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of history which of these two babies wasthe first town-born child.

  But see! Roger Conant has other neighbors within view. Peter Palfreylikewise has built himself a house, and so has Balch, and Norman, andWoodbury. Their dwellings, indeed,--such is the ingenious contrivance ofthis piece of pictorial mechanism,--seem to have arisen, at variouspoints of the scene, even while we have been looking at it. Theforest-track, trodden more and more by the hobnailed shoes of these sturdyand ponderous Englishmen, has now a distinctness which it never could haveacquired from the light tread of a hundred times as many Indianmoccasins. It will be a street, anon! As we observe it now, it goesonward from one clearing to another, here plunging into a shadowy stripof woods, there open to the sunshine, but everywhere showing a decidedline, along which human interests have begun to hold their career. Overyonder swampy spot, two trees have been felled, and laid side by side tomake a causeway. In another place, the axe has cleared away a confusedintricacy of fallen trees and clustered boughs, which had been tossedtogether by a hurricane. So now the little children, just beginning torun alone, may trip along the path, and not often stumble over animpediment, unless they stray from it to gather wood-berries beneath thetrees. And, besides the feet of grown people and children, there are thecloven hoofs of a small herd of cows, who seek their subsistence from thenative grasses, and help to deepen the track of the future thoroughfare.Goats also browse along it, and nibble at the twigs that thrustthemselves across the way. Not seldom, in its more secluded portions,where the black shadow of the forest strives to hide the trace ofhuman-footsteps, stalks a gaunt wolf, on the watch for a kid or a youngcalf; or fixes his hungry gaze on the group of children gathering berries,and can hardly forbear to rush upon them. And the Indians, coming fromtheir distant wigwams to view the white man's settlement, marvel at thedeep track which he makes, and perhaps are saddened by a flittingpresentiment that this heavy tread will find its way over all the land;and that the wild-woods, the wild wolf, and the wild Indian will alike betrampled beneath it. Even so shall it be. The pavements of the MainStreet must be laid over the red man's grave.

  Behold! here is a spectacle which should be ushered in by the peal oftrumpets, if Naumkeag had ever yet heard that cheery music, and by theroar of cannon, echoing among the woods. A procession,--for, by itsdignity, as marking an epoch in the history of the street, it deservesthat name,--a procession advances along the pathway. The good shipAbigail has arrived from England, bringing wares and merchandise, for thecomfort of the inhabitants, and traffic with the Indians; bringingpassengers too, and, more important than all, a governor for the newsettlement. Roger Conant and Peter Palfrey, with their companions, havebeen to the shore to welcome him; and now, with such honor and triumph astheir rude way of life permits, are escorting the sea-flushed voyagers totheir habitations. At the point where Endicott enters upon the scene,two venerable trees unite their branches high above his head; thusforming a triumphal arch of living verdure, beneath which he pauses, withhis wife leaning on his arm, to catch the first impression of theirnew-found home. The old settlers gaze not less earnestly at him, than heat the hoary woods and the rough surface of the clearings. They like hisbearded face, under the shadow of the broad-brimmed and steeple-crownedPuritan hat;--a visage resolute, grave, and thoughtful, yet apt to kindlewith that glow of a cheerful spirit by which men of strong character areenabled to go joyfully on their proper tasks. His form, too, as you seeit, in a doublet and hose of sad-colored cloth, is of a manly make, fitfor toil and hardship, and fit to wield the heavy sword that hangs fromhis leathern belt. His aspect is a better warrant for the ruler's officethan the parchment commission which he bears, however fortified it may bewith the broad seal of the London council. Peter Palfrey nods to RogerConant. "The worshipful Court of Assistants have done wisely," say theybetween themselves. "They have chosen for our governor a man out of athousand." Then they toss up their hats,--they, and all the uncouthfigures of their company, most of whom are clad in skins, inasmuch astheir old kersey and linsey-woolsey garments have been torn and tatteredby many a long month's wear,--they all toss up their hats, and salutetheir new governor and captain with a hearty English shout of welcome.We seem to hear it with our own ears, so perfectly is the actionrepresented in this life-like, this almost magic picture! But have youobserved the lady who leans upon the arm of Endicott?---a rose of beautyfrom an English garden, now to be transplanted to a fresher soil. It maybe that, long years--centuries indeed--after this fair flower shall havedecayed, other flowers of the same race will appear in the same soil, andgladden other generations with hereditary beauty. Does not the visionhaunt us yet? Has not Nature kept the mould unbroken, deeming it a pitythat the idea should vanish from mortal sight forever, after only onceassuming earthly substance? Do we not recognize, in that fair woman'sface, a model of features which still beam, at happy meets, on what wasthen the woodland pathway, but has out since grown into a busy street?

