ark, as if he might throw that passenger overboard and return forthwith for himself; he will compensate him.  He is to break his fast at some unseen place on the opposite side.  It may be Ledyard or the Wandering Jew.  Whence, pray, did he come out of the foggy night? and whither through the sunny day will he go?  We observe only his transit; important to us, forgotten by him, transiting all day.  There are two of them.  May be, they are Virgil and Dante.  But when they crossed the Styx, none were seen bound up or down the stream, that I remember.  It is only a transjectus, a transitory voyage, like life itself, none but the long-lived gods bound up or down the stream.  Many of these Monday men are ministers, no doubt, reseeking their parishes with hired horses, with sermons in their valises all read and gutted, the day after never with them.  They cross each other’s routes all the country over like woof and warp, making a garment of loose texture; vacation now for six days.  They stop to pick nuts and berries, and gather apples by the wayside at their leisure.  Good religious men, with the love of men in their hearts, and the means to pay their toll in their pockets.  We got over this ferry chain without scraping, rowing athwart the tide of travel,—­no toll for us that day.

The fog dispersed and we rowed leisurely along through Tyngsborough, with a clear sky and a mild atmosphere, leaving the habitations of men behind and penetrating yet farther into the territory of ancient Dunstable.  It was from Dunstable, then a frontier town, that the famous Captain Lovewell, with his company, marched in quest of the Indians on the 18th of April, 1725.  He was the son of “an ensign in the army of Oliver Cromwell, who came to this country, and settled at Dunstable, where he died at the great age of one hundred and twenty years.”  In the words of the old nursery tale, sung about a hundred years ago,—­

     “He and his valiant soldiers did range the woods full wide,
      And hardships they endured to quell the Indian’s pride.”

In the shaggy pine forest of Pequawket they met the “rebel Indians,” and prevailed, after a bloody fight, and a remnant returned home to enjoy the fame of their victory.  A township called Lovewell’s Town, but now, for some reason, or perhaps without reason, Pembroke, was granted them by the State.

     “Of all our valiant English, there were but thirty-four,
      And of the rebel Indians, there were about four-score;
      And sixteen of our English did safely home return,
      The rest were killed and wounded, for which we all must mourn.

     “Our worthy Capt.  Lovewell among them there did die,
      They killed Lieut.  Robbins, and wounded good young Frye,
      Who was our English Chaplin; he many Indians slew,
      And some of them he scalped while bullets round him flew.”