I swept over the broad breast of the Delaware-dashed down the enemy insulted Chesapeake—bounded through the city of riots and beauty, and came down on my feet at the cottage of my whole-souled friend, Tom B——, on the banks of the Potomac. The afternoon of my arrival was warm and still, and every thing in nature, even the birds, seemed wrapped in indolent repose. Slowly sauntering through the long vistas of sycamores and elms, which adorned the grounds in picturesque avenues, the airy East Indian cottage of my friend suddenly broke upon my sight, peering from a whole load of flowering vines and sweet briars, tall white lilies, and moss roses, from thick beds of myrtle at their feet, climbing into the half open lattices, while two towering pines almost crossed their extended branches above its lowly roof. I stole quietly through the open door, examining the choice Italian landscapes hanging upon the walls of the airy grass-matted hall,—slid through the drawing-rooms, stopping for a moment to scan the crouching Venus and dying Gladiator on their pedestals; to admire the exquisite Magdalen of Carlo Dolce—the lovely Claude, the Cenci, and Flora beneath their silken tassels,—and coming out upon the verandah overlooking the river, suspended in his grass hammock, found master Tom, enjoying his luxurious siesta. His double-barrelled gun and game-bag—his linen shooting jacket, huge sombrero, and hunting-boots, were tumbled promiscuously in one corner of the piazza,—while half a dozen fine plover, turning up their plump breasts, a partridge, and some score of yellow-legged snipe, with the powder-flask and shot-belt, were thrown across the back of the rustic settee, trophies of his morning’s sport, beneath which, with their noses extended between their legs in like luxurious repose, lay the huge old Newfoundlander, “Bernard,” and his favourite pointer, “Soho.”