LETTER VII.
I can now, my beloved child, have a little talk with you in peace. By this time mamma and you must know of my arrival in this country—of my first experience in it, and how well all goes on with me: but I again have such a craving for letters from home, and am so grieved to have had but one since I came hither, and to have no knowledge of how you have recovered from your illness, and how mamma is, and all the rest at home.—I must however, soon hear, and God grant that all may be well.
I wrote lately to you from Boston: I remained there several days with my friends, the S——s, amid an incessant shower both of visits and engagements, which sometimes amused me, and sometimes drove me half to desperation, and left me scarcely time to breathe. A few of these days and hours I shall always remember with pleasure. Among the foremost of these, is a morning when I saw around me the most noble men of Massachussets; Alcott, the Platonic idealist, with a remarkably beautiful silver-haired head; the brothers Clarke; the philanthropist, Mr. Barnard; the poet, Longfellow; the young, true American poet, Lowell (a perfect Apollo in appearance), and many others. Emerson came also with a sunbeam in his strong countenance,—and people more beautiful—more perfect in form (almost all tall and well-proportioned) it would not be easy to find.
Another forenoon I saw the distinguished lawyer, Wendel Phillips, and Charles Sumner, a young giant in person; Garrison, one of the principal champions of the Abolitionist cause, and who, therefore, at a time of excitement, was dragged by the mob through the streets—of
