Rode away from Westfield at ten in the morning, halting just beyond the village at the pretty home of W. N. Allen, where I passed a very pleasant half-hour. While looking after the interests of a large farm, Mr. Allen and his family were very much interested in art matters, and showed me several valuable paintings which they had recently purchased. I was delighted to find such refinement and taste, for one is apt to believe that where people are not in direct intercourse with congenial elements, they are apt to lose their interest in the arts. As I looked over their well-kept acres, and model buildings, I thought of the influence such lives must exert over the community in which they are passed. On my way toward North East, I passed again through a fine fruit region, stopping for dinner at a little hamlet known as State Line. [Illustration: A COTTAGE ON THE HILLSIDE.] At first the prospects for the "inner man" looked rather doubtful, as I came up to the solitary State Line House, but a few moments' search brought me to the landlord, who was hoeing in a cornfield, and my wants were soon supplied. By five o'clock I was riding into the borough of North-East, where I found a number of people awaiting me. Upon dismounting, I learned that I was announced to lecture in the Town Hall that evening. This was a surprise, but I was ready to comply. The village band escorted me after supper to the hall, taking a position in front of the audience, and giving us "Hail Columbia" before, and "The Sword of Bunker Hill" after the lecture. The hall was so crowded that many were compelled to stand, and if hearty applause is an evidence of satisfaction, I may consider my effort to entertain the North-Easters a success. Captain Bronson Orton, a lawyer of the place, made the introduction, and I afterwards had a chat with him about experiences in Georgia, as he was with Sherman's army during its march from Atlanta to the Sea, and was quite familiar with many of its incidents. I too had followed the great strategist through that State, although in a very different capacity; it having been my lot to drop into the rear of his conquering legions during my escape from Southern prisons. The trying circumstances which I passed through, when I evaded the guard at Sylvania, the cautious tramps by day, and vigilance by night, in the friendly swamps, came back after the intervening twelve years, with all the vividness of yesterday. I related my experiences with the negroes and, meeting with good old March Dasher, who led me rejoicing into the Federal camp.