I Was one of the crowd that traveled by the eleven o'clock train that morning from Néw York to Garrison's, the station opposite West Point. We passed the Harriet Lane, sailing against a sharp, fresh breeze, and all eyes were directed towards her from the cars.

Onward, beneath the Palisades, through the waters of the shining river, the dark and tiny form of the steamer glided swiftly on its way.

No sooner had the train come to a full stop at Garrison's than there was a grand rush of a thousand or two towards the ferry steamer. The race was to the swift, and two or three ladies, clasping the hands of their worse halves, fell, and, I grieve to say, were made anything but happy in consequence, besides incurring the loss of passage by the boat, which only saved itself from sinking by moving away from the wharf when the decks had been covered with a layer of humanity one deep. She had to return for the balance.

I have, fortunately, long legs and a disposition to run when there is no other enemy than time present, so I flew with the wind, and succeeded in getting a place second to none, although, in point of space occupied, General Scott, who stood beside, had somewhat the advantage, for among dwarfs he would be a pyramid, and we would have to travel to Patagonia to see his equal, odd giants excepted.

We landed at the wooden slip, or pier, under the beautiful cliffs of the beautiful river, at about two o'clock, and the view that here unfolded itself was without parallel in the history of the spot.