nions of his cotemporaries, who--the few
surviving--believe all foreigners to be a sort of 'outside barbarians,'
and especially regard those who have participated in the revolutionary
movements of Europe as impertinent invaders of our exclusive birthright
to 'liberty, equality, and the pursuit of happiness.' Artists, in the
creed of these good old gentlemen, are mere vagrants; and so my father
comes to look upon Carl's intense love of his art, and his confidence in
his future success, justified as it is by that already achieved, as a
mere hallucination. So it is all ended--_for the present_. How subtle is
hope! it still lurks in my heart in spite of the strongest probability
that all is ended _forever_.'

* * * * *

GLEN-HOUSE, _White Hills, October 3d_.--I am resuming my unfinished
letter to you, my dear Sue, much nearer heaven than I began it. The
day of Carl's sailing from New-York, my father proposed to me to go
to Boston, take up Alice there, and come up to the hill-country.
Dear father! he was offering me a lump of sugar after the bitter
medicine, and I accepted it, sure at least of a momentary sweet
sensation, and very sure that my poor father felt comforted by the
self-complacency flowing from the enormous sacrifice he was making
in coming up to the highlands at this cold season. My sister was
glad enough to get a holiday from her nursery, so, on Monday, the
second of October, a mellow, beautiful day, we came into Boston to
take the two o'clock cars for Portland. We had three hours upon our
hands, which were pleasantly filled up by visits to a studio and a
picture-shop, and finally to refresh our mortal part, which had
been running down while we were feasting the immortal, to a
restaurateur's.

We groped our way up-stairs into a little back-room in School
street, where, if we did not find luxuries and elegance, we did
wholesome fare and civility. The rail-ride to Portland was dusty
but brief, and we arrived there in time to see its beautiful harbor
while the water reflected the roses thrown by the last rays of the
sun upon the twilight clouds. We eschewed the hotel, and were
kindly received at the boarding-house of a Miss Jones, a single
woman somewhere between thirty and forty, who so blends dignity
with graciousness, that she made us feel more like guests