small portion of the brow of the hill on which this stood. All the rest of the great expanse before us, extending to a distance of from 40 to 50 miles, was covered with a thick sea of perfectly white billows, as if there had been a general deluge, and we were occupying the summit of the Ararat which alone rose above the wide waste of waters around us. This was a compact and continuous stratum of fleecy clouds, which were below our feet instead of above our heads, and which literally covered the earth as with a canopy, and shrouded it entirely from our view. The waves of this cloudy sea assumed, too, so much the appearance of huge billows rolling, the one after the other in succession, from west to east, that, excepting in the colour of the element, which here was of snowy whiteness instead of blue, it was like looking down from a ship's mast-head on the turbulence of the Southern Ocean in a tempest off the Cape of Good Hope, or like a view of the great sea, seen in its most violent agitation from the summit of the Table Mountain that overhangs the promontory named. It was altogether the most striking and impressive scene I had ever beheld, and could never be forgotten if life were prolonged to a thousand years.

While we were gazing with unspeakable admiration on this singular and beautiful cloudy sea, the increasing light of the eastern horizon betokened the near approach of the sun. All eyes were accordingly turned to that direction, and in a few moments the bright and splendid orb rose up from his eastern bed, with a fulness of glory that seemed like the dawn of a new creation. There were accumulated, in the immediate quarter of the heavens where the sun arose, a series of strata in the clouds, of different shapes, densities, and distances, which produced a variety of lights and tints, from the palest amber to the deepest purple; and caused the straight edges of some, and the wavy or undulated edges of others, to be tipped with the brightest lustre, sometimes of silver, sometimes of paler, and sometimes of deeper gold, so as to form altogether one of the most gorgeous and splendid skies that could be imagined; while overhead in the zenith, and in every other quarter but the east, a serene azure, over which sailed clouds of fleecy whiteness, completed the beauty of the picture.

At the same time, the billowy surface of the cloudy sea beneath our feet, still completely hiding every spot of the earth from our view, was made so radiant with the slanting beams of the rising sun thrown horizontally along its waves,

SINGULAR SEA OF CLOUDS.

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that they looked like a sea of the brightest snow, heaving and rolling in some places in rounded surges, and in others flinging up their spiral points to the sky, like the conflict of opposing streams or the spray of a vast cataract. Altogether the scene was as indescribable as it was splendid and sublime, and we dwelt upon it with an intensity of admiration which almost made the head ache with the pleasure of the. sight.

About an hour after sunrise we began to discover a partial breaking away of the cloudy awning, or, rather, the opening of patches and spaces in it, which bespoke its approach, ing dissolution. The first place in which this was visible was over the channel of the Hudson River, the track of which could be plainly traced by a corresponding hollow, or long and winding valley in this misty sea. The next

places were close by the sides of the mountain on which we stood, where little slits or loopholes gradually opened, through which we could peep downward and see, at a great distance below, the green fields and thick woods, with little farmhouses, just visible as white spots on a speckled plain.

At ten o'clock the mist had so cleared away over the Hudson that its stream became visible, but no portion of the green banks of the river could be seen on either side, so that it was like a mighty stream winding its way through a bed of clouds. At eleven, large hollow patches in the mass of clouds opened in several places, so as to enable us to see corresponding portions of the earth's surface through them; and the manner in which these hollow patches altered their forms, expanding in some parts and contracting in others, reminded me strongly of the theory of the late Dr. Herschel as to the spots on the sun, which he supposed to be merely patches of the opaque body of the sun's orb seen through hollows or openings in the luminous atmosphere by which it is surrounded; and certainly, if this vast mass of clouds that hung between us and the earth should be as bright as it was at sunrise, and a spectator in the moon should be looking at our earth at the time, these open gaps or hollows in the illuminated stratum would make the patches of the soil seen through them look like spots on its surface, of varied and fluctuating forms and sizes, just as those on the sun appear to us from the earth.

By noon the whole of the clouds below us were dissipated, and the full glory of a meridian sun beamed down upon one of the most extensive and beautiful landscapes that could be well conceived. Behind us, to the westVOL. I.-30

ward, rose the peaks of mountains, higher by a thousand feet and more than the summit of that on which we stood, and completely intercepting all farther view in that direc tion. To the east, however, the prospect was almost boundless. At the foot of the steep slope of the range beneath our feet commenced the cultivated plain, covered with cleared land, in farms of different sizes and in different degrees of cultivation, interspersed with patches of thick wood, of variegated trees, and dotted over with farmhouses, country residences, and other buildings. This plain continued for seven or eight miles in a straight line, till it reached the western bank of the Hudson.

