at West Point. The view was glorious, but the day oppressively hot and without any air. The vessels glided along the mirror-like Hudson, I know not by what power, for wind there was none.
At the table d'hôte, at dinner, there sate before us two meagre, sallow-complexioned, sickly-looking little girls, quite by themselves, who drank wine and ate all sorts of delicacies like grown-up people. This did not escape Downing's grave and disapproving glance. He said to me:—
“This is one of the circumstances upon which I wish you to turn the general attention! There is so much done for children in this country; people look upon them as almost sacred beings, and yet children are spoiled by regular neglect!”
“You must take this as a present from me to your sister Agatha,” said Downing giving me a large, beautiful copper-plate engraving of the view from West Point.
His last gift to me was Bartlett's valuable work “American Scenery,” and Miss Cooper's “Rural Hours;” that was at New York. At the Astor-House we parted, where we had first met; I felt that we parted for ever on earth.
Marcus S., pale with the heat, always kind and attentive, came with his carriage to take me to his home.
It is now late in the evening, my last evening in the New World. The heat is horrible; the nights bring with them no refreshment. People look as if their faces were floured. All things seem to suffer and to pant.
I cannot conceive how it is possible for me to be ready by morning. Good-night!
I shall soon behold Sweden once more! Ah, if then, when I come from Denmark, I could only see your sweet face on the shore—your blue eyes!
My dear heart, I have longed greatly to receive yet one letter more from you before I left America, which would tell me that you had become warm again; the two
