not quite in spirits, and felt to-day somewhat fatigued. When, however, in the evening, I came forth into the open air, and, accompanied by the silent Mr. Downing, wandered quietly beside the glorious calm river, and contemplated the masses of light and soft velvet-like shadow, which lay on the majestic Katskill mountains, behind which the sun sank in cloudless splendour; then did the heart expand itself and breathe freely in that sublime and glorious landscape; then did I drink from the mountain-springs; then did I live for the first time that day.
In the evening I enjoyed an unusual pleasure. Mrs. D. played on the harp and piano, and sang remarkably well, with extraordinary power, like a real musician, which I believe is a rare thing in this country. There were both words and expression in her singing, and so there is also in her demeanour; hers is a noble figure, with a free and independent carriage; “she sustains herself,” as you would say. She neither sings nor talks by rote. She sings and talks out of her own independent, feeling, and thinking soul. Her eldest son, a boy of thirteen, has, it appears to me, a real genius for music, even though he broke off and was not able to sing to the end—and I believe that he really could not—a little fantastic song, the first notes of which, however, were sufficient to foretell a something beyond talent in the boy. He was not in the mood, and in that state he could not sing. Mrs. D. told me, during our conversation at table, that her son was to learn a handicraft trade, because, although they were now wealthy, the time might come when they would be so no longer, but when it might be necessary for him to earn his bread as a common workman; so uncertain is the stability of wealth in America;—why so, I could not rightly understand.
The following day I again saw a crowd of people,
