1785. He inherited from his father and grandfather a taste for letters which he cultivated through life, and transmitted to his posterity. I knew him quite well during the latter years of his life, and always regarded him as a noble specimen of a man and a minister. He was compactly built, rather inclined to be short, had a fine, intelligent face, was quick and easy in his movements, and most agreeable in conversation. He had a mind of uncommon force and discrimination, a noble and generous spirit, simple and engaging manners; an invincible firmness in adhering to his own convictions; an earnest devotion to the best interests of his fellow-men; an excellent talent for the pulpit; great tact at public business, and a remarkably graceful facility at mingling in a deliberative body. In private he had the gentleness of a lamb, but sometimes, in public debate, the lamb disappeared, and the lion came in its place."

Here, also, side by side, are the ashes of the wives of these venerable men-women of whom the world was not worthy, and who, probably, had more to do with giving an imprint to the character of their posterity than the sires had. And here, too, are the children and children's children, making in all six generations bearing the same family name, and in the direct line of descent.

That man is not to be admired who can stand in the midst of the graves of so many generations of his kindred without being the subject of strong emotions. If his ancestors have been useful in their day, making the world wiser and better because they have lived in it, and have died leaving an example of industry, virtue and fidelity, he may well thank God for the blood that is in him. If of all the men who have preceded him in this line, and of those who have followed him, there has not been an unbeliever or a prodigal, he may well call the name of my great-grandfather and say “EBENEZER;" which being interpreted is, “Hitherto hath the Lord helped us."

THE OLD WHITE MEETING-HOUSE.

SCENES OF CHILDHOOD REVISITED.

We had no less than three generations in the party that drove across the country from Saratoga Springs to the Old White Meeting-house, in Cambridge, Washington County, N. Y. This gave peculiar zest and enjoyment to the journey and the visit, as we traversed a region that was familiar as home, was home indeed, more than sixty years ago. We shall find few if any of the friends of our childhood, but the hills are here, many of the old houses are just where they were, and to each one of them there is a story to which the second and third generation listen with rapt attention, while the head of the house recounts them, all of what he saw, and much of what he was.

A Michigan divine recently visited this place, and in a letter to the public described the Old White Meeting-house as still standing, and doing some inglorious duty as a warehouse. My Michigan friend was not well posted in the history of these classic fields, and I marvel greatly that he was so ill-taught by the present dwellers in this lovely valley. Had he consulted the chronicles of the "Old White Meetinghouse," published forty years ago by Robert Carter & Brothers, New York, being the only veracious history of the valley, he would have learned that the house which was called by that name, and gave distinction to the corners on which it stood, has long since passed from the face of the earth, and has no more to show than any one of the Seven Churches of Asia. The one that is now standing on its site and has become a house of merchandise was the immediate successor of the Old White Meeting-house, and when it became too strait for the people they built a larger one hard by, where they worship now. Thus in my time this venerable congregation has had three houses of worship, and the beautiful one in which they now meet is so large and comely that it

will probably satisfy all their wants for a generation or two

to come.

It stands as the old one did on the village green, with a grove of large trees in front. Every one of these trees has been planted since I was wont to lie on the grass and look up to the wondrously tall spire, on the very summit of which was a fish swimming in the breeze. We sent for the keys and entered the vestibule of this sacred place. By the side of the door was a tablet in the wall to the memory of Nathaniel S. Prime, D.D., and above the tablet was suspended a portrait, an excellent likeness of him whom the people called pastor seventy years ago, and whom I called father then for the first time. We were all tenderly affected by this memorial. On the other side of the door was a handsome tablet to the memory of the Rev. Dr. Newton, and another within the door to the Rev. Dr. Fillmore, who have in turn ministered to this people. They were able and excellent men, with many graces and gifts, which they faithfully used for the edification of the church. The interior may well serve as a model auditorium, so chaste and pleasing is its architecture, so convenient and appropriate, calling forth the exclamation of the sacred poet :

"How decent and how wise,

How comely to behold,

Beyond the pomp that charms the eyes
And rites adorned with gold."

