall, keen-eyed, peak-nosed young lady of thirty. "Canny Yorkshire" was a bit deceived when he thought Miss Tabitha Persimmon the most amiable of women. However, she "kept his gear thegither," and annually presented him with a pledge of her affection. As every addition to a farmer's family is a source of revenue, jolly Joe Bolton hailed with joy the appearance of each new claimant on paternal affection; and he looked forward to the time when, retiring to the repose of his huge arm-chair, he should entrust the labors of his farm to the abler hands of a dozen sturdy sons.

Jolly Joe Bolton rose at five and worked till dark. Constant exercise and hearty feeding made him almost as broad as he was long. His occasional recreations were a day's fishing in a neigh

boring pond, or a gallop of a few miles to a shooting-match. He had but one bad habit, and that was, a propensity to lounge of evenings in a pet chair in the bar-room of the Banner of Liberty, the only public-house in Hollywood. Here he met the squire and the schoolmaster, and two or three dissipated hangers-on-men out at elbows and down at heel, who were topers by profession. These latter were true sons of New England-I mean New England rum. As they accomplished no labor, they considered themselves the elite of Hollywood, and kept up a kind of spurious gentility, with their faded green and black garments, their rusty stocks and superannu ated beavers. One, par eminence, had acquired the fame of a story. teller, in consequence of which, he was "treated" at the tavern, and dropped elsewhere. He had once held a commission in the militia, where he formed those evil habits which had reduced him to his present state of degradation. Captain Josiah Sandford, or Sy, as he was popularly termed, was the Sir Walter of the village.

It was a sultry evening in September. Not a breath was abroad to wave the dusty foliage, and lift the muslin curtains of the Banner of Liberty. The bunch of asparagus tops that filled the chimney. place was parched and withered. The tallow candles on the bar burned with unwavering brilliancy. The musquitoes hummed hoarsely through the room, as if they stood in need of something to drink; and the great house-dog lay upon the floor, with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. Colonel Hateful Bemis stood within his bar, alternately dispensing beverage to his customers, and wiping the drops of perspiration from his forehead.

"Blasted hot!" said Captain Sy, polishing his purple, perspiring visage with the remnant of a cotton pocket-handkerchief, which must have been the very one that caused the murder of the "gentle lady wedded to the Moor."

The remark was addressed to jolly Joe Bolton, who entered the bar-room at that moment.

"Ees it be, zure enough," replied the jolly Yorkshireman. "Come, Captain, give it a name."

And jolly Joe winked twice, chuckled, laid his fore-finger to his nose and walked up to the bar. Nothing loth, the bulwark of the Massachusetts militia followed.

"What'f you have, gentlemen?" asked Colonel Hateful, with a satirical emphasis on the last word, as he glanced at the forlorn and threadbare equipments of Captain Sy.

"I'll take a glass of yale;" said the Yorkshireman." And the Captain"

"I'll have a leetle sperrit, I believe-jest to keep the heat out." In winter the Captain drunk to keep the cold out, in wet weather