I leave Boston sometimes in the evening by rail, get thirty miles off,
then strike away into byways, ramble for an hour or two, and get back
to the rail. I was out yesterday, and nothing can equal the colour of
the foliage: if it was painted, it would look like fancy. In the
course of my stroll, I came upon a lake entirely surrounded with
forest, and containing, as I was informed, about four square miles of
water, studded with islands varying in size from one to twenty acres.
I would describe a point of view which enchanted me. I was on one side
of the lake, where it is about half a mile in width: about half-way
across, for the foreground of my picture, is a small island, about two
acres, covered with trees, looking as if they grew out of the lake,
with a central one of at least eighty feet high, and of the purest
orange colour. The opposite shore is of a crescent shape, with the
forest rising like an amphitheatre behind, glowing with every
imaginable colour, from the intense crimson to the pale pink, and
looking exactly like an enormous flower-garden stretching away to the
distance, and the colour so strongly reflected in the water, that it
is difficult to tell the reality from the reflection. At home in
England, I would have gone far to see such scenes; but they are here
at every turn. I enclose you some leaves, but the purity of the colour
is gone after a few hours. I am sure many valuable additions might be
made to the European stock of flowers: there are thousands of
species--some extremely beautiful; but how they are propagated, or
whether they could be transplanted, I cannot tell, being no
horticulturist. Among the millions here, one plant would be much
admired with you. It grows wild about three feet high, with long,
curiously-formed leaves, and surmounted by bunches of bright scarlet
blossoms, exactly like the geranium. In the course of my stroll, I
came upon a genuine shanty of a new settler, full of fine children.
The husband away at work--a little patch cleared for Indian corn and a
few vegetables, the sturdy trees enclosing all. Truly the pair have
their work before them, but they have likewise hope and comfort. I
chatted a little while with the wife, a genuine specimen of the
Anglo-Saxon race--clean, industrious, and hopeful: left home to avoid
being starved, and sat down here, in rude comfort, with her ruddy
children growing up about her--to be a joy and a support, instead of
the drag and vexation they would have proved at home.--_Private Letter
from an English Artist settled at Boston_.