The New England Magazine, Volume 1, No. 1, January 1886 | Page 8

the gallant men of Boston who lost their lives in defence of the Government.
On that pleasant morning in 1817, neither the beautiful new city nor the sad monument greeted the eye of the good Colonel, for the Common formed the western boundary of the town, and the British earthworks were still upon the little hill.
Could he have had a prophetic vision of the one, his honest pride in his native town would have risen almost to ecstasy. Could he have known of the other, his patriotic soul would have sunk within him, and the pleasure of his day's journey would have given place to grief.
Rounding the Common, by the Hancock mansion, with its lilac bushes and curiously wrought iron balcony, Walnut Street was soon reached, and, near its junction with Mount Vernon Street, the house of Mr. Webster.
The future "Defender of the Constitution" was no sluggard. It was his habit to "Rise with the lark and greet the purpling east," to use one of his favorite quotations, and the carriage had hardly stopped when he appeared, and, exchanging kindly greetings with the Colonel, took his place beside him.
Mr. Webster was at this time thirty-five years old, and had taken up his residence in Boston to resume the practice of his profession, after representing his native State of New Hampshire for two terms in Congress.
Col. Perkins was among the first to recognize his abilities, and a strong attachment had grown up between them. A marked element in the Colonel's character was his constant desire to investigate for himself remarkable developments in nature and art; and on this occasion, when he expected an unusual gratification of his curiosity, no company could be more congenial than that of his friend, the young advocate.
As the two companions made their way down the north side of Beacon Hill towards Charlestown bridge, their conversation, cheerful and even gay through the prospect of an interesting and pleasant excursion, turned from private matters to topics of local interest, and thence to national affairs.
Mr. Webster's experiences at Washington naturally took the lead, and were listened to with attention by his companion. Mr. Monroe was at this time taking an extended tour through the Northern States, having occupied the presidential chair but a few months; the "era of good feeling" had fairly commenced, partisan violence had for the time abated, and the country was at peace with all the powers of the earth.
Soon our travellers pass Charlestown bridge, leaving Copp's Hill and Christ Church, with its memories of Paul Revere, behind them, and approach Bunker's Hill, where eight years later Mr. Webster was to inaugurate the building of the monument with an eloquent address.
Next they cross the bridge to Chelsea, and, continuing their way through the little village beyond, the long stretch of the Salem Turnpike over the Lynn marshes opens to them, with the wooded heights of Saugus on the north, the wide sands of Lynn beach on the south, and few signs of life beside the skimming flight of wild fowl and the occasional plunge of a seal at their approach.
And now the wide expanse of land and sea, and the cool breeze stealing in from the water, turn their conversation to things maritime and foreign, to the wonders of the deep, and to the danger of those who "go down to the sea in ships," and brave its storms and hidden rocks.
The Colonel, from his youth fond of travel, had now many a story to tell of his early voyages on business to Charleston, Saint Domingo, Batavia, and Canton, and of his visits to Europe, one of which brought him in contact with some of the stirring scenes of the French Revolution in 1792.
Thus beguiling the time, they pass through the village of Lynn, with a glance at High Rock on the one side and a longer look on the beautiful peninsula of Nahant on the other. Between Lynn and Salem lies a rocky and sterile tract, to this day almost without an inhabitant, but not without its picturesque and beautiful spots, like that for instance about the little pond, which is crossed by the floating bridge, through the cracks of whose rude floor the water spouts in miniature geysers as the carriage rolls across.
Near by is the region where the famous witchcraft delusion took its rise; but reminiscences of this cruel drama are cut short by the abrupt transition to the closely-built streets of Salem, where our friends soon find themselves moving on through Essex Street, passing the East India Marine Hall, containing the contributions of Salem's numerous merchants and mariners, passing also the White mansion, a few years later to be the scene of a foul murder, in the investigation of which Mr. Webster was to make one of his most eloquent pleas, thence by