lii 



MEMOIR. 



ing's garden that the poetry of such old traditions became 

 fact or rather the fact was lifted into that old poetry. 

 He had achieved in it the beauty of an extreme civiliza- 

 tion, without losing the natural, healthy vigor of his coun- 

 try and time. 



One evening the moon was full we crossed in a row- 

 boat to the Fishkill shore, and floated upoi. the gleaming 

 river under the black banks of foliage to a quaint old coun- 

 try-house, in whose small library the Society of the Cin- 

 cinnati was formed, at the close of the Revolution, and in 

 whose rooms a pleasant party was gathered that summer 

 evening. The doors and windows were open. We stood 

 in the rooms or loitered upon the piazza, looking into the 

 unspeakable beauty of the night. A lady was pointed out 

 to me as the heroine of a romantic history a handsome 

 woman, with the traces of hard experience in her face, 

 standing in that little peaceful spot of summer moonlight, 

 as a child snatching a brief dream of peace between 

 spasms of mortal agony. As we returned at midnight 

 across the river, Downing told us more of the stranger 

 lady, and of his early feats of swimming from Newburgh 

 to Fishkill ; and so we drifted homeward upon the oily 

 calm with talk, and song, and silence a brief, beautiful 

 voyage upon the water, where the same summer, while yet 

 unfaded, should see him embarked upon a longer journey. 

 In these last days he was the same generous, thoughtful, 

 quiet, effective person I had always found him. Friends 

 peculiarly dear to him were in his house. The Washing- 

 ton work was advancing finely : he was much interested in 

 his Newport plans, and we looked forward to a gay meet- 

 ing there in the later summer. The time for his monthly 

 trip to Washington arrived while I was still his guest. 

 " We shall meet in Newport," I said. " Yes/' he an 



