Next to the house of Governor Philips stood the residence of the talented and unfortunate Sir Harry Vane, who had come over with the early settlers, and afterwards been appointed governor of the province of Massachusetts. He returned to England during the protectorate of Cromwell; and after the restoration, was committed to the Tower for the republican principles he persisted in advocating. Charles the Second had him tried on a charge of high treason, and he was beheaded on Tower Hill—behaving on the scaffold with the utmost composure and dignity. He attempted to address the people, but the drums and trumpets were sounded to drown his voice. This house of Sir Harry Vane was near two centuries old. It was a large brick building, with a garden at the side. The antique back casements still retained the small diamond-shaped panes set in lead; but, when I saw the house, its front windows looked as if they had been modernized about a century ago. On my last visit to Boston, about two years since, I found that all the above-mentioned old mansions had been demolished, and their places filled with rows of modern structures suited to the utilitarian spirit of the times. The old Coolidge house, in Bowdoin Square, was still standing in 1840. It also is a large brick building, the bricks much darkened and discolored with time and damp. The house is almost hidden by enormous old trees, which cast their impervious branches so close to the windows that I wondered how its inhabitants could possibly see to do anything, unless they burned lamps or candles all day long. The dense gloominess of shade that environed this mansion, reminded me of the commencement of one of Moore’s earliest poems. “The darkness that hung upon Willemberg’s walls Has long been remember’d with grief and dismay, For years not a sunbeam had play’d in its halls, And it seem’d as shut out from the regions of day.” * * * * * AUTUMN. BY ALBERT PIKE. It is the evening of a pleasant day In these old woods. The sun profusely flings His flood of light through every narrow way That winds around the trees. His spirit clings, In orange mist, around the snowy wings Of many a patient cloud, that now, since noon, Over the western mountains idly swings, Waiting when night shall come—alas! too soon! To veil the timid blushes of the virgin moon. The trees with crimson robes are garmented: Clad with frail brilliants by the Autumn frost, For the young leaves, that Spring with beauty fed, Their greenness and luxuriance have lost, Gaining new beauty at too dear a cost: Unnatural beauty, that precedes decay. Too soon, upon the harsh winds wildly toss’d, Leaving the naked trees ghost-like and gray, These leaf-flocks, like vain hopes, will vanish all away.