such an unromantic scene should look so visionary.

Half of the parson's dwelling was a dingy white house, and half of
it was a cloud; but Squire Moody's mansion, the grandest in the
village, was wholly visible, even the lattice-work of the balcony
under the front window; while in another place only two red chimneys
were seen above the mist, appertaining to my own paternal residence,
then tenanted by strangers. I could not remember those with whom I
had dwelt there, not even my mother. The brick edifice of the bank
was in the clouds; the foundations of what was to be a great block
of buildings had vanished, ominously, as it proved; the dry-goods
store of Mr. Nightingale seemed a doubtful concern; and Dominicus
Pike's tobacco manufactory an affair of smoke, except the splendid
image of an Indian chief in front. The white spire of the meeting-
house ascended out of the densest heap of vapor, as if that shadowy
base were its only support: or, to give a truer interpretation, the
steeple was the emblem of Religion, enveloped in mystery below, yet
pointing to a cloudless atmosphere, and catching the brightness of
the east on its gilded vane.

As I beheld these objects, and the dewy street, with grassy
intervals and a border of trees between the wheeltrack and the
sidewalks, all so indistinct, and not to be traced without an
effort, the whole seemed more like memory than reality. I would
have imagined that years had already passed, and I was far away,
contemplating that dim picture of my native place, which I should
retain in my mind through the mist of time. No tears fell from my
eyes among the dewdrops of the morning; nor does it occur to me that
I heaved a sigh. In truth, I had never felt such a delicious
excitement nor known what freedom was till that moment when I gave