Hundreds of things, too many to mention, were acted on that
boy's imaginary stage and lived in his brain as much as if he had
himself played a part in them.
As that boy grew up, the memory of this long pageant survived; there
fell upon him the desire to see some of the places; such a desire, if
it is not gratified, dies away into a feeble spark--but it can always
be blown again into a flame. This year the chance came to the boy, now
a graybeard, to see these places; and the spark flared up again, into
a bright, consuming flame.
I have seen my Land of Romance; I have travelled for a few weeks among
the New England places, and, with a sigh of satisfaction and relief, I
say with Kingsley: 'At Last!'
This romance, which belonged to my boyhood, and has grown up with me,
and will never leave me, once belonged then, more or less, to the
whole of the English people. Except with those who, like me, have been
fed with the poetry and the literature of America, this romance is
impossible. I suppose that it can never come again. Something better
and more stable, however, may yet come to us, when the United States
and Great Britain will be allied in amity as firm as that which now
holds together those Federated States.
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