be shown through the mansion only by paying a fee of twenty-five cents. Here, if any where in the great country, and not liable to imposition from continual calls, you would never think of a fee; but it seems that Webster himself made this arrangement, in order to pay for keeping the house open to visitors. Things remain as he left them-his library, bed-room, books, pictures and the like. The waiting Irishwoman takes you from cellar to garret-with due explanations and an occasional interesting remarkthrough the sitting-room, drawing-room, music, dining, breakfast and library rooms, through the bridal and star chambers, and into his death-bed room. This is preserved in every particular as it was during his life-time; the furniture is in its accustomed place, and the same bed and bedding on which he died. Though there are so many rooms, each is very fully furnished; paintings, engravings, and books seem endless. Mrs. John Quincy Adams appears in a portrait, wearing a rich, stylish turban, which caused the lady guide to remark that, as she had been told, Mrs. Adams was a very vain woman. In the library, over a portrait of Webster, are his last hat and cane, the former a white slouch. A curiosity in the drawing-room is an eagle about the size of a silver dollar, chiseled from white marble, which occupied ten years in making. It is a beautiful specimen of art.

His tomb is within sight of the house, a large sodded vault, over which stands an upright marble slab, having the simple inscription-DANIEL WEBSTER. Near the vault, just in front, is a small neat monument, corresponding in size and cut to others around it, bearing his name, birth, and death dates, and the passage, "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief," followed by a declaration of his faith in the gospel of Christ, written by himself and subscribed by his own name. From his tomb came his dying words, "I still live;" and one instinctively prays, Oh, for a Webster now! Just adjoining this is the burying-ground, where some of the old Plymouth puritans lie, among others, Peregrine White, the first person born in New England after the landing in 1620. Scarcely any of the old inscriptions can be read. One of the plainest is as follows:

The Honorable Josiah Winslow, Governor of New

Plymouth.

Died December ye 18 1680 Etatis 52.

This, being over the family vault, is followed by other names and dates, all cut on limestone under the old family coat-of-arms. The whole ground is enclosed within heavy walls.

Thence, we found our way to the old Duxbury burying-ground, where lie Miles Standish, "the Captain of Plymouth," and others of the forefathers. Like all these old burying-grounds, it is on an eminence. It is very old-looking, and has few stones that are not marked with the small numbers of 1700, and many with the large numbers of 1600. Few are at all legible. I could not find a single Standish, but plenty of Aldens.

We reached Plymouth one Saturday evening, very tired after a week of hard travel. While stopping by the way to make our toilet for a decent entry into the ancient town, and naturally thinking of the entry of the pilgrims of 1620, suddenly a shrill whistle was heard and a train of cars rushed past us in less time than it takes to tell it, scattering all my retrospection to the winds. From Marshfield I took the shore road, and had a grand view of the bay, covered with sail-boats, scudding in every direc

tion and at every distance, while for eight miles Plymouth was in sight, seeming to lie on a sloping shore, only a few miles beyond. The highest point of Plymouth is Burial Hill, the old public burying-ground, from which you have a splendid view of the harbor and bay. I visited it in the quiet of a lovely Sabbath morning. Sitting on the summit, looking leftward, you see Duxbury, lying on a promontory, eight miles above, on a high barren sand-hill, where lived Miles Standish, who, according to uncertain tradition, sent John Alden to gain for him the heart and hand of the Puritan maiden Priscilla.

"Go to the damsel Priscilla, the loveliest maiden of Plymouth,

Say that a blunt old Captain, a man not of words, but of actions,
Offers his hand and his heart, the hand and heart of a soldier;
Not in those words, you know; but this, in short, is my meaning.
I am a maker of war, and not a maker of phrases.

You, who are bred as a scholar, can say it in elegant language,
Such as you read in your books of the pleadings and wooings of lovers,
Such as you think best adapted to win the heart of a maiden.”

But to finish the story-John Alden himself happens to be in love with this "Puritan maiden Priscilla," and she with him; so, when he makes plea in behalf of "Miles Standish, the Captain of Plymouth," answers her objections, and faithfully does what only tradition could make a man do, he receives her reply:

66

Archly the maiden smiled, and with eyes overrunning with laughter,
Said, in a tremulous voice, 'Why don't you speak for yourself, John ?'”

