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 Phœbus 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!”