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��An Elder of Ye Olden Time.
��AN ELDER OF YE OLDEN TIME. By E. C. Raynor.
��Forty miles west of Boston, in the small town of Grafton, not far from the middle of the last century, was born one who was destined to make his im- press upon the times in which he lived.
More than a century and a quarter has rolled away since that day, bearing in its annals a record of startling and unequalled interest in human history. Then the epoch of modern improve- ment had not yet dawned. A few Spaniards in Florida, the English set- tlements at Jamestown and on the bleak New England shores, the Dutch at New Netheilands, the French in Canada and along the northern and western frontiers, with mile after mile of unknown prairie, mountain, and forest beyond, made up America.
Some pilgrims, exiled by cruel oppres- sion from their ancestral country, watched with eager eyes this distant western land, and hailed with joy the scent of freedom blowing in every gale from off its coast. As time went on, the advan- tages of the New World and demands of trade attracted mankind, and hun- dreds of homes rose amidst the wilder- ness. History repeats itself, and the cares, the sorrows, and joys of hfe flow on the same in every clime, mid every race and creed. Cities expanded, the merchant, the farmer, the artisan, pur- sued their daily toil. Factories sprang up along the crowded streets and in the green lanes, wide and well-built highways, canals, and railroads came to be founded by gradual steps, and with a countless variety of watercourses and an abundant flow of noble rivers filled this broad and fertile country, which by the intellect, the vigor, and industry of
��man has been made to equal, if not to excel, the grandest of ancient countries.
When, in the pleasant month of May, 1754, John Leland was bom, George, the Second, ruled on the throne of his father. Boston was a small Colonial town. From the rocky promontories, where the wild Atlantic beats inces- santly, to the sunny bay where over golden sands the San Joaquin and Sac- ramento flow; the narrow Indian trail led where now the iron horse thunders over the plain, and winds around the mountain's base. An unknown Virgin- ian was making his first success upon the battle-field of Great Meadows, and General Braddock, in the pride of an assured position, trusting to laurels al- ready won, marched to Fort Duquesne and failure, and to the house of the elder Leland came with the weekly mail, borne over the mountains on horseback, reports of the latest atroci- ties in the French and Indian W^ar.
A few frail and humble inhabita- tions had been built upon rhe green meadows of Grafton. A modest school-house stood upon the village street, where an ancient dame taught in neatness and quiet the children of the people, instilling principles of industry and moderation mingled with lessons on human equality. It was here tha' John Leland received his juvenile im pressions and imbibed his thirst for learning. At five years he could read the Bible fluently, which book, he tells us, was his constant companion, not so much because he chose it, as because he had but little else to read in the meagre library to which he had access.
Although his lessons were as a rule
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