Harry was much pleased with the New England people—there seemed some peculiar traits about them, some habits of thought, which denoted the source from which they sprung, and which told of the pilgrim band who sought here refuge from oppression. Though their step and songs of praise were heard no more in the land, and the neat villages, with their pretty churches, spoke of the refinement of taste, still there appeared a vestige of the pilgrims’ spirit, and the pilgrims’ feelings broadly marked on her sons and daughters. In Boston Harry met an old acquaintance, Mr. Pluribusi, who was very attentive to him, kindly showing him all the lions in the city and around the neighborhood. One afternoon Mr. Pluribusi and he were taking their customary drive, when they found themselves upon one of those gentle elevations from which a fine view of the surrounding scenery may be obtained. The landscape was beautiful beyond description. In the distance lay the city of Boston, clothed by the bright rays of Phoebus in a glorious robe of golden light. The clear waters of its noble bay rolled on in silent grandeur, whilst gallant vessels, with every sail set, went careering, all life and bravery, before the wind, and tiny barks were glittering upon its polished surface; some drawing nearer, others lost in the distant expanse of ocean; opposed to this, neat and beautiful villages, with their modest church steeples, diversified with such signs of life as in a rural prospect the eye delights to meet; cattle grazing in the meadows, or wending homeward, children playing before the cottage-doors, laborers at work in the field, or with hearty steps and cheerful faces advancing to the reward of their day’s toil.

The New England landscape has invariably been admired and praised by travelers, but its sentiment is very often overlooked. Its chief charm exists in its calm tranquillity—in the air of repose, happiness and assured security it breathes. All is perfect serenity, and the gazer feels that he is in the land of freedom and plenty; even the busy bee, as heavily laden he journeys homeward, lights on the flowers in seeming sport, as if he knew there was no danger of disturbance. The height on which Harry and his friend had stopped, was clothed with summer verdure, and adorned with rows of handsome houses, each having a beautiful garden attached to it, where countless flowers of various dyes peeped forth, amid innumerable shrubs and creeping, clinging ivy, or were so shaded by the bending willow and graceful hazel, that the summer sun in its mid-day glory could only enter here and there in a few broken coquetish beams. Struck with the extreme beauty of one of those gardens, Harry gazed wistfully into the cultivated enclosure.

“What a beautiful garden,” exclaimed he, in undisguised admiration. “And look! oh look, Mr. Pluribusi, what a sweet, pretty girl there is in it, too!”

Mr. Pluribusi seemed amused, for he laughed as Harry continued to give utterance to his admiration.

“Why she is a perfect beauty—how like a fairy-shape she flits among the roses—can any thing so glorious be earthly? Oh! how I wish I knew her.”

Never, indeed, was there a more beautiful picture than that young girl as she glided about, with the mellow sunlight falling around her sylph-like form. Her hair, which was a rich and shining black, was gathered into a knot behind, and laid in soft bands over her pure and polished brow. Her eyes were of that deep, full blue which is so rare, large and bright, and full of fire and spirit. The star of intellectuality beamed from her animated countenance, and spoke of a soul within that admitted of no influence to thwart its loftiness of purpose, or sully its innocence and purity. She was twining a garland of rose-buds, heliotrope and mignonette, and more than once was she seen to press the flowers to her ruby lips, while a peculiar witchery played over her features.

“Would that I knew her,” repeated Harry.

“Well, I will introduce you, for, to tell you the truth, I came here for that very purpose,” replied his companion; “but beware!” he added, shaking his finger, “for I begin to suspect that wicked urchin, Cupid, intends playing some of his mischievous pranks here.”

“Indeed, the place seems a fitting one for his votaries,” returned Harry, earnestly, as they entered the gateway.

Miss Bryarly, who was introduced to our hero as the niece of Mr. Pluribusi, received him with a soft, enchanting grace, which completed his fascination. This passage of Moore came into his mind, for he felt—

Miss Bryarly was not one of those who pass the time within doors, when the light, the air, and the glorious sunshine tempted her abroad. She invited her guests to take a stroll through the grounds, and pointed out the most beautiful spots, with an animated face glowing with enthusiasm; and Harry’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he listened to the eloquent tones of her low, sweet voice. There were here groves of lofty trees, with winding avenues between them, and shrubbery of the rarest and most beautiful kinds, with flowers of every hue and fragrance, which loaded the air with odorous sweets, and lawns which looked like velvet. A stream of water, pure as crystal, wound along with gentle murmurs, and served to impart an Eden-like aspect to the place. Their walk was prolonged until after sunset had lent its golden light to beautify the scene; then a summons to the tea-table was almost reluctantly obeyed. It was late when Harry tore himself away, charmed with Mr. Bryarly, and completely fascinated by his daughter. His enthusiastic nature afforded a striking contrast to the calm, dignified temper of Mr. Bryarly, and, as it frequently happens in such cases, they were mutually pleased with each other. Mr. Bryarly liked Harry’s frankness and warm-heartedness, while Harry was delighted with the cordial kindness, the strong good sense, and the deep insight into human nature which he found in his new friend. It is unnecessary to expatiate upon our hero’s gratification at finding himself invited to partake of the hospitality of Mr. Bryarly, or to say that he took full advantage of it. A few days glided swiftly by, each one finding him at Mary Bryarly’s side, studying the changes of her sweet face, which appeared to him like a volume of “unwritten poetry,” which no one could read but himself. Sometimes they walked together, and often he would read passages from his favorite authors to her; then, in return, she would point out the beauties, and explain the character and qualities of her various plants; and the interest he seemed to take in her tastes and pursuits, gave them new importance in her eyes. “With her conversing he forgot all time;” but at length a letter from his father recalled him to Virginia.

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