Beyond that stream the lands, equally fertile, and as extensively cleared and cultivated, rose gradually in an ascending slope till it terminated in a range of hills at a distance of forty or fifty miles, intercepting the eastern horizon, and bounding the view in that direction. In the centre of the valley or plain, and between these distant ranges of eastern and western elevation, flowed down the noble river, which could be distinctly traced along its path for thirty miles at least, here contracting its channel between abrupt projecting bluffs, there expanding it into ample bays, and several times throughout its length having its current interrupted by beautifully-fertile islands, while its surface was studded with at least a hundred sails as white as the fresh-fallen snow, floating on its glassy bosom like so many buoyant pearls.

Altogether the prospect was enchanting, and worth going a hundred miles to see. It reminded me, more strongly than any other scene I remember, of the view of the plain of Damascus from the summits of the hills by which it is environed. It wanted, it is true, the camel, the dromedary, and the herds and flocks of that Eastern picture, as well as the meandering and pellucid streams of the Pharpar and Abana, and the gorgeous and glittering city of domes and palaces, environed with its cypress groves and citron gardens in the centre; but still, even with the absence of these, the resemblance was striking, and to say this is to admit that it was as grand and beautiful as any scene in nature can be.

About two miles from the Mountain House is a fine waterfall, which the nature of the road to it, and my own state of health at the present moment, did not admit of my visiting. My wife and son, however, joined a party from the hotel in an excursion there, and were highly gratified. The

cavernous hollow from which the fall is seen, the semicircular theatre of rock around it, the romantic combinations of the clustered wood, and the imposing aspect of the cataract itself, which, by two separate falls of 175 feet to a projec tion of shelving rock, and from thence of 85 feet to the bottom, complete a descent of 260 feet in the whole; and the late heavy rains having furnished an abundant supply of water, the cataract was witnessed to the greatest advantage.

Soon after noon we left the Mountain House for the river to embark for Albany. On our way down, the bright sunshine, clear atmosphere, and perpetual vistas of beauty through the trees, made a pleasing contrast to the thunderstorms and mists of our ascent. We found the way, therefore, more agreeable; but on the road from the foot of the mountain to the village, the dislocating jolts and shocks were repeated, and it seemed to me that I had been more bruised and beaten by this ride of twelve miles than I could be in Europe by the longest journey that could be undertaken.

We reached the wharf at the landing-place about three, and the steamboat from New-York arriving soon after, we re-embarked and proceeded onward to Albany with a still larger company of passengers, and in a larger and finer boat than that in which we had come thus far.

From Catskill to Albany the river appeared narrower than

below, and the banks become more tame in scenery; but they everywhere preserve the most exuberant fertility, and are thickly interspersed with towns, villages, hamlets, and single dwellings.

About five miles beyond Catskill, to the north, are two towns, occupying opposite banks of the river, that on the east being the City of Hudson, of Dutch foundation, and called after the navigator who has given his name to the riv er, and that on the west being the incorporated village of Athens. The first of these, which contains about 6000 inhabitants, exhibits in its architecture and the colouring of its houses the origin from whence it has sprung. The latter, containing about 1500 inhabitants, is of much more recent date, and exhibits, accordingly, a newness and freshness in the style and hue of its buildings, which make it look gayer and lighter than its opposite neighbour.

To be called upon by some fellow-passenger to look around and see Athens, appears at first like a joke, it seems so difficult to separate from the sound of that word the glories of the immortal city of Minerva, with its frowning Acropolis, its beautiful Parthenon, its temple of Theseus, and its classically-sacred associations. The very name conjures up the shades of Pericles, Phidias, and Praxiteles, and the imagination wanders through the gardens, and listens in the portico to the great teachers of the several schools of Grecian philosophy, to Socrates and Plato, to Aristotle and Zeno; from thence passes on to the theatre, and hangs with delight on the tragic glories of Euripides, Æschylus, and Sophocles; to the Areopagus and Agora, to hear the thunders of Demosthenes against Philip, or to the Hill of Mars, to listen to the great apostle of the Gentiles unfolding to the inquisitive Athenians the nature, attributes, and purposes of the Infinte Being to whom they had dedicated an altar with the inscription, "To the Unknown God." But all this dream of the imagination vanishes the moment the eye reposes on the humble village which here assumes this imposing name.

It is not peculiar, however, to any part of America more than another, thus to appropriate to itself the most renowned names of history for their cities, towns, and villages; every where this singularly ill-directed taste is apparent. From New-York to Albany, within the compass of a single day's journey, including the valley of the Hudson and its neighbourhood, we have Babylon and Jericho, Salem, Lebanon, Gilboa, Carmel, Goshen, Athens, and Troy, with a railroad