the river so coldly transparent twelve
hours before, now rolling on through the glowing shadows as if the sands
and pebbles in its bed had been turned to jewels, which reminded at
least one person in that old mansion house, of scenes long ago witnessed
in the south of Spain.

The old mansion house which we speak of, stood some miles above that
gorge in the Harlem River which is now spanned by the High Bridge. This
region of Manhattan Island is even yet more than half buried in its
primeval forest trees. Hills as abrupt, and moss as greenly fleecy as if
found on the crags of the Rocky Mountains, still exist among the wild
nooks and wilder peaks which strike the eye more picturesquely from
their vicinity to the great metropolis.

At the particular spot I wish to describe, the hills fall back from the
Hudson, north and south, far enough to leave a charming little valley of
some two or three hundred acres cradled in their wildness and opening
greenly to the river, which is sure to catch a sheaf of sunbeams in its
bosom when the day fires its last golden salute from behind the
Palisades. Sheltered by hills, some broken into cliffs, some rolling
smoothly back, clothed in variously tinted undergrowth and fine old
trees, the valley itself received a double charm from the contrast of
cultivation. It was entirely cleared of trees and undergrowth, save
where a clump of cool hemlocks, a grove of sugar maples, or a drooping
elm gave it those features we so much admire in the country homes of old
England.

In the centre of the valley was a swell of land sloping down to the
river in full, grassy waves, which ended at the brink in a tiny cove
overhung by a clump of golden willows.

Crowning the swell of this elevation stood the old mansion commanding a
fine view of the river, with a glimpse of the opposite shore, where the
Weehawken hills begin to consolidate into the Palisades. A score of
picturesque and pleasant little nooks were visible from the numerous
windows, for it was an irregular old place, varying as much as an
American house can vary in its style of architecture. The original idea
had undoubtedly sprung from our Knickerbocker ancestors, for the gables
were not only pointed, but notched down the steep edges after a
semi-battlemented fashion, while stacks of quaint chimneys and heavy
oaken doors bespoke a foundation far antecedent to the revolution.

But in addition to these proofs of antiquity, were balconies of carved