to the Circassians upon the Caucasus now contending for liberty against the whole power of Russian despotism. Can we find in the plain country of any nation on earth samples of a valorous, a chivalrous, an indomitable spirit such as these? Where is the district of country that can present a race of men more devoted to liberty and independence, more courageous and daring, than those who came from the hill and mountain towns of New England to fight the enemies of the country at Lexington and Bunker Hill? Such men as Rogers and Stark, in their snow-shoes, in the war of 1756, could do more with a single company of rangers, natives of New-England mountain towns, to keep at bay and annoy the French and savage foe, than Lord Howe's entire command of several thousand British troops.

The mountain region of New Hampshire has been denominated the Switzerland of America. Our scenery is surpassed in beauty by no scenery on earth. Coming down from our mountains, I would direct your attention to our beautiful lakes. The eye never traced a more splendid prospect than the view from Red Hill. The view from Mount Washington shows the high mountains around as successive dark waves of the sea at your feet, and all other objects, the villages and sea, as more indistinct from their distance. The view from Red Hill, an elevation of some twenty-five hundred feet, which is gained on horseback, brings all objects distinctly to the naked eye. On the one hand the Winnipiseogee lake, twenty-two miles in length, with its bays and islands and surrounding villages and farms of parti-colored fields, spreads out like a field of glass at the southeast. Loch Lomond with all its splendor and beauty presents no scenery that is not equalled in the environs of the Winnipiseogee. Its suite of hills and mountains serves as a contrast to increase its splendor. We stand upon the higher of the three points of Red Hill, limited every where by regular circular lines and elegant in its figure beyond most other mountains. The autumnal foliage, overspreading the ranges of mountains, in the season after vege

MOUNTAINS OF NEW HAMPSHIRE.

77

tation has been arrested by the frosts, is a beauty in our scenery that has never been described by any inhabitant of Great Britain, because no such scenery ever there existed.

If Mr. Jefferson thought a single point upon the Potomac where that river breaks through the Blue Ridge to be worth to the European observer a voyage across the Atlantic, will it be deemed extravagant if I should say to the inhabitants of a town or city of the United States any where along the Atlantic ocean, that the Notch of the White Hills, the Notch of the Franconia mountains, the Cascade or the Flume, or the Face of the Old Man, or the view from Red Hill, one alone or all together, are worth ten times the expense and labor of a journey of one hundred, five hundred or one thousand miles?

*

WEST'S PICTURE OF THE INFANT SAMUEL.

BY REV. EPHRAIM PEABODY.

IN childhood's spring-ah! blessed spring!
(As flowers closed up at even,
Unfold in morning's earliest beam,)
The heart unfolds to heaven.
Ah! blessed child! that trustingly
Adores, and loves, and fears,
And to a Father's voice replies,
Speak, Lord! thy servant hears.

When youth shall come-ah! blessed youth!
If still the pure heart glows,

And in the world and word of God,
Its Maker's language knows;

If in the night and in the day,
Midst youthful joys or fears,
The trusting heart can answer still,
Speak, Lord! thy servant hears.

When age shall come ah! blessed age!

If in its lengthening shade,

When life grows faint, and earthly lights
Recede, and sink and fade;

Ah! blessed age! if then heaven's light
Dawns on the closing eye;

And faith unto the call of God,
Can answer, Here am I !

THE FATHER'S CHOICE.*

BY MRS. SARAH J. HALE.

Now fly as flies the rushing wind,
Urge, urge thy lagging steed!
The savage yell is fierce behind,
And life is on thy speed;

And from those dear ones make thy choice:
The group he wildly eyed,

When father!" burst from every voice,

And "child!" his heart replied.

There's one that now can share his toil,
And one he meant for fame,

And one that wears her mother's smile,
And one that bears her name.

And one will prattle on his knee,
Or slumber on his breast;
And one whose joys of infancy
Are still by smiles expressed.

They feel no fear while he is near;
He'll shield them from the foe:
But oh! his ear must thrill to hear
Their shriekings, should he go.

In vain his quivering lips would speak,
No words his thoughts allow :
There's burning tears upon his cheek,
Death's marble on his brow.

*In the year 1697, a body of Indians attacked the town of Haverhill, Massachusetts, killed and carried into captivity forty inhabitants. A party of the Indians approached the house of an individual, who was abroad at his labor, but who, on their approach, hastened to the house, sent his children out, and ordered them to fly in a course opposite to that in which danger was approaching. He then mounted his horse, and determined to snatch up the child with which he was unwilling to part, when he should overtake the little flock. When he came up to them, about two hundred yards from his house, he was unable to make a choice, or to leave any one of the number. He therefore determined to take his lot with them, and defend them from their murderers, or die by their side. A body of the Indians pursued, and came up with him; and when at a short distance, fired on him and his little company. He returned the fire, and retreated alternately; still, however, keeping a resolute face to the enemy, and so effectually sheltered his charge, that he finally lodged them all safe in a distant house.