This, however, is getting a great way from Burial Hill, at least for the present. Clark's Island, where the Pilgrims first landed, is also within sight. Before you lies the harbor, filled, though it is Sabbath, with fishing and pleasure boats; not as it was fifty or a hundred years ago, when tidy men kept strict watch from Saturday sunset till Sabbath sunset, careful that no impropriety was committed during these holy hours. Times have changed. Plymouth spreads out below you, while around and near you lie the bones of the first dead of the colony, dug from their temporary graves on the wharf; within a few feet of you is the site of the old fort, a spot about twelve feet square, now marked by four small granite stones, placed on the original corners of the fort. The graves are mostly distinguished by old English stones; the oldest inscriptions are very illegible, often quite obliterated.

Pass out of this down Leyden street, and you may imagine yourself among the first houses built after the landing in 1620; for here they were located. Going on a few paces, and turning leftward, you stand on the spot where John Alden set foot, the first and youngest to tread New England soil. Recall the rigors of December; the surrounding wilderness; the wide Atlantic, with hating persecutors beyond; no civilization nearer than five hundred miles southward, with wilderness and savages intervening; disease, doubt, fear, and anxiety in their midst; and you may have a faint outline of the state of things on Plymouth beach, two hundred and forty years ago.

At the old landing-place is the foundation and corner-stone of a fine monument, to mark the spot and event; this foundation was laid about

six years ago, but on account of financial troubles as any one may easily guess the project was temporarily abandoned. In 1775 the "Forefathers' Rock"-c -on which the Pilgrims landed-was about to be removed from its original resting-place on the shore, to Plymouth Square, to be put under a liberty pole, in order to awaken sluggish spirits to an interest in the war then waging; but in the effort it separated in two parts. One lies under the begun monument, and the other, about six feet by three, lies in front of Pilgrim Hall, within a tasty iron fence, having "1620" painted on its front side. On the fence, on an imitation of drapery tied up with string and tassel between every two uprights, are the names of the immortal forty-one who, while yet on board the "Mayflower," signed the compact of law and order, made necessary by their being without a charter from the crown. How one's thoughts will cling to those early scenes! John Carver, first Governor! Miles Standish, first defender! What a small beginning, little promise, and great results!

"They little thought how pure a light

With years should gather round that day;
How love would keep their memories bright,
How wide a realm their sons should sway!"

After several hours' meditation and strolling over Burial Hill, one is in fit frame of mind to attend morning service; but, what changes and deviations from the old exile-Puritan service! You enter a large, handsome brick edifice, to which gay and dressy crowds throng. Dr. Briggs enters a fashionable pulpit, while the organ plays a fancy overture; on each side of the pulpit is a large frescoed cross; he himself wears a fine silk gown; his fathers fled from crosses and gowns; a richly-toned organ and six voices fill the house with fashionable music-with rich crescendoes and diminuendoes-while the congregation is mute; their fathers were glad to do their own singing; the choir voices had great difficulty in pronouncing the r; if I mistake not, their fathers had no such difficulty; perhaps there never ascended more united praises than from the untrained and unfashionable lips of the Pilgrims, on the first Sabbath after landing. The congregation sat during prayer, and stood facing the choir during singing; likely their fathers humbly knelt, not even on a carpet floor, but on the cold snowy earth. Truly a change hath come over the spirit of their dream. This is said by the way. One cannot help thinking of these things, while Dr. Briggs is eloquently throwing off his rounded periods. Perhaps you, the night before, dreamed of the time when Elder Brewster expounded the Word in simple divisions, when his successors fed the flock in cold, cheerless, pewless churches, cold, cheerless, and pewless, because they thought it a religious duty to deny the flesh; perhaps your dream includes the period of strictness, when the sexes sat apart, and the children by themselves, all watched by a man holding a stick with a knob at one end to hit sleepy men, and a feather at the other end to tickle the faces of sleeping women; when musical instruments were carefully excluded from the church, and even the printing of note-books zealously resisted, as preparing the way for books of prayer. Perhaps you dream of these times, I say; but how strange it does seem this Sabbath morning to see cushioned pews, large heaters, frescoed walls, stained glass, swelling organ, printed music, a robed minister, a sleepy congregation,

without a watcher; the men and women sitting together, and the servants and children at home! O tempora! O mores! What changes!

In Pilgrim Hall are stowed away a large collection of very interesting relics of the old Colony. Gov. Bradford's chair, Elder Brewster's chair, a mug, a dish, leather pocket-book, the sword of Peregrine White (the first person born after leaving Europe), an old large pewter dish of Miles Standish, his sword, an old English Bible of John Alden, a pair of corsets belonging to the wife of Gov. Bradford-all these relics were brought over in the Mayflower, 1620. There are also several very interesting drawings and paintings; a deed, written and signed by Miles Standish, and a bond, written and signed by Peregrine White. In the Court House may be seen the old manuscript colony records of deeds, laws, marriages, births, deaths, etc.; the old charter of 1620, and the box in which it was brought The charter is written on parchment, with neat penmanship, signed by the Earl of Warwick, and at present appears somewhat faded, though a curtain is continually before it to protect it from the light.

over.

