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A Narrative of Some Extraordinary Circumstances Few places in our country have any traditions of moment associated with them, and of these few a very small proportion are the objects of superstitious awe. Here and there, however, you meet with a spot memorable for one of those terrible interpositions of Providence which seem directly aimed to punish or prevent guilt. The state of religious belief in our country readily adopts these solutions of the ways of Heaven, and the freedom with which the motives of the Ruler of all things for permitting a particular event to happen is assigned, were it not for the profound sincerity and solemnity with which it is accompanied, might justly be thought daring and irreverent. I knew one of those spots not many years since. It was in a kind of wild neglected pasture that stretched along the side of a hill worn into terraces by the paths of cattle and sheep. At one end, close to the skirt of a tall wood, was a circle of ground nearly level, in the middle of which was sunk a little hollow, four or five feet over, bordered with fragments of rock and half surrounded by bushes. I often used to visit it, for it commanded a beautiful view of the surrounding mountains, the valley between, and the river which flowed through the valley. In the northeast the smoke-wreaths from the houses that stood unseen between the hills rose as if proceeding directly from the ground, and the spire of the church looked as if planted in the midst of a green field. A little farther to the south the hills receded from each other, the meadows grew wider and wider, and the river came forth as if issuing from a chasm in the earth, and glided away, rejoicing, through the thick grass and occasional borderings of trees till its course was lost to the sight. I became the more fond of this little nook as a kind of dread with which the neighbourhood regarded it had caused it to be abandoned to me alone. The snow at the end of winter, whether from the natural warmth of the soil or the favorable exposure, was melted away here sooner than in the neighbouring fields, and the verdure was earlier and a narrative of some extraordinary circumstances 48 brighter. I found the fragments of rock about the little hollow edged with the first flowers of spring. The blossoms of the liver-leaf and of the vernal saxifrage wagged their heads in the first soft winds of the season. A little later, the erythronium opened and glittered in the dew like a jewel of beaten gold for the ear of an Indian princess. I came hither in the summer to gather the black raspberry which ripened in the sun to an intense sweetness and was never plucked save by myself and the birds that built their nests unscared on the neighbouring shrubs. I loved to sit here in the long days of June and look out upon the valleys that lay in the deluge of light and heat, and watch the shadows of the clouds as they ran along the sides of the mountains. In autumn I found, on the alders and witch hazels, clusters of the wild grape which the schoolboy had left untouched. I knew well that some tradition of horror was connected with the place, but I cared not to inquire into its particulars, for I did not wish to mingle ideas of human suffering and guilt with those of the peace and innocence of nature. At last the story was told me. One of those kind communicative beings who cannot bear that any body should remain ignorant of any thing concerning which it is in their power to afford information, one day insisted on my knowing the whole, and common courtesy obliged me to listen. I have committed his narrative to writing, relating the circumstances in my own way. At a little distance from the spot I have described, and near the foot of the hill, were to be seen at the time of which I am speaking, and probably are to be seen yet, the ruins of an old dwelling. A square hollow showed where the cellar had been, and the shape of the old sills on which the house was built was still discernible under the green turf by which they were over-grown. A patch of tansy and a few long...

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