  "This is too ridiculous!--positively insufferable!" mutters the samecritic who had before expressed his disapprobation. "Here is apasteboard figure, such as a child would cut out of a card, with a pairof very dull scissors; and the fellow modestly requests us to see in itthe prototype of hereditary beauty!"

  "But, sir, you have not the proper point of view," remarks the showman."You sit altogether too near to get the best effect of my pictorialexhibition. Pray, oblige me by removing to this other bench, and Iventure assure you the proper light and shadow will transform thespectacle into quite another thing."

  "Pshaw!" replies the critic; "I want no other light and shade. I havealready told you that it is my business to see things just as they are."

  "I would suggest to the author of this ingenious exhibition," observes agentlemanly person, who has shown signs of being much interested,--"Iwould suggest that Anna Gower, the first wife of Governor Endicott, andwho came with him from England, left no posterity; and that,consequently, we cannot be indebted to that honorable lady for anyspecimens of feminine loveliness now extant among us."

  Having nothing to allege against this genealogical objection, the showmanpoints again to the scene.

  During this little interruption, you perceive that the Anglo-Saxonenergy--as the phrase now goes--has been at work in the spectacle beforeus. So many chimneys now send up their smoke, that it begins to have theaspect of a village street; although everything is so inartificial andinceptive, that it seems as if one returning wave of the wild naturemight overwhelm it all. But the one edifice which gives the pledge ofpermanence to this bold enterprise is seen at the central point of thepicture. There stands the meeting-house, a small structure, low-roofed,without a spire, and built of rough timber, newly hewn, with the sapstill in the logs, and here and there a strip of bark adhering to them.A meaner temple was never consecrated to the worship of the Deity. Withthe alternative of kneeling beneath the awful vault of the firmament, itis strange that men should creep into this pent-up nook, and expect God'spresence there. Such, at least, one would imagine, might be the feelingof these forest-settlers, accustomed, as they had been, to stand underthe dim arches of vast cathedrals, and to offer up their hereditaryworship in the old ivy-covered churches of rural England, around whichlay the bones of many generations of their forefathers. How could theydispense with the carved altar-work?--how, with the pictured windows,where the light of common day was hallowed by being transmitted throughthe glorified figures of saints?--how, with the lofty roof, imbued, as itmust have been, with the prayers that had gone upward for centuries?--how,with the rich peal of the solemn organ, rolling along the aisles,pervading the whole church, and sweeping the soul away on a flood ofaudible religion? They needed nothing of all this. Their house ofworship, like their ceremonial, was naked, simple, and severe. But thezeal of a recovered faith burned like a lamp within their hearts,enriching everything around them with its radiance; making of these newwalls, and this narrow compass, its own cathedral; and being, in itself,that spiritual mystery and experien
ce, of which sacred architecture,pictured windows, and the organ's grand solemnity are remote andimperfect symbols. All was well, so long as their lamps were freshlykindled at heavenly flame. After a while, however, whether in their timeor their children's, these lamps began to burn more dimly, or with a lessgenuine lustre; and then it might be seen how hard, cold, and confinedwas their system,--how like an iron cage was that which they calledLiberty.

  Too much of this. Look again at the picture, and observe how theaforesaid Anglo-Saxon energy is now trampling along the street, andraising a positive cloud of dust beneath its sturdy footsteps. For therethe carpenters are building a new house, the frame of which was hewn andfitted in England, of English oak, and sent hither on shipboard; and herea blacksmith makes huge slang and clatter on his anvil, shaping out toolsand weapons;