Mr. Prescott has passed many studious hours, and his steps, as he has paced to and fro, have worn a perceptible path in the turf. A few rods from the house, towards the east, is another and larger pond, near which is a grove of vigorous oaks; and, in the same direction, about half a mile farther, is an extensive piece of natural woodland, through which winding paths are traced, in which a lover of nature may soon bury himself in primeval shades, under broad-armed trees which have witnessed the stealthy step of the Indian hunter, and shutting out the sights and sounds of artificial life, hear only the rustling of leaves, the tap of a woodpecker, the dropping of nuts, the whir of a partridge, or the iron call of a sentinel crow.

The house is not occupied by the family during the heats of summer; but they remove to it as soon as the cool mornings and evenings proclaim that summer is over. The region is one which appears to peculiar advantage under an autumnal sky. The slopes and uplands are gay with the orange and crimson of the maples, the sober scarlet and brown of the oaks, and the warm yellow of the hickories. A delicate gold-dust vapor hangs in the air, wraps the valleys in dreamy folds, and softens all the distant outlines. The bracing air and elastic turf invite to long walks or rides, the warm noons are delightful for driving; and the country in the neighborhood, veined with roads and lanes that wind and turn and make no haste to come to an end, is well suited for all these forms of exercise. There is a boat on the Nissitisset for those who are fond of aquatic excursions, and a closet-full of books for a rainy day. Among these are two works which seem in perfect unison

with the older portion of the house and its ancient furniture - Theobald's Shakspeare and an early edition of the Spectator--both bound in snuff-colored calf, and printed on paper yellow with age; and the latter adorned with those delicious copperplate engravings which perpetuate a costume so ludicrously absurd, that the wonder is that the wearers could ever have left off laughing at each other long enough to attend to any of the business of life. When the cool evenings begin to set in with something of a wintry chill in the air, wood-fires are kindled in the spacious chimneys, which animate the low ceilings with their restless gleams, and when they have burned down, the dying embers diffuse a ruddy glow, which is just the light to tell a ghost-story by, such as may befit the narrow rambling passages of the old farmhouse, and send a rosy cheek to bed a little paler than usual.

While Mr. Prescott is at Pepperell, a portion of every day is given to study; and the remainder is spent in long walks or drives, in listening to reading, or in the social circle of his family and guests. Under his roof there is always house-room and heart-room for his own friends and those of his children. Indeed, he has followed the advice of some wise man-Dr. Johnson, perhaps, upon whom all vagrant scraps of wisdom are fathered-and kept his friendships in repair, making the friends of his children his own friends. There are many persons, not members of the family, who have become extremely attached to the place, from the happy hours they have spent there. There may be seen upon the window-sill of one of the rooms a few lines in pencil, by a young lady whose beauty and sweetness make

her a great favorite among her friends, expressing her sense of a delightful visit made there, some two or three years since. Had similar records been left by all, of the happy days passed under this roof, the walls of the house would be hardly enough to hold them.

And this sketch may be fitly concluded with the expres sion of an earnest wish that thus it may long be. May the future be like the past. May the hours which pass over a house honored by so much worth and endeared by so much kindness, bring with them no other sorrows than such as the providence of God has inseparably linked to our mortal state-such as soften and elevate the heart, and, by gently weaning it from earth, help to "dress the soul" for its new home.

In reply to the publisher's request for a page of Mr. Prescott's manuscript, to be copied in fac-simile, the following interesting note has been received:

"MY DEAR SIR:

NAHANT, July 9, 1852.

"As you desire, I send you a specimen of my autograph. It is the concluding page of one of the chapters of the "Conquest of Peru"-Book III., Cap. 3. The writing is not, as you may imagine, made by a pencil, but is indelible, being made with an apparatus used by the blind. This is a very simple affair, consisting of a frame of the size of a common sheet of letter-paper, with brass wires inserted in

it to correspond with the number of lines wanted. On one side of this frame is pasted a leaf of thin carbonated paper, such as is used to obtain duplicates. Instead of a pen, the writer makes use of a stylus, of ivory or agate, the last better or harder. The great difficulties in the way of a blind man's writing in the usual manner, arise from his not knowing when the ink is exhausted in his pen, and when his lines run into one another. Both difficulties are obviated by this simple writing-case, which enables one to do his work as well in the dark as in the light. Though my trouble is not blindness, but a disorder of the nerve of the eye, the effect, as far as this is concerned, is the same, and I am wholly incapacitated for writing in the ordinary way. In this manner I have written every word of my historicals. This modus operandi exposes one to some embarrassments; for, as one cannot see what he is doing on the other side of the paper, any more than a performer in the treadmill sees what he is grinding on the other side of the wall, it becomes very difficult to make corrections. This requires the subject to be pretty thoroughly canvassed in the mind, and all the blots and erasures to be made there before taking up the pen, or rather the stylus. This compels me to go over my composition to the extent of a whole chapter, however long it may be, several times in my mind before setting down to my desk. When there, the work becomes one of memory rather than of creation, and the writing is apt to run off glibly enough. A letter which I received some years since from the French historian, Thierry, who is totally blind, urged me by all means to cultivate the habit of dictation, to which he had resorted; and James, the eminent novelist,

who has adopted his habits, finds it favorable to facility of composition. But I have been too long accustomed to my own way to change. And, to say truth, I never dictated a sentence in my life for publication, without its falling so flat on my ear that I felt almost ashamed to send it to the press. I suppose it is habit.

"One thing I may add. My manuscript is usually too illegible (I have sent you a favorable specimen) for the press, and it is always fairly copied by an amanuensis before it is consigned to the printer. I have accompanied the autograph with these explanations, which are at your service, if you think they will have interest for your readers. My modus operandi has the merit of novelty, at least I have never heard of any history monger who has adopted it besides myself.

"I remain, dear Sir,

"Very truly yours,

"WM. H. PRESCOTT."