incident of its past history the theme of a poem, it requires no great research to discover new and prominent objects of attraction. Perhaps there is no portion of this beautiful river which partakes more of the picturesque, or combines more of the wild and wonderful, than the vicinity of the present View; and when time shall touch the history of the present with the wand of tradition, and past events shall live in the memory of the future as legends, romance will never revel in a more bewitching region. Fiction shall then fling its imaginative veil over the things we have seen-covering, but not concealing them-and, in the plenitude of poetic genius, people the drama of futurity with a thousand exquisite creations, clothed in the venerated garb of antiquity.

UNDERCLIFF, the mansion of GENERAL GEORGE P. MORRIS, which forms the principal object in the engraving, is situated upon an elevated plateau, rising from the eastern shore of the river; and the selection of such a commanding and beautiful position at once decides the taste of its intellectual proprietor. In the rear of the villa, cultivation has placed her fruit and forest trees with a profuse hand, and fertilized the fields with a variety of vegetable products. The extent of the grounds is abruptly terminated by the base of a rocky mountain, that rises nearly perpendicular to its summit, and affords in winter a secure shelter from the bleak blasts of the north. In front, a circle of greensward is refreshed by a fountain in the centre, gushing from a Grecian vase, and encircled by ornamental shrubbery ; from thence a gravelled walk winds down a gentle declivity to a second plateau, and again descends to the entrance of the carriage road, which leads upwards along the left slope of the hill, through a noble forest, the growth of many years, until suddenly emerging from its sombre shades, the visiter beholds the mansion before him in the bright blaze of day. A few openings in the wood afford an opportunity to catch a glimpse of the water, sparkling with reflected light; and the immediate transition from shadow to sunshine is peculiarly pleasing.

Although the sunny prospects from the villa, of the giant mountains in their eternal verdure-the noble stream, when frequent gusts ruffle its surface into a thousand waves-the cluster of white cottages collected into the distant village, are glorious; it is only by the lovely light of the moon, when nature is in repose, that their magic influence is fully felt. We were fortunate in having an opportunity to contemplate the scene at such an hour: the moon had risen from a mass of clouds which formed a line across the sky so level that fancy saw her ascending from the dark sea, and her silvery light lay softened on the landscape; silence was over all, save where the dipping of a distant oar was echoed from the deep shadows of the rocks. Sometimes the white sail of a sloop would steal into sight from the deep gloom, like some shrouded spirit gliding from the confines of a giant's cavern, and recalled the expressive lines by Moore:

20

UNDERCLIFF.

"The stream is like a silvery lake,
And o'er its face each vessel glides
Gently, as if it feared to wake

The slumber of the silent tides."

In the view of Undercliff, the artist has been peculiarly happy in producing an effect at once brilliant and chaste. The broken foreground is agreeably relieved by the sparkling transparency of the water: the receding figures on the shore are judiciously introduced to mark the perspective. The projecting bluff in the middle distance is thrown into shadow, and stands out in fine contrast from the light horizon, while the lights upon the solitary rock, the entrance gate, the mansion, and the vessels, produce the effect of a setting sun; and the whole subject is treated with masterly skill. We only regret that art has not power to convey the kindly hospitalities hourly exercised in the interior of the mansion.

To enumerate the matchless and minute beauties of Undercliff, would occupy more space than the limits of our descriptive pages will permit. Its superiority, however, may be summed up in one expressive sentence, to which it is justly entitled, and which has been conceded to it by common consent-" The Gem of the Hudson River." To the belles-lettres reader the "Gem" will acquire additional value by reflecting the light of literature: it is the home of a fine poet, and graceful prose writer. General Morris has been for many years the editor of the "New York Mirror," a weekly journal, which circulates more extensively among the élite than any other periodical in the country. The typographic neatness of its execution, the talent of its original contributions, and the elegance of its embellishments, have placed upon it a permanent seal of popularity, and seem to have given a tone to taste, and a refinement to fashion.

General Morris has recently published a volume of lyrical effusions, called "The Deserted Bride, and other Poems." Many of them have been written among the fairy beauties of Undercliff, and under the inspiration of that true poetic feeling which such enchanting scenes are so likely to elicit. Where so many gems of genius enrich a work, it becomes difficult to decide upon that most worthy of selection. It is not our province or intention to review the volume, but we cannot resist the inclination to make a few extracts, because they seem as beautiful accessories to the subject, and create an added interest in the engraving. Where scenes are so replete with the poetry of nature, they are best illustrated by the poetry of numbers; but we were particularly delighted with the following lines, addressed to his young daughter. The natural simplicity of the subject is well expressed by the purity of its poetic images, and breathes the refinement of paternal affection.

General Morris is not less successful in the lighter and livelier freaks of poetic fancy, as we hope to prove by a quotation from "The New York Mirror," in which the moral of the lines is not their least merit. The melodies of the various birds which roost among the wild recesses of the rocks, or haunt the mountain forest, or sweep along the waters, are sent forth hourly in sounds of "unwritten music." But the cry "most musical, most melancholy," comes at the twilight hour from the clear throat of the whip-poor-will, at intervals, through the summer's night: nor is it ever heard or seen by day; it may be called the sad unknown. The words, "whip-poorwill," are divided into three shrill, distinct notes, and express the sounds as perfectly as if uttered by the human voice. The poetry annexed, is equally expressive of the melancholy mystery which seems to mark the mourning burden of its lonely song.