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[Illustration: Concord Elms, on Main Street.]
A volume of reminiscences is commonly the last book that an authorpublishes, if indeed he does not leave the task to his literaryadministrator. There are not wanting, however, instances to thecontrary; and in the present case my object is more especially toattract public attention to the lives and works of two distinguishedmen, one of whom has hitherto been little appreciated, and the other,as it seems to me, greatly misunderstood. My position in regard toDavid A. Wasson has already been challenged, but I have faith that itwill endure the test of time. If these pages shall also succeed inrestoring to Wendell Phillips a portion of the fame which he lostby the wayward course of his declining years, they will not havebeen written in vain. The other characters that I have brought uponthis stage are such as both the writer and the public have long takenan interest in. To the few living personages who have been introduced,I would apologize, and excuse myself on the ground that the picturewould be imperfect without them.
To one looking westward from Boston State House there appears a line ofrugged, precipitous hills extending across the country from southwest tonortheast. Having ascended these heights, we perceive beyond them anirregular line of pale blue mountains, of which Wachusett is the mostsoutherly peak,