I spent yet a few Indian summer days with my friends by the Hudson—days rich in many things; intercourse with human beings, and with nature, and the enjoyment of beautiful paradisaical fruits: the new moon lit her torch, and gave a yet more highly romantic character to the summer veil on mountain and river—wonderfully beautiful days and scenes! and wonderfully beautiful was that day when, during a storm, I travelled with my friends down the Hudson to New York. Autumn had during its advance given uniformity of colouring to the woods. It varied now between copper and gold, and shone like an infinitely rich golden embroidery on the Indian veil of mist which rested upon the heights along the Hudson. The wind was so violent that at times the vessel was driven on the banks, and, as the evening advanced, the groups of people became more and more silent in the crowded saloon. Friend drew near to friend, husband to wife; mothers pressed their children closer to their breasts. My eye by chance fell on the tall figure of a man of energetic appearance; a little woman stood close beside him, and her hand was pressed to his heart. A speechless and passionate life prevailed there—prevailed throughout the atmosphere that stormy, hot evening. This and some other scenes have inscribed themselves ineffaceably on my soul; thou shalt read them there some time—there or upon paper, for whatever I experience forcibly and deeply thou knowest that I must, sooner or later, give back either in word or form.
We arrived in storm and darkness at New York, but nevertheless reached the Astor House most comfortably; and very soon was I seated familiarly with my friends in a light and handsome room, drinking tea and the most delicious milk cooled with ice.
“In order that I may now show you proper respect,” said Mr. Downing, “as we are about to part, I believe that I must beg from you—an autograph!”
