so peculiar a kind, and has, like the character of the poet, its own extraordinary rhythm and spirit.
Henry Longfellow, the author of “Evangeline,” is perhaps the best read and the most popular of the poets of America, but this is owing to qualities which are common alike to the elder poets of all countries, rather than to any peculiar characteristics of the New World's poets. Those sentiments, whether happy or sorrowful, which exist in the breast of every superior human being, are peculiarly his domain, and here he exercises his sway; and in particular, in his delineation of the more delicate changes of feeling. In “Evangeline” alone has he dealt with an American subject, and described American scenery.
But enough now, my sweet sister, of this poesy of morning. We will now have our dinner. Men of the two countries are invited, and yet a third, namely, the Swedish Consul, from Boston, Mr. Benzon, who is coming to see me.
In the Evening.—The day is ended with its changing scenes and impressions. If I could only take everything more coolly! But I am too ardent, too easily excited. Every impression goes directly to my heart—and there it remains too strongly impressed. I am alone in my room, and see from my window, through the dark yet star-bright night the steamboats which pass along the Hudson, and send forth from their chimneys sulphur-blue and yellow flames.
To-morrow morning I am going with the Downings to visit some of their best friends, a family of the name of H., who live on the Hudson, in the neighbourhood of Washington Irving. And next week I return to New York, there to begin my campaign, for which this little taste of rural life and society is merely a prelude.
Among the people who, during this time, have come to see me are in particular a married couple, Mr. and Mrs. S.,
