.--Poetical Scenes in Paris

XLVI.--A Glimpse of Normandy

XLVII.--Lockhart, Bernard Barton and Croly--London Chimes and Greenwich
Fair

XLVIII.--Homeward Bound--Conclusion

TO

FRANK TAYLOR,

THESE RECORDS OF THE PILGRIMAGE,

WHOSE TOILS AND ENJOYMENTS WE HAVE SHARED TOGETHER,

ARE

AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

BY

HIS RELATIVE AND FRIEND.

VIEWS A-FOOT.

CHAPTER I.

THE VOYAGE.

An enthusiastic desire of visiting the Old World haunted me from early
childhood. I cherished a presentiment, amounting almost to belief, that
I should one day behold the scenes, among which my fancy had so long
wandered. The want of means was for a time a serious check to my
anticipations; but I could not content myself to wait until I had slowly
accumulated so large a sum as tourists usually spend on their travels.
It seemed to me that a more humble method of seeing the world would
place within the power of almost every one, what has hitherto been
deemed the privilege of the wealthy few. Such a journey, too, offered
advantages for becoming acquainted with people as well as places--for
observing more intimately, the effect of government and education, and
more than all, for the study of human nature, in every condition of
life. At length I became possessed of a small sum, to be earned by
letters descriptive of things abroad, and on the 1st of July, 1844, set
sail for Liverpool, with a relative and friend, whose circumstances were
somewhat similar to mine. How far the success of the experiment and the
object of our long pilgrimage were attained, these pages will show.

* * * * *

LAND AND SEA.

There are springs that rise in the greenwood's heart,
Where its leafy glooms are cast,
And the branches droop in the solemn air,
Unstirred by the sweeping blast.
There are hills that lie in the noontide calm,
On the lap of the quiet earth;
And, crown'd with gold by the ripened grain,
Surround my place of birth.

Dearer are these to my pining heart,
Than the beauty of the deep,
When the moonlight falls in a bolt of gold
On the waves that heave in sleep.
The rustling talk of the clustered leaves
That shade a well-known door,
Is sweeter far than the booming sound
Of the breaking wave before.

When night on the ocean sinks calmly down,
I climb the vessel's prow,
Where the foa