During one of our delightful mornings at Wodenethe, we crossed the river to Newburgh, to inspect the site laid out by Downing, and to visit the poet of Idlewild.

As is known to most of our readers, the Downing mansion and grounds have been sold; they are now owned by Mr. Alger, who is making certain expensive change? and additions, which, doubtless, will increase the comforts of the residents; but it would have been more consonant to our feelings if everything had been left in the condition its planner approved, and his own laying out of the grounds preserved for the future pilgrims to this American shrine of genius. It is not for us, however, to advise, and we can only describe it as we found it. The lawn has been extended, and was in a state of progress, with little grass visible. The Warwick vase, presented by the French artiste who made similar ones for the Government grounds at Washington, still holds its place, and there are still marks of Downing's footprints; but, we fear, pains are tak$n to obliterate them. New and costly stables, in fantastic forms, nave been added, a new stile of cut stone, at the garden-gate, introduced, which speaks not of Downing, and other changes are in progress which we regretted to see.

Idlewild, the residence of N. P. Willis, Esq., is one of those "natural bits of nature" which .a poet must love; the owner's taste has induced him, with good judgment, to leave nature to her own enjoyments, for it is just such a spot of " capabilities" as would ruin any common purse in a few months after the attempt at change was commenced. The road ascends, by gradual curves, a steep whose top is crowned by a modern mansion well hung with pictures, including portraits of celebrities, and busts of the divinities who preside over poets' residences. The view from this "peak" is all that poets could desire; river, rocks, trees, and waterfalls, with many of the most celebrated sites and scenes of the Highlands, West Point (which also lies at your feet, at Wodenethe), Newburgh, General Morris's house, on the opposite side of the river, and numerous traditionary nooks, conspire to fill the mind with memories and retrospections - those happy occupiers which the traveller in the long inhabited regions of the old world so lovingly dwells upon.

We found the author of "Lines to my Mother on leaving Europe" in better health than we had been led to expect. He soon proposed a promenade to his cataract, and an inspection of his fine trees. The hemlocks and the waterfall are all the letters from Idlewild have described them to be, and lovely additions to this highland home; in fact, just the things one would most covet. They come out in such bold relief in the poet's description, that we found ourselves quite at home among them, and felt as if perambulating some well recollected scene. The place is worthy of a poem, and a continual poem it seems to be to Willis.