oods of sound."

As our friend turned into Park Street on this summer morning, the
giant's lance threw its shadow far into the Common among the cows which
were quietly cropping the dewy grass within the enclosure of the old
rail fence, while his brazen goblet clanged the hour of seven.

As the substantial citizen of to-day passes up this street, where shops
are rapidly displacing the mansions of the last century, he looks with
honest pride upon Boston's crowning glory, the gilded dome which, like a
great golden egg, is nested upright upon the roof which shelters the
annually-assembled wisdom of the Old Commonwealth. Around its glowing
swell the orbit of the sun's kiss is marked by an ever-moving flame, and
even its shadows are luminous.

As he looks across the Common he catches glimpses of the "New Venice"
which has been built upon the lagoons of the Back Bay, and sees among
its towers and spires one beautiful campanile which, by its graceful
inclination to the south, recalls Pisa's wonder, and lends a special
charm to the view.

Upon the little eminence near the Frog Pond, once the site of the fort
built during the British occupation to defend the city from the American
army encamped on the opposite shore, rises the monument which
commemorates the war of the Rebellion and the gallant men of Boston who
lost their lives in defence of the Government.

On that pleasant morning in 1817, neither the beautiful new city nor the
sad monument greeted the eye of the good Colonel, for the Common formed
the western boundary of the town, and the British earthworks were still
upon the little hill.

Could he have had a prophetic vision of the one, his honest pride in his
native town would have risen almost to ecstasy. Could he have known of
the other, his patriotic soul would have sunk within him, and the
pleasure of his day's journey would have given place to grief.

Rounding the Common, by the Hancock mansion, with its lilac bushes and
curiously wrought iron balcony, Walnut Street was soon reached, and,
near its junction with Mount Vernon Street, the house of Mr. Webster.

The future "Defender of the Constitution" was no sluggard. It was his
habit to "Rise with the lark and greet the purpling east," to use one of
his favorite quotations, and the carriage had hardly stopped when he
appeared, and, exchanging kindly greetings with the Colonel, took his
place beside him.

Mr. Webster was at this time thirty-five years old, and