Across the way is the graveyard of the old church, where the forefathers sleep who rested from their labors before the new cemetery with exceeding taste and beauty was laid out, upon one of the hills overlooking the vale. As we entered this ancient "acre" the names on the tombstones were more familiar to me than anything else I had yet seen, and each one suggested some incident or peculiarity to rehearse to my companion of this walk among the tombs. "Why, grandfather," she remarked, "you seem to know everybody in the graveyard." It was even so. I found them all here, and not one of the congregation who called and welcomed

my father to this charge is now among the living. As we picked our way among the graves, and read the inscriptions on the stones, it seemed the original of Gray's Elegy, and reminded me of Stoke Pogis and the venerable yew-trees, made ever green by those plaintive and incomparable lines.

Directly in front of the new church, with the, grove and green between, is the American Hotel, a four-story brick, with verandas, where we were nicely lodged and cared for, finding excellent rooms and beds, and comfortable table. It was an evidence of the progress of the age to find such a house, and one that can be reached by telephone from Albany or Saratoga.

Yet it was with somewhat peculiar emotions that I passed a quiet night in the midst of a people that were for the most part strangers, in the place with which, of all places on earth, the young affections of my heart were most entwined. When morning came, we began a drive all over the town, to see the homes of the fathers and friends of my childhood. You are not to be treated to any sentimental reflections; had you been in the carriage you would not have thought the memories were of the melancholy sort; rather the reverse, as the young people greeted every fresh incident and reminiscence with a merry peal.

The meadow stream which flowed by the door of the first home of my boyhood was dried up! I loved that brook more than anything else in Cambridge. Had all the hours

I spent in catching trout in it been spent in hard study, who can say but that I would know something to-day? The house itself, one story high, with a long and wide piazza in front, and the study a wing on the end, had years ago been taken down and away, and so many more and greater buildings have been reared, it is impossible for me to point out the spot where it stood. The old academy in which I first learned to say A, B, C, is supplanted by a new and braver edifice of brick, though I could imagine the learned Scotch divine, Dr. Alexander Bullions, examining me in Greek and asking, "Well, Master Sawm, what part o' the verb is thot ?" The village is so new, so "full of houses," that it has not a

solitary place or object that looks like the past. No amount of recollection could stir one pleasurable sentiment associated with other days. We hastened out of the village into the country. The farms were there; they are real estate; they stay, and the homes in which the stalwart old farmers lived were unchanged, except as the lapse of more than half a century had given them more of age. But the sons and daughters were thrifty, and the old places improve from year to year.

One of them was famous for its orchard of cherries, and once a year, when the fruit was in perfection, it was a grand holiday for us parents and children to go out to Seymour King's and spend a long summer day in gathering them, returning home at night with baskets and pails full, which were made into preserves for the next winter's use.

Another farmer, six miles away to the east, was Joseph Stewart, at whose place we all went every autumn when the nuts were ready to fall, and laid in a great store, walnuts, chestnuts and butternuts. This often occupied us two or three days and was considered the grandest frolic of the year.

In similar work and play most pleasantly blended we gathered apples and indeed all the fruits of the year in their several seasons, making each visit a time of wonderful enjoyment for the good friends who invited us, and who gathered the neighbors to meet us and have a good time generally.

This is the house where Daniel Wells, a soldier of the Revolution, held me a willing captive boy for at least a week every winter, while in the daytime he told me stories of the war and fought his battles over and over for my annual entertainment. In the evening in the large kitchen before the big blazing fire we popped corn, cracked nuts, made candy, and played all sorts of innocent, lively and noisy games, making the rafters ring with the merriment, while the old folks looked on and partook of the apples and cider which were then the best of good cheer.

And so we rode over the whole country-side, enjoying the lovely weather, the brilliant autumn scenery, and stirring up