firelock firmly grasped, and fully determined to give the approaching Regulars, one round of its contents. But I was a perfect tyro in arms; and my heart, I confess, beat with violence at the thought of the approaching combat and its probable consequences, and my knees trembled like an aspen. But when I saw the smoke from the burning buildings, and especially from the church, roll in columns to the clouds, while the bursting flames shot forth like fires from a volcano; every nerve was strung, every wish and feeling of my soul was concentrated in a burning thirst for vengeance.

"They'll pay dearly for this!" said a soldier by my side. His countenance and voice were perfectly calm, though the flames were then curling around his elegant and hospitable dwelling. But who could penetrate the fires of his heart?

"They'll pay dearly for this!" And they did pay dearly-and perhaps no inethod could have been devised, so effectually to animate the Americans for the battle, as the perpetration of that wanton outrage, on the part of the British troops. It was like applying the match to a mine. For though my countrymen had endured grievances, injuries and insults without number, from the British government, they still retained a reverence for the land of their forefathers; they felt a love for its glory; and they felt an awe of its power.

In the conflagration of Charlestown, every tie of confidence, of sympathy, of nationality seemed destroyed. We then regarded the king's soldiers, as the most ruthless of oppressors; we felt a sentiment of anger towards them; such as is experienced, when one suddenly finds in his long cherished friend, his most deadly enemy. All our former prejudices in their favor, appeared so many aggravations of this injury; our self-love was armed against them, and the revulsion was terrible.

For myself, I had a long arrear to settle with the oppressors of my country. My father had been one of the wealthiest merchants in the town; but the derangement of his affairs, by our nonimportation agreements, which were rendered necessary by the oppressive acts of Parliament, injured his credit; and finally, the total suspension of all mercantile business by the Boston Port Bill, entirely ruined his fortune. He was, however, a firm and sincere patriot;

and he did not regard with much concern his own private affairs, while the liberties of his country were threatened with ruin. He lent all his powers and energies to the crisis; and I have no doubt, would have been distinguished as a leader in the war of our Independence, had not a violent fever, brought on doubtless by his excessive exertions and anxieties, put a period to his life and usefulness, just before the commencement of hostilities. I was an only child, and had, by my tender and excellent mother, been so indulged, that I seemed but poorly qualified to endure the rude buffetings of unsheltered life. Still my ardent imagination, and hope, ever fertile in expedients, buoyed me up, promising me fortune and happiness, so much more rich and exquisite, as it would be the reward of my own exertions. My mother consented I should enter the army when first formed, because it was my father's dying injunction, that if the appeal was made to the sword, I should be permitted to defend my country, if I wished. I did wish it, and I served in various departments, through the whole war, and was present at the glorious conclusion of the struggle, the battle of Yorktown. My mother did not live to see this happy period, for which she had so often devoutly prayed. She had been dead two years, and as I had no relation in Boston, I had no necessity, no inclination at that time, of going thither. I turned my attention to the means of obtaining an honorable living; always intending, that when fortune had favored me, and I could return with credit to visit the scenes of my infancy, and astonish my young friends with my adventures and success, I little dreamed we should then be no longer young. I had passed much of my time in foreign countries; and had seen the propriety, and felt the justice of altering or softening many of my early opinions and prejudices. Englishmen had treated me with the most disinterested kindness and friendship; and I had found, that Frenchmen were not always the champions of the oppressed. But all these changes had never changed my fond attachment, my faithful remembrance of the scenes and pleasures of boyhood.

There is something peculiarly sacred in that indescribable affection we feel, even for inanimate objects, when connected with our first impressions of life, our first associations of earth's happiness. Many such objects were still

CHARLES CUNNINGHAM.

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fresh in my mind; but these familiar things had disappeared; and as I slowly wandered on, I saw not a single countenance, nor scarcely a memento which, had I not known I was in Boston, would have reminded me of "Auld lang syne."

