Thus he often good-humouredly teases me, knowing, as he does, my abhorrence of the American autograph collectors. We spent the evening pleasantly reading by turns from our favourite poets, Lowell, Bryant, and Emerson. It was twelve o'clock when we separated, and I went to my room. But I remained up for some time, listening through the open window to the softly plashing rain, drinking in the balsamic air, and allowing the breath of a new life to penetrate my very being.
I remained yet a few days at the Astor House with the Downings. During these we visited the Exhibition of the American Art-Union in New York. Among the paintings of native artists, I saw none which indicated peculiar genius, with the exception of a large historical painting from the first Mexican War between the Spaniards and the Indians. A few pieces of sculpture gave me great pleasure, from their delicacy of expression and mastership in execution. Among these in particular was a marble bust of Proserpine, and a fisher-boy listening to the sound of the sea in a conch-shell, both the works of the American artist Hiram Powers. One could almost wish for something greater and more national in subject; but greater beauty, or more perfection in form, would be impossible. Just opposite to the room of the American Art-Union they have placed, with good judgment, as it seemed to me, the so-called Düsseldorf Gallery, a collection of old paintings, principally of the German school, which has been opened for the benefit and instruction of American artists and lovers of art. But the want of time prevented me from visiting this gallery, at the present moment.
Among other good things which awaited me here was an offer from a much-esteemed publisher of New York, Mr. George Putnam, the same who is bringing out the works of Miss Sedgwick, to publish a new and handsome edition of my writings, which have hitherto been
