rain, which
rendered caution necessary. The only hitch from accident (if it was
one), was for five minutes at Rome, on the New York Central Railway,
when we were delayed for that time, on account of what William told us
was "something wrong with the engine." We have only 200 miles left to
travel between this and Boston, and we have great reason to be thankful
for having performed so long a journey not only in perfect safety, but
without any anxiety, and scarcely any fatigue.[16]

One marked improvement in the eastern over the western railways, is in
the gentlemen's special accomplishment of spitting being much less
active in the east, owing to their chewing tobacco less vigorously. In
the west it is dreadful to see and hear how this habit goes on during
the whole day, not out of window, but on the floors of the cars and
omnibuses, and all over the hall and passages of the hotels.

But to return to our journey from New York on the Hudson. It was a
beautiful day, and the scenery quite lovely. We had only twenty-seven
miles to go to Mr. Bartlett's, to whom we had brought letters from
England, and who asked us to pass the first night of our journey at his
country place near Tarrytown. On arriving at the station there, he drove
us to his house, which stands on an eminence three miles higher up the
river. The river here is rather more than three miles in width, but the
atmosphere was so clear that every house on the opposite bank could be
distinctly seen, and the opposite shore is so high, that we could hardly
imagine the river to be as wide as it is. The view from the house is
perfectly magnificent. The eye takes in a distance of thirty miles up
and down the river, there being here a long reach, having almost the
appearance of a lake, the river above and below not being more than from
a mile to a mile and a half in width. Immediately opposite Tarrytown is
the town of Nyach, which is connected with Tarrytown by a steam ferry.
In passing from Tarrytown to Mr. Bartlett's house, we drove through the
Sleepy Hollow, the scene of one of Washington Irving's tales, and passed
the old Dutch church, which is mentioned by him in the legend, as the
place of sanctuary where Ichabod took refuge. In fact, the whole scenery
is classic ground here; and Mr. Irving himself, who has rendered it so,
lives only two miles off, at Sunnyside.

After giving us some luncheon, Mr. Bartlett took Papa a walk up a high
hill behind the house, the view fro