nature. This Indian summer with its mystical life, its thin veil cast over the golden woods and mountains—I feel it in my soul. I look around me on nature, and ask, “Is it I who live in thee, or dost thou awaken this life in my soul?”
I see the beautiful well-built little houses, with their orchards and grounds which lie like pearls set in the emerald green frame of the river! How much is contained in them of that which is most valuable in the life of the new world. How beautiful and perfect seems here private life, engrafted as it is into public life; and what a pleasure it is to me that I have become acquainted with many of the families inhabiting these small homes on the banks of this great and glorious river!
Not far from Mr. Downing's villa is a beautiful country seat, inhabited by four sisters, all unmarried. A good brother, who had become wealthy by trade, built this house, and bought the land around it for his sisters. Some years afterwards, the brother fell into misfortunes: he lost all that he was possessed of. The sisters now took upon themselves the education of his children,—he has now his home with them. They are excellent and agreeable women, who know equally well how to converse seriously or merrily. On the other side of the river a brickmaker has built himself a lovely villa. This honourable man—for so he seems to be, and so he really is—has been here two or three times to present me with flowers, and invite me to his villa. Mr. Downing has called my attention to a beautiful little house, a frame-house, with green verandah and garden just in this neighbourhood. “It belongs,” said he, “to a man who in the day drives cart-loads of stone and rubbish for making the roads. In this is the working-man of the new world superior to him of the old. He can here by the hard labour of his hands obtain the more refined pleasures of life, a beautiful home, and the advantages of education for his family much more
