William C. Bryant.

ROSLYN, L. I., June 28th, 1853.

FRIEND DOUGLASS:—I must send you a few
lines from this spot—the spot where BRYANT,
the poet, has his home. On Saturday last,
June 25th, I called upon him at his resi-
dence, he having just returned from his Eu-
ropean tour. I found him easy of access.—His is 39 years old—looks healthy—is very
cheerful—does not drink any intoxicating
beverages—uses no tobacco, nor tea, nor
coffee.

Roslyn is a most delightful spot, on the
Hemstead Harbor. A great variety of the
most beautiful trees are there in abundance.
About two hours by steamboat from Roslyn
to New York, or you can go to the railroad
in three or four miles; thence through Ja-
maica to Brooklyn. In choosing such a spot
as this, Mr. Bryant has evinced his love of
poetry as fully as in his writings. I regret
to say that he does not reason about the
Maine Law as I wish he did, though there
can be no doubt that he is friendly to the
object at which we aim; but he fears that
the Maine Law will awaken the combative-
ness of mankind too much, and make them
more determined to sustain the liquor traffic.
Is it possible that such a gentleman—that
such a post, can fall under political party
influence so much as to shrink from advocat-
ing a branch of legal reform like this, for
fear of disturbing party arrangements!

HEMSTEAD PLAINS.

Did you over hear of the Hemstead Plains?
There are vast numbers of acres in one com-
mon. It is a spacious pasture; it belongs
to the town. The town cannot get a vote to
sell this land; for the people who wish to
pasture their cows there, and who wish to
cut hay on the salt marshes, are sure to vote
against selling the commons. A good hint
to us—only let the professed friends of a
Righteous Civil Government be as consis-
tent on their voting, and rum and slavery,
&c., will be banished.

I have not had the pleasure of seeing your
paper for many weeks—nor do I know that
what I write for it gets into type; but these
marks will convince you that I remember
you and other Western New York friends,
though I am banished to an island.

Yours, J. R. JOHNSON.