mist, a light haze which is said to distinguish this period of the year, and that state of the atmosphere which is here called “the Indian Summer.” It commences, they say, at the end of October, and extends often through the whole of November into December, and is considered one of the most beautiful parts of the year. And if I am to judge by these days, one can scarcely imagine more perfect weather; warm and calm, the purest, most delicious atmosphere, sunshine softened by that light haze which seems to cast a mystical romantic veil over the landscape brilliant with the splendour of autumn. Whence comes this Egyptian veil of mist? “It comes from the Indians who are now smoking their pipes at their great Pahaws,” replied the cheerful Mrs. Downing; “I wish you to have an accurate idea of things here.” The accurate truth however is that nobody can say what is the real cause of this smoke-like mist, or of this summer in the midst of autumn.
But to return to our excursion, which was charming. We left the highlands of the Hudson; the shores now became lower and the river wider, embracing islands on its bosom. But soon we perceived in the distance a yet higher and more massive range of hills than I had hitherto seen, the magnificent thousand-feet-high Katskill mountains, which are a portion of the great Alleghany chain, which divides North America from north to south.
The banks of the river, which were scattered with houses, appeared rich and well cultivated. There were no castles, no ruins here, but often very tasteful houses with terraces and orchards, whole parks of peach trees. The only historical legends of these shores are a few traditions of wars with the Indians. I did not seem to miss the ruins and the legends of the Rhine. I like these fresh new scenes which have a vast future. We have ruins enough in the Old World. Among the company
