people which, proportionate to that scenery, is springing up in their midst to fill a yet vaster futurity, is dearer to me than a dream. America is our brother land, and, though a younger brother, sits already in the teacher's seat and expounds the common rights of our humanity. It would be strange if we in England did not love and exult in America. . . . It is delightful and encouraging to me to think that there, 'among the cataracts and mountains,' which I shall never see—and there is 'dream-land'—sound the voices of friends; and it shall be a constant effort with me to deserve presently, in some better measure, the kindness for which I never can be more grateful than now.
"We have one Shakespeare between us—your land and ours—have we not? And one Milton? And now we are waiting for you to give tis another. Niagara ought,
Shall pass into his face."
In the meantime we give honour to those tuneful voices of your people, which prophesy a yet sweeter music than they utter. . . .
"You will wonder a good deal, but would do so less if you were aware of the seclusion of my life, when I tell you that I never consciously stood face to face with an American in the whole course of it. I never had any sort of personal acquaintance with an American man or woman; therefore you are all dreamed dreams to me—'gentle dreams' I may well account you."
In another characteristic letter, written about this time to her American correspondent, Miss Barrett says:—
"Poor Hood is dying, in a state of perfect preparation
