quite through the rock, so that a portion of the river leaks through in anticipation of the fall.  Some of these pot-holes at Amoskeag, in a very hard brown-stone, had an oblong, cylindrical stone of the same material loosely fitting them.  One, as much as fifteen feet deep and seven or eight in diameter, which was worn quite through to the water, had a huge rock of the same material, smooth but of irregular form, lodged in it.  Everywhere there were the rudiments or the wrecks of a dimple in the rock; the rocky shells of whirlpools.  As if by force of example and sympathy after so many lessons, the rocks, the hardest material, had been endeavoring to whirl or flow into the forms of the most fluid.  The finest workers in stone are not copper or steel tools, but the gentle touches of air and water working at their leisure with a liberal allowance of time.

Not only have some of these basins been forming for countless ages, but others exist which must have been completed in a former geological period.  In deepening the Pawtucket Canal, in 1822, the workmen came to ledges with pot-holes in them, where probably was once the bed of the river, and there are some, we are told, in the town of Canaan in this State, with the stones still in them, on the height of land between the Merrimack and Connecticut, and nearly a thousand feet above these rivers, proving that the mountains and the rivers have changed places.  There lie the stones which completed their revolutions perhaps before thoughts began to revolve in the brain of man.  The periods of Hindoo and Chinese history, though they reach back to the time when the race of mortals is confounded with the race of gods, are as nothing compared with the periods which these stones have inscribed.  That which commenced a rock when time was young, shall conclude a pebble in the unequal contest.  With such expense of time and natural forces are our very paving-stones produced.  They teach us lessons, these dumb workers; verily there are “sermons in stones, and books in the running streams.”  In these very holes the Indians hid their provisions; but now there is no bread, but only its old neighbor stones at the bottom.  Who knows how many races they have served thus?  By as simple a law, some accidental by-law, perchance, our system itself was made ready for its inhabitants.

These, and such as these, must be our antiquities, for lack of human vestiges.  The monuments of heroes and the temples of the gods which may once have stood on the banks of this river are now, at any rate, returned to dust and primitive soil.  The murmur of unchronicled nations has died away along these shores, and once more Lowell and Manchester are on the trail of the Indian.