-grown memorial stones which had stood amid
the flight of over two centuries, and emotions deep and strange struggled
in my breast, sealed by that _golden, sacred_ silence which sanctifies the
unutterable.

Prominent among other objects there, was the resting-place of the Judsons,
to whose memory a suitable tomb had been erected.

Going to Boston I spent three delightful weeks at the home of Mr. and Mrs.
Little, a dear old couple who had been married long enough to have
celebrated their "Golden Wedding." The old gentleman was wont to say, that
these fifty years were all links in the "honey-moon," but that he had not
as yet reached the end of the first "honey-moon." So these two old lovers,
like "John Anderson my Joe," and his devoted companion, had climbed the
hill and were standing "thegither at its foot" in happy contentment,
looking toward the golden sunset and catching the gleam of the light
beyond.

I of course visited "Boston Common," "Bunker Hill Monument," "Old South
Church," the museums and galleries of painting, rare collections of
statuary, and even heard the "Great Organ." These localities are all
fraught with interest, but too familiar to tourists to require description
or comment; but I cannot leave the readers of this chapter without a
tribute of praise to the high attainments of this "Athens of America," and
a word of gratitude for their kindness. I found not the cold, phlegmatic
nature which had been depicted as that of the Yankee, nor did I see the
tight purse-grip so often attributed to them, for I have nowhere met
warmer hearts and more generous patronage than there, and indeed all New
England was pervaded by an equal spirit of liberality and kindness.
Lowell and the other manufacturing towns I visited were to me objects of
wonderful interest, the music of whose looms and shuttles, belts and
wheels, engines and flame, will ever come in vivid variety amid the many
voiced memories of life and its mystic music.

CHAPTER XIII.

"There is an old belief that in the embers
Of all things, their primordial form exists;
And cunning Alchemists could recreate
The rose, with all its members,
From its own ashes--but without the bloom,
Without the least perfume.
Ah me! what wonder-working, occult science
Can from the ashes of our hearts
Once more the rose of youth restore?
What craft of alchemy can bid defiance
To time, and change; and for a single hour,