The box in which the charter was brought from England, is of wood, covered with leather, and lined with figured paper; from this lining, however, insects have eaten all the white, leaving the black figures whole. The seal was fastened to this by a leathern strap, but is now detached; it is round, about four inches in diameter, of rosin-colored material, now much broken, yet put together and kept in a glass-covered box. Another very interesting relic is Rev. John Robinson's defence of the separation of the Puritans from the Church of England. Though published in 1610, the paper is yet good, and the printing clear. It is bound in parchment, as all books of the period were.

Leaving Plymouth, you take your course through the wild coast-land of Bay Region to Providence, thence by cars to Hartford and New Haven, glance at the sights of each, take a night-boat on the Sound to New York, ramble a few days through its thousand streets, and then-because time and money are spent-close your trip of sight-seeing. As the boat moves over the great bay, and the spires of Trinity and St. Paul's grow small in the distance, a farewell thought and glance are all you can give the mother-city. New York and Boston, relics and wonders, noise, bustle, and weariness, are all left behind—and soon the rapid cars bring you back to your quiet home.

MAKE THE MOST OF LIFE.-Remember, Christian soul, that thou hast, this day, and every day of thy life—

God to glorify,

Jesus to imitate,

A soul to save,

Virtues to acquire,

Hell to avoid,

Heaven to gain,

Eternity to prepare for,

Time to profit by,
Neighbors to edify,
The world to despise,
Devils to combat,
Passions to subdue,

Death, perhaps, to suffer,
And judgment to undergo.

When you lie down at night, ask yourself, "What have I done to-day? What have I done for God?

What have I done for my fellow-creatures? What have I done for my own true and eternal interests?" Not small or mean is the satisfaction of looking back upon one day which has been profitably employed; and far greater, when the sun of life is about to set, must be the happiness of looking back upon a whole existence spent "as redeeming the time," a blessing to others and ourselves, and a practical tribute of praise to God!—Chris, Intel,

GASHMU SAITH IT.

BY E. R. E.

The religion which is acceptable to God is pure and undefiled. It dwells in the heart, and sanctifies the soul with all its affections. Works of righteousness issue from it to the honor and glory of God. They are the only evidences of holiness which God will accept.

The Bible lays great stress upon this-"My Son, give me thine heart." The inducement and promise of God are, "A new heart will I give unto you." The profession of having received a new heart is made by thousands-the evidence of possession is limited to hundreds. There is a necessity that men be tested and approved through trial. The cause of this is sin. The tempting power in this trial—the evil in it, springs from sin either inherent or outwardly present. It never springs from God. It is of vital importance that we should rightly distinguish between sin and grace-between good and evil. The suffering of trial brings us more and more deeply into the living experience of this distinction. We should know this earlier, that we may not be led astray. The origin of evil is absolutely not of God. The philosophy that will not accept the doctrine of the Fall in Scripture, makes the Being it calls God, the Father of darkness as well as light. "Let no man say, when he is tempted, that he is tempted of God."

Natural pride may bring on a delusion deep enough to cause men to assert that they are "tempted of God." Men strive in every way to justify themselves—they lay the blame somewhere else than where it belongs. Already in Paradise the deceitfulness of the first sin, at once so far obscured the perception of God, that the fallen pair think to hide themselves from their Creator. When called to an account, they attempt to excuse themselves before their judge. Adam said, "The woman whom thou gavest me," is the cause of this sin. Eve said, "The Serpent is the cause." From that day until this, their descendants have done the same thing. Some other than the real cause is assigned. Men delude themselves and then practise this art upon their fellow men-yea, even presume to practise it upon their God.

God's

This is a vain imagination, and must be eradicated. Let no one rest upon this secret pillow of evil excuse, not even unconsciously. warnings against it are on record-His illustrations are familiar-His appeals oft repeated. He condemns all who cling to it.

The forms of sin are as manifold as the emotions of the soul and the activities of the body. Among these there is one which to us seems the impersonation of all others the foulest and meanest of its tribe. Pride ministers to it-jealousy feeds it-envy inspires it-hate impels it-lies are its form of expression