At Home And Abroad | Page 4

the motives, character, and action of those noble
patriots of Italy, who strove, though for a time vainly, to make their
country free, and to deepen the sympathy which every true American
should feel with faithful men everywhere, who by art are seeking to
refine, by philanthropic exertion to elevate, by the diffusion of truth to
enlighten, or by self-sacrifice and earnest effort to free, their

fellow-men.
A.B.F.
Boston, March 1, 1856.

CONTENTS.

PART I.
SUMMER ON THE LAKES 1

PART II.
THINGS AND THOUGHTS IN EUROPE 117

PART III.
LETTERS FROM ABROAD TO FRIENDS AT HOME 423

PART IV.
HOMEWARD VOYAGE, AND MEMORIALS 441

PART I
SUMMER ON THE LAKES.
Summer days of busy leisure, Long summer days of dear-bought
pleasure, You have done your teaching well; Had the scholar means to
tell How grew the vine of bitter-sweet, What made the path for truant
feet, Winter nights would quickly pass, Gazing on the magic glass O'er
which the new-world shadows pass. But, in fault of wizard spell,
Moderns their tale can only tell In dull words, with a poor reed
Breaking at each time of need. Yet those to whom a hint suffices
Mottoes find for all devices, See the knights behind their shields,
Through dried grasses, blooming fields.
* * * * *
Some dried grass-tufts from the wide flowery field, A muscle-shell
from the lone fairy shore, Some antlers from tall woods which never
more To the wild deer a safe retreat can yield, An eagle's feather which
adorned a Brave, Well-nigh the last of his despairing band,-- For such
slight gifts wilt thou extend thy hand When weary hours a brief
refreshment crave? I give you what I can, not what I would If my small
drinking-cup would hold a flood, As Scandinavia sung those must
contain With which, the giants gods may entertain; In our dwarf day we
drain few drops, and soon must thirst again.
CHAPTER I.
NIAGARA.
Niagara, June 10, 1843.
Since you are to share with me such foot-notes as may be made on the
pages of my life during this summer's wanderings, I should not be quite
silent as to this magnificent prologue to the, as yet, unknown drama.
Yet I, like others, have little to say, where the spectacle is, for once,
great enough to fill the whole life, and supersede thought, giving us

only its own presence. "It is good to be here," is the best, as the
simplest, expression that occurs to the mind.
We have been here eight days, and I am quite willing to go away. So
great a sight soon satisfies, making us content with itself, and with what
is less than itself. Our desires, once realized, haunt us again less readily.
Having "lived one day," we would depart, and become worthy to live
another.
We have not been fortunate in weather, for there cannot be too much,
or too warm sunlight for this scene, and the skies have been lowering,
with cold, unkind winds. My nerves, too much braced up by such an
atmosphere, do not well bear the continual stress of sight and sound.
For here there is no escape from the weight of a perpetual creation; all
other forms and motions come and go, the tide rises and recedes, the
wind, at its mightiest, moves in gales and gusts, but here is really an
incessant, an indefatigable motion. Awake or asleep, there is no escape,
still this rushing round you and through you. It is in this way I have
most felt the grandeur,--somewhat eternal, if not infinite.
At times a secondary music rises; the cataract seems to seize its own
rhythm and sing it over again, so that the ear and soul are roused by a
double vibration. This is some effect of the wind, causing echoes to the
thundering anthem. It is very sublime, giving the effect of a spiritual
repetition through all the spheres.
When I first came, I felt nothing but a quiet satisfaction. I found that
drawings, the panorama, &c. had given me a clear notion of the
position and proportions of all objects here; I knew where to look for
everything, and everything looked as I thought it would.
Long ago, I was looking from a hill-side with a friend at one of the
finest sunsets that ever enriched, this world. A little cowboy, trudging
along, wondered what we could be gazing at. After spying about some
time, he found it could only be the sunset, and looking, too, a moment,
he said approvingly, "That sun looks well enough"; a speech worthy of
Shakespeare's Cloten, or the infant Mercury, up to everything from the
cradle, as you please to take it.

Even such a familiarity, worthy of Jonathan, our national hero, in a
prince's