One of the most beautiful "bits" on the Hudson is West Point; but, as I purpose visiting it at my leisure hereafter, I pass it by at present without further comment.
There are every now and then, especially on the southern bank, large plots, which, at a distance, look exactly like Turkish cemeteries.

On nearing them, you find that the old destroyer, Time, has expended all the soil sufficiently to allow the bare rock to peep through, and the disconsolate forest has retired in consequence, leaving only the funeral cypress to give silent expression to its affliction.

Hark! what sound is that?
Dinner! A look at the company was not as _appetissant_ as a glass of bitters, but a peep at the _tout-ensemble_ was fatal; so, patience to the journey's end.

Accordingly, I consoled myself with a cigar and the surrounding scenery; no hard task either, with two good friends to help you.

On we went, passing little villages busy as bees, and some looking as fresh as if they had been built over-night.