There can hardly be a sensation more bitter than the feeling of desolation, which seemed to press cold, even with distinct perception, on my heart, as I passed amid the animated and apparently happy group, with whom I had no congeniality. They seemed like intruders, who had robbed me of my dearest inheritance-the memory of joys so long, so fondly cherished. Solitude in deserts must be joyless; but solitude in crowds is frightful-it is the penance of the anchorite without the consoling thought, that heaven is approving the sacrifice. I had reached a spot commanding a glimpse of the harbor, the sea swelling and sparkling beneath the glow of the broad setting sun, when a troop of frolicksome urchins, just liberated from the prison of their school, came shouting and bounding past me, in all the elasticity of health and spirits, unbroken by sorrow, and unsubdued by disappointment. How many times I too, had rushed down that street in the same childish glee !—and how many times, when the boy began to melt into the youth, had I stood on that spot and watched the different lights and shades, that declining day threw over the wide expanse of water! And that scene was still unaltered. Neither the hand of time, nor the vanity of man, had left a ruin or a record there. Yet my sensations were totally different. Then I was delighted with the beauty of the view,-the mere change of tint and appearance, was all on which my thoughts dwelt. I did not look beyond the surface; I did not moralise, because I had not then been taught by experience, to refer what I saw to the past, or connect it with the future. The present only was with me. The present is the child's happiness-and will not the happiness of heaven consist materially in thisthat is an ever-present felicity? But I am wandering from my theme, which is, to contrast my youthful fancies with the reflections of age. Then I gazed and admired. Now, when I saw wave curling over wave, and pursuing each other in an unbroken series-ever changing, yet ever the same-and leaving, as they dashed and were dispersed, on

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the pebbly beach, nothing save a little foam or a few bubbles that immediately disappeared. "What an emblem," thought I, of the restless generations of men! Thus constantly changing, and yet ever actuated by the same passions, and pursuing the same phantoms, till, borne forward by the irresistible current of time, they are thrown on the shores of eternity, and of all their mighty plans and promises, nothing much more lasting remains, than the bubbly spray of the receding wave. Age teaches not wisdom to the world; nor do these little ones start better prepared for the race of life by their father's course. Well might the wisest of men exclaim, "the things which have been, are those which shall be; and there is no new thing under the sun!"

Turning slowly and sorrowfully away, I sought my lodgings; but absorbed in so deep a reverie, that I hardly heeded whither I was wandering, till on attempting to turn a corner, I was unconsciously stepping into the open porch of a small, oldfashioned building, that projected quite into the street. A young girl was in the passage, and mistaking me for an acquaintance of the family, she respectfully opened the door of a little parlor and asked me to walk in.

Resolving to make the best of my blunder, I stepped boldly forward, and was soon in the presence of one, I supposed was the mistress of the mansion. In a spacious arm-chair, was seated a woman coeval in appearance with the dwelling she inhabited; and truly my heart rejoiced, to see her antique costume. The quilted petticoats which would have smothered a score of fashionable belles, and the buckles of her high-heeled, velvet shoes, which would so shock their delicate nerves for the taste of their grandmothers! These were displayed by this lady, on whose tall form, age had not pressed his iron hand with heaviness; she still sat unbent, and exhibited that tapering length of waist, that of yore was so essential to female gracefulness. Before her stood a round table, or rather tripod, on which lay her clasped bible and a prayer book. She hastily laid down her knitting work as I entered, and drawing down her spectacles over her yet penetrating black eyes, surveyed me with a steady and solemn gaze. I almost fancied her a Sybil, about to read and propound my destiny.

"You seem much fatigued," said she, for she might really read some uncommon agitation in my countenance without the art of divination; "Pray take a seat in that easy chair," pointing to a huge chair with a blue worsted cushion, exactly resembling one in which my good aunt Lizzy used to sit, and allow me, when a child, to amuse myself by climbing over its tall back, which I considered as great a feat as mortal could perform. How many associations of pleasure or pain do such trivial circumstances awaken; and how often is a person agreeable or disagreeable to us, merely by touching different chords of feeling, with the power and thrill of which he was totally unacquainted, and over which he had no control! This old lady, by a few words of common-place kindness, and the offer of a chair, gained more on my respect and affection, than many persons would by offering me a principality. Perhaps, too, my recent disappointment rendered me more susceptible to the tones of sympathy; for I have observed, that prosperity is not the most friendly soil for the growth or reciprocation of the charities of life.

The charity of offering me a chair, was indeed well-timed, and I endeavored to repay it by such observations as I thought would be agreeable to the old lady; and I had soon commenced a confidential conversation with this living chronicle of past times. I found her intelligent and communicative; and, moreover, she entered into my inquiries, with the air of one who thought herself obliged by the opportunity of responding. I learned from her, that but very few of my boyish playmates and school-fellows remained in Boston; and while she recounted the revolutions in many families, the dispersion or death of those I had thought to meet, and with whom I had hoped once more to be merry, I could not refrain from exclaiming "Let no man trust to the future for happiness. I have been studying and toiling for many years, in order to obtain the means of returning with eclat, and surprising my friends and acquaintance with the good fortune of Charles Cunningham-and now, not an individual will recollect my person, or remember my name. I am far better known in India or Japan, than my native town."

"Charles Cunningham, Charles, Cunningham?" echoed the old lady; "What, the son of Thomas Cunningham,