springing out of the carriage, now to fetch a basket with cakes and other things for her housekeeping, now for bouquets for Miss Lynch and myself. At length we came to the beautiful villa, F. Hall, on the Hudson, where we found a large family party assembled, and where Mr. L., a kind old gentleman and a Quaker, just as quiet in body and mind as his wife was restless, was waiting dinner for us,—a substantial and delicious dinner, as were all the dinners I saw in this country. In the evening we had a party of about sixty persons. It was more agreeable than I expected, and fatigued me less. But ah! how these Americans, and in particular these lady Americans, do ask question upon question! My gay hostess—a sort of Amelia A., but with yet higher “spirits,”—refreshed and amused me. She was so full of unaffectedly fresh life. Thus, for example, she sung, and very well too; but there was a part of the song which was evidently too high for her voice, and when she came to this a second time, she stopped short just as if the notes had stuck fast in her throat, rose up and left the piano, as much untroubled as if she had been singing alone to herself, and went and chatted and laughed with various people in the company. This was all very sweet and fresh. Mr. L. is a handsome, fatherly old gentleman, whom I like much. He is his wife's second husband; and beneath this family life there is a romantic love-story, more beautiful and noble than one generally finds in written romances.
I slept well, and awoke by seeing a strong red light shining through the Venetian shutters of my window. I thought of fire, and sprang up. But it was the crimson light of sunrise which glowed with pale red flames in the eastern heavens, above the green heights, above the calm mirror-like river, and the white sails quietly sleeping, and which now, as it were, shook off sleep, awoke by its splendour. It was enchantingly beautiful. I, too, shook
