some years subsequent to the Revolution, and was then removed in three portions, each of which became a house somewhere on the plain, and perhaps they are standing now.  The proprietor, being a royalist, became an exile when the Revolution broke out, and I suppose died abroad.  I know not whether the house was intended as a permanent family-residence or merely as a pleasure-place for the summer; but from its extent I should conceive the former to have been its purpose.  Be that as it may, it has perpetuated an imputation of folly upon the poor man who erected it, which still keeps his memory disagreeably alive after a hundred years.  The house must have made a splendid appearance for many miles around; and the glare of the old-fashioned festivities would be visible, doubtless, in the streets of Salem, when he illuminated his windows to celebrate a king’s birthday, or some other loyal occasion.  The barberry-bushes, clustering within the cellars, offer the harsh acidity of their fruit to-day, instead of the ripe wines which used to be stored there.

Descending the hill, I entered a green, seldom-trodden lane, which runs along at a hundred yards or two from its base, and parallel with its ridge.  It was overshadowed by chestnut-trees, and bordered with the prevalent barberry-bush, and between ran the track,—­the beaten path of the horses’ feet, and the even way of either wheel, with green strips between.  It was a very lonely lane, and very pleasant in the warm, declining sun; and, following it a third of a mile, I came to a place that was familiar to me when I was a child, as the residence of a country cousin whom I used to be brought to see.  There was his old house still standing, but deserted, with all the windows boarded up, and the door likewise, and the chimneys removed,—­a most desolate-looking place.  A young dog came barking towards me as I approached,—­barking, but frisking, between play and watchfulness.  Within fifty yards of the old house, farther back from the road, stands a stone house, of some dozen or twenty years’ endurance,—­an ugly affair, so plain is it,—­which was built by the old man in his latter days.  The well of the old house, out of which I have often drunk, and over the curb of which I have peeped to see my own boy-visage closing the far vista below, seems to be still in use for the new edifice.  Passing on a little farther, I came to a brook, which, I remember, the old man’s son and I dammed up, so that it almost overflowed the road.  The stream has strangely shrunken now; it is a mere ditch, indeed, and almost a dry one.  Going a little farther, I came to a graveyard by the roadside,—­not apparently a public graveyard, but the resting-place of a family or two, with half a dozen gravestones.  On two marble stones, standing side by side, I read the names of Benjamin Foster and Anstiss Foster, the people whom I used to be brought to visit.  He had died in 1824, aged seventy-five; she in 1837, aged seventy.