We were in the midst of charming scenery, immortalised by Washington Irving; near the glen of “Sleepy Hollow,” and the haunts of Ichabod Crane. By the little Dutch church in the neighbourhood lies a cemetery, where “the American Goldsmith” is buried. We were driven to Sunnyside, where he lived and died, in an old-fashioned Dutch-looking house, with picturesque gables, bearing a seventeenth-century date. It is embosomed amidst trees which so overshadow the lawn and walks, that “Sunnyside,” even when unclouded, can suffer nothing from the blaze of day. Miss Irving, niece of the author, and a friend of our host, welcomed us to this sylvan abode, and showed us her uncle’s library, writing table, and shelves of books, just as he left them. We should have been glad to remain longer at Mr. Dodge’s villa, but were anxious to reach Niagara, as soon as possible; therefore, on the second morning after our arrival, Mr. Harrison, with Newman Hall, who had accompanied us to America, embarked on a steamer for the Catskills, on our way to the Falls. We arrived at the Mountain House in the evening, having, in our river voyage, been struck with the Hudson, as resembling in some parts, a succession of lakes full of Italian-like beauty. We spent a Sunday at our capacious resting-place, which could accommodate four or five hundred visitors, and engaged in united worship with Bishop Bedell, successor to Bishop McIlvaine, of Ohio. He preached in the morning, and at his request, I occupied the desk at night. We did not reach Niagara till late on Monday, and heard the roar of the cataract some time before our arrival. Niagara is a grand study, and we spent the greater part of four days over it—the first in taking general views, the other three in gathering up details. I sat down on the rocks, and wrote my impressions from point to point. From the suspension bridge, below the Falls, you have an inclined plane of troubled waters. From the south side of Goat Island, you have a still more striking view of the rapids, like an arm of the sea, two miles in width, and in front it dashes down the Horse Shoe Fall. Just at the edge it is a ridge of emerald, tinged, or rather lined, with white. Then it goes on in rows of streaks, white, white, white; at the bottom, the flood vanishes in vapour. In the forenoon under sunshine the picture is crossed by a rainbow. Beyond the mist the river is a shifting floor of variegated marble. At a right angle with the Horse Shoe, the American Fall is seen in profile, from what is called, I think, “Prospect Park.” The rapids below are finer than those above the Falls. Those below are hemmed in by rocks; those above are bordered by open country on both sides. Further on, below the Falls, there is an enormous whirlpool.