The scene of the morning, and the presence of Mrs. Drewett and her daughters, produced an entire change in the spirits and intercourse of our party.  The ladies remained below most of the time; and as for Drewett himself, he was advised by Post not to quit his berth until he found his strength restored.  Mr. Hardinge passed much time by Andrew Drewett’s side, offering such attentions as might be proper from a father to a son.  At least it so seemed to me.  This left Marble and myself in possession of the quarter-deck, though we had occasional visits from all below—­Grace, Lucy, and old Mrs. Drewett, excepted.

In the mean time, the Wallingford continued to ascend the river, favoured until evening by a light southerly breeze.  She outsailed everything; and, just as the sun was sinking behind the fine termination of the Cattskill range of mountains, we were some miles above the outlet of the stream that has lent it its name.

A lovelier landscape can scarce be imagined than that which presented itself from the deck of the sloop.  It was the first time I had ascended the river, or indeed that any of the Clawbonny party had been up it so high, Mr. Hardinge excepted; and everybody was called on deck to look at the beauties of the hour.  The sloop was about a mile above Hudson, and the view was to be gazed at towards the south.  This is perhaps the finest reach of this very beautiful stream, though it is not the fashion to think so; the Highlands being the part usually preferred.  It is easy enough for me, who have since lived among the sublimity of the Swiss and Italian lakes, to understand that there is nothing of a very sublime character, relatively considered, in any of the reaches of the Hudson; but it would be difficult to find a river that has so much which is exquisitely beautiful; and this, too, of a beauty which borders on the grand.  Lucy was the first person to create any doubts in my mind concerning the perfection of the Highlands.  Just as the cockney declaims about Richmond Hill—­the inland view from Mont-Martre, of a clouded day, is worth twenty of it—­but just as the provincial London cockney declaims about Richmond Hill, so has the provincial American been in the habit of singing the praises of the Highlands of the Hudson.  The last are sufficiently striking, I will allow; but they are surpassed in their own kind by a hundred known mountain landscapes; while the softer parts of the river have scarcely a rival.  Lucy, I repeat, was the first person to teach me this distinction—­Lucy, who then had never seen either Alps or Apennines.  But her eye was as true as her principles, her tongue, or her character.  All was truth about this dear girl—­truth unadulterated and unalloyed.

“Certainly, my dear Mrs. Drewett,” the dear girl said, as she stood supporting the old lady, who leaned on her arm, gazing at the glorious sunset, “the Highlands have nothing to equal this!  To me this seems all that art could achieve; while I confess the views in the mountains have ever appeared to want something that the mind can imagine.”