A lovely prospect.

A country school-house.

sheltered me from the glowing heat with its delightful shade. At my feet, a little rivulet of pure limpid water, gurgling along, rolled its downward way over countless pebbles of every colour, shade, and shape, washed and worn by this crystal rill that for ages had sparkled over them.

On the other side were spread out, in all their native beauty and richness, gay sunny fields, smiling beneath the bounty and blessing of the infinite Creator. Countless enclosures, with all the rural treasures they protected, met my eye at one glance, and awakened feelings of the most delightful and tranquillizing nature. Here the rich clover, with its ten thousand heads, nodding in the breeze, and emitting its sweet fragrance. There the verdant meadow -the thistly lawn-the white tasselled corn-the golden wheat-fields of grain waving in the gentle breeze, and pastures filled with herds of cattle, or white with flocks of sheep, presented a scene sweet, varied, and beautiful beyond description.

Every step I took brought some new and interesting object to my notice. Having reached the summit of the hill, a country school-house, standing by the side of the road, met my view, and started various pleasing trains of thought. The country school-house must always be an object of interest to the traveller. As I passed, I heard the young prattlers conning over their tasks, while some were reading or reciting their lessons. And I then thought how can the voices of children fall upon any ear without awakening the deepest and tenderest emotions of interest?

As I heard those childlike tones I was reminded of the infant band that I had once sought to train for the skies in the Sunday-school room; and the recollections of that holy and interesting employment came up to my memory with sweet and delightful vividness. Then too my heart throbbed with new interest as I thought of the sweet little faces that had oft looked so smilingly on me. And then I could not but weep-for the smile on those faces was now

congealed in death. Bereavement had made me childless. 'One sad stroke had torn from me my little ones, and hid them in the grave. But God had done it: and in the multitude of my sorrows his comforts had refreshed my soul. As I passed on, and left behind me that humble school-room, which by the power of association had awakened these trains of reflection, and called up scenes that had past, my tenderest thoughts were fixed upon the glorified images of those dear ones in eternity. I seemed to follow them in their ascending way up to that world of blessedness whither they had gone, and to behold them with the eye of faith, clothed in robes of transcendent beauty, holding harps in their little hands, following the Lamb whithersoever he went, and swelling with their infant voices the music and the melody of heaven.

As I advanced on my journey, I at length reached a lofty eminence, from which I could look off over the tops of the trees that stood in the lowland beneath, to the rich and well cultivated country that stretched in countless fields up the precipitous sides of the mountain, exhibiting at different points the signs of culture and fertility carried to its very summit. Still more remote, in the background, appeared one range of mountains rising above another, till the most distant were lost in the clouds. Upon this beautiful scene, as cloud after cloud crossed the sun's bright disk, rested alternately light and shade.

How many delightful themes for pious meditation will such a transition of scene, and succession of objects, thought I, suggest to the mind of the solitary traveller, if God be in all his thoughts! He will be strikingly impressed with the truth that human life is but a journey—that the Christian is a pilgrim and stranger upon the earth, and his home far distant.

During every tour he makes, he passes through extensive tracts of country, where he knows not a face he meets; and where he sees hundreds engaged in pleasure, and business, in which he has neither lot nor part. So, though his course

Numerous incidents fall under the notice of the traveller.

through life be solitary, though he live in obscurity, unknown to the great, unapplauded by the multitude, yet may he still keep on in his heavenly way, and be continually approximating to the end of his journey. Though his path may sometimes be rough and difficult, and the heavens above may seem to gather blackness and frown upon him, yet if he continues to go forward, still believing, still trusting in the divine promises, a new scene of things will quickly succeed. The lustre of God's reconciled countenance will burst through the surrounding gloom, and beam resplendently upon his path, and upon all the prospect before him; imparting celestial beauty and loveliness to every object upon which it rests. I would here also remark that there are numerous incidents falling within the notice of the traveller, which are calculated to interest him deeply.

In illustration of this remark I must again call the attention of the reader to an occurrence connected with this journey of which I have already given him some account. It was only a few days after the occurrence of the incidents just before referred to, that I found myself just at sunset seated in a neat parlour at a public inn, in company with several other individuals, all of whom appeared entire strangers to each other. Among the number were two ladies: the one grave and matronly in her appearance, the other more sprightly and youthful, who, as I subsequently learned, was travelling under the escort of her brother, a young gentleman not more than sixteen or eighteen years old, whose modest and taciturn habits, and unobtrusive manners, made us, during a long and animated conversation, almost unconscious of his presence, till a certain occasion called forth a display of the brilliant powers of his extraordinary mind. The young lady's name was Cornelia Trueman. The other lady gave us as her address, Mrs. Janeway.

Another individual in this group was an intelligent and gentlemanly man, whose name I afterwards learnt to be

The company at an inn.

Colchester. This constituted the entire company in the midst of whom I found myself seated at the time just alluded to. Every thing around and within the public house appeared remarkably quiet, there being no other guests for the night except those above described. In the common parlour where we were all seated, there was with each one an apparent backwardness in entering upon any thing like general conversation. To this remark, however, I must make one exception. Mr. Colchester, who was evidently of an affable turn, seemed determined to encourage and promote a free interchange of thoughts and opinions. He had already made several efforts to draw us into conversation, which had proved unavailing.

I sat by the window leaning on my arm, looking at the distant mountain, from which the last rays of reflected light were fading.

"There has been a great and fearful disaster on the other side of the mountain," said Mr. C――, still persisting in his attempt to promote sociability, and directing his dis

course to me.

"I had not heard of it," said I, starting from my abstracted posture, and turning towards him.

"Many lives have been lost, and much property destroyed," continued he.

This last remark drew the attention of the whole company towards him, and the request was instantly made that he would favour us with the particulars of the catastrophe to which he alluded. To this he readily assented.

A description.

CHAPTER II.

THE INUNDATION.

Thou didst blow with thy wind; the sea covered them.
They sank as lead in the mighty waters.

From the 15th of Exodus.

"NEW HAVEN river," said Mr. Colchester, entering upon the description with the ease and fluency of one accustomed to communicate his thoughts to others, "New Haven river has its source among the mountains of Bristol and Lincoln. Its course, for a while, is precipitous and rapid, leaping down rocky shelves, and roaring amid the wild solitudes through which it passes, till at length, emerging from the mountains, it winds with a swift current through an open country. At New Haven West Mills, or Beman Hollow, the tract of interval land through which the stream passes is narrowed, and the stream itself is hemmed in by precipitous banks, and ranges of hills on either side, forming, as one would think, an impassable barrier against the swelling waters, until they are lost in Otter creek, about a mile below this point.

"At Beman Hollow, a little hamlet had been gradually formed, from the advantages the place afforded for esta blishing mills and manufactories. Some of the houses were built near the margin of the river; others, more remote, on the sloping sides of the hill.

"On the 26th of the stream, in consequence of heavy rains, had risen unusually high, so that some of the inhabitants in the neighbourhood became alarmed, and left their dwellings. Those, however, who lived farther back