Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2

[106] living as he could; not long after, he was able to keep his carriage. Let me suggest, seriatim,some of the ways in which you and others may contribute to put Crawford in the same position. . . . I am sorry to trouble you so much, my dear Hillard, but I can do nothing at this distance but give my friends trouble. In the matter of this letter I feel a sincere interest, because the artist is young, amiable, and poor; and, benefiting him, you will be sowing the seed which will ripen to the honor of our country. Therefore,—

‘Assai ten priego
     E ripriego ch'l priego vaglia mille.’

I write this in a convent of Franciscans, where with Greene I am passing three or four days. It is on the ancient site of Alba Longa,—of which scarcely the least trace is now to be found,—and overlooks the beautiful Alban lake. No carriage can approach within two miles on either side, and it is surrounded by precipices and almost impenetrable forests. I do not remember ever to have seen a more lovely and romantic situation. Here we read the poets, chat with the fathers, ramble in the woods, and bathe in the clear water. The scene is so like a picture, that I sometimes look to see Diana in full chase with her nymphs about her. I was, the other day, lying on a bank in the shade of a broad tree (whether it was a beech I do not remember), reading the ‘Gerusalemme;’ a Capuchin, with his long beard, had just brought us wine. I showed the venerable father my book, and inquired if he had read it. ‘Ahi! non ho tanta scienza,’ was his reply.

Ever affectionately yours.

Charles Sumner.

P. S. I wish you would show this to Cleveland, Felton, and Longfellow, and tell them to consider it as addressed to each and all. Can you not speak to Governor Everett, and Ticknor, and Prescott, in Crawford's behalf? But I will not say more, for you will understand my wishes, and I leave the whole to your discretion.

To Henry W. Longfellow, Cambridge.

Convent of Palazzuola, July 26, 1839.

my dear Longfellow,—FraGreene and myself have already withdrawn from the cares of this life,—‘the world forgetting, by the world forgot.’ We have sought quiet in a convent, among cowled, thick-robed, sandalled Franciscans. From our retreat, perched high among rocks, and well guarded by precipices and impenetrable forests, we look down upon that silver lake which once reflected the image of Alba Longa, and, for aught that we know to the contrary, of Narcissus; for its waters deserve to be the seat of the prettiest legends. You who have explored all ‘the dingles and alleys green’ of this country must remember our present seat. Ah! what a welcome we will give Felton,¹ when he reaches our convent! The cellar should