Memoirs of Anne C.L. Botta,: written by her friends. With selections from her correspondence and from her writings in prose and poetry.

anne C.. 3otta
brings us nearer to her great Author than the contemplation ot
the most magnificent works of man. They ally us to our
kind,-we participate in their aspirations and their triumphs,and the bond of our common nature is drawn more closely,
while with Nature nothing intervenes between us and her
Author. A German poet has called Nature " the freshly uttered
word of God!" and whenever we are with her, that word, if
we listen, becomes audible, and to the reverent ear speaks messages of love, of consolation, and of hope.
As we approached Salina, we were sufficiently in advance of
the boat to stop and examine the salt works, where thousands
of barrels are every year manufactured. Immense flats are covered with reservoirs ten or twelve feet square, which are supplied with water from the salt springs, the evaporation of which
leaves a deposit of delicate white crystals, which is afterward
refined and barreled for exportation. The second and third days
of our journey we advanced twenty miles each day on foot,
without experiencing any other than that healthy and pleasant
fatigue which makes repose so delightful, and which is so different from the exhaustion and lassitude one feels after a walk
through Broadway. At noon on the fourth day we found ourselves at Fairport, a small town eighteen miles from Rochester
by the canal, but ten only by the stage road. We had already
walked ten miles since morning, and this distance would finish
the day so roundly that we determined to undertake it, though the
afternoon was warmer than any we had experienced on our route.
The country was hilly, and sandy, and without shade, and we
found it much more difficult to walk ten miles without resting,
for we had previously taken frequent intervals of repose; and for
the first time my companion began to flag, and my own elasticity to give way. By way of stimulating our failing energies, I
began reciting, and went through all the stirring poetry I could
call to mind from " Lochiel's Warning" and the "Battle of Hohenlinden " to " Macaulay's Roman Ballads." When at length we
reached the suburbs of Rochester- the novelty of our descent upon
a strange town-our own costume and travel-worn appearance,
the fancy that we might be taken for wandering minstrels or
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