I have not been particularly anxious to give the geography of the scene, inasmuch as it seemed to me no route, nor series of stations, but a garden interspersed with cottages, groves and flowery lawns, through which a stately river ran.  I had no guide-book, kept no diary, do not know how many miles we travelled each day, nor how many in all.  What I got from the journey was the poetic impression of the country at large; it is all I have aimed to communicate.

The narrative might have been made much more interesting, as life was at the time, by many piquant anecdotes and tales drawn from private life.  But here courtesy restrains the pen, for I know those who received the stranger with such frank kindness would feel ill requited by its becoming the means of fixing many spy-glasses, even though the scrutiny might be one of admiring interest, upon their private homes.

For many of these, too, I was indebted to a friend, whose property they more lawfully are.  This friend was one of those rare beings who are equally at home in nature and with man.  He knew a tale of all that ran and swam, and flew, or only grew, possessing that extensive familiarity with things which shows equal sweetness of sympathy and playful penetration.  Most refreshing to me was his unstudied lore, the unwritten poetry which common life presents to a strong and gentle mind.  It was a great contrast to the subtleties of analysis, the philosophic strainings of which I had seen too much.  But I will not attempt to transplant it.  May it profit others as it did me in the region where it was born, where it belongs.  The evening of our return to Chicago the sunset was of a splendor and calmness beyond any we saw at the West.  The twilight that succeeded was equally beautiful; soft, pathetic, but just so calm.  When afterwards I learned this was the evening of Allston’s death, it seemed to me as if this glorious pageant was not without connection with that event; at least, it inspired similar emotions,—­a heavenly gate closing a path adorned with shows well worthy Paradise.

* * * * *

  Farewell, ye soft and sumptuous solitudes! 
  Ye fairy distances, ye lordly woods,
  Haunted by paths like those that Poussin knew,
  When after his all gazers eyes he drew;
  I go,—­and if I never more may steep
  An eager heart in your enchantments deep,
  Yet ever to itself that heart may say,
  Be not exacting; thou hast lived one day;
  Hast looked on that which matches with thy mood,
  Impassioned sweetness of full being’s flood,
  Where nothing checked the bold yet gentle wave,
  Where nought repelled the lavish love that gave. 
  A tender blessing lingers o’er the scene,
  Like some young mother’s thought, fond, yet serene,
  And through its life new-born our lives have been. 
  Once more farewell,—­a sad, a sweet farewell;
  And, if I never must behold you more,