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valley in the rail-cars, that I longed to traverse it with a locomotive whose lungs and legs would give out, and wheels not yet disenfranchised from hills, ruts, and pebble-stones. The hottest day of the summer, thus far, was the one when I found the leisure; and, as the trip commenced with a cool and refreshing rush into the breeze's arms (with the swift course of the "Thomas Powell" up the river,) your sufferance of the heat, that day, was at least three hours longer than mine. I regretted that I had not brought you with me as far as Piermont; for this delightful boat, which leaves at five, gets back to New York a little after nine; and you can have, thus, four hours of cool comfort and beautiful scenery, without losing any important portion of the day in the city. Think of the cheapness of luxuries, by the way, when this lovely evening trip, twenty miles up the river and back, is paid for with a couple of shillings!

The Ramapo Ravine, of sixteen miles, is a wild mountain vestibule to the open country of Orange County beyond. Our milk and butter, eggs and poultry, come out, by this long, shadowy entry, from the fertile plains where they are produced. I had taken a fancy to a stopping-place at the extremity of this porch of mountains-not from any recommendation, except what was contained in the looks of a very large and fine-looking landlord and here I proposed to sleep and find a vehicle to return leisurely through the valley the next morning. This station“Turner's”—we reached at a little after eight, and, as the cars stop here, "fifteen minutes for refreshments," it seemed, for that space of time, very little like a place for a quiet night. Two hundred people, laying in what coffee and tea, pies and crackers, would suffice them for a night's journey, make a confusion that, you think, might last. But "all aboard," and two or three pant

ings of the engine, and away they go-leaving their half-drank coffee and tea, and their half-eaten segments of pie—and the crickets are again heard outside the door, and all is rural and undisturbed. Would that a rail-track could be laid through the mind, to dismiss its turmoils with as expeditious a completeness! The road, at this place, runs above the roof of an old mill, with an old-fashioned tavern just below it, and the refectory, perched up alongside of the rails, seems not to have modified, essentially, the "entertainment for man and horse." I found a country bed, with country accommodations, and most civil and obliging people; and the old horse, destined for my next day's explorations, had been "twenty-three years in the family." In the course of chat, before going to bed, I learned that the woods are full of game; that the lakes, near by, are full of pickerel; that a man sees, on an average, a couple of hundred snakes "round there" in a summer, and that board, in that region, is about three dollars a week. People are beginning to come out from the city to pass the summer months in the neighborhood, and there are several farm-houses in the village two miles beyoud, (Monroe Village,) where they are ready to take lodgers.

My drive down the Ramapo, for twelve miles, the next day, was the opening of a many-leaved book-as delicious a volume of scenery as the unbound library of Nature has to show. So winding is the river, and so capricious the road, that every few feet bring you to a new scene, with exhaustless novelty of combination, and a singularly picturesque character to all. The mountains are boldly crowded together; the bright little river distributes its silver lakelets, and inlays its sparkling rapids, as if on purpose to please an artist; the foliage is dense and luxuriant to the tops of the mountains; and the edge of the horizon, near

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by, on every side, is in all varieties of eccentric grace and boldness. The Ramapo valley is really one of Nature's loveliest caprices, and its divine pictures will, one day, be made classic by pen and pencil.

The most picturesque point of this long and winding ravine, is near the outlet of Tuxeto Lake—a bright stream that comes in from a beautiful sheet of water by this name, a little way back among the mountains. There is, here, a rocky cleft in the river's bed, through which rush a succession of waterfall-rapids, and-(curiously unexpected in so wild a spot)—the scene, is here completed for the artist's eye, by the broken arches of some fine old ruins! They are the remains of very extensive iron-works, formerly in operation here, and, as their site, of course, was chosen for the water-power, the crumbling walls are in the finest position for effect.

The whole valley of the Ramapo has but three or four owners. The tract of many thousand acres, belonging to Mr. Peter Townsend, is the largest. Mr. McFarlan, the former member of the Legislature, owns an exquisitely lovely portion of it. The Lorillard family have another tract, and, further down toward Ramapo village, the valley spreads into a charming lap of mingled culture and mountain scenery, called Sloatsburg. Two or three gentlemen of the name of Sloat reside here; and, with great taste and enterprise, they have surrounded their fine residences with every look of prosperity and comfort. The pretty village around them has one peculiarity-there is no tavern, and consequently no loungers nor any look of travel, and the whole place has a most captivating and park-like aspect of privacy.

Sloatsburg was the termination of my twelve-mile ride, and,

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A LITTLE SWITZERLAND.

hitherto, Mr. McFarlan, whom I had called upon, at his romantic residence a few miles back, had kindly accompanied me. For the interesting historic incidents which he gave me, connected with the scenery we stopped to admire on the road, I wish I had room in this letter, but I have already exceeded time and limits, and those who visit the Ramapo may like to learn its history and imagine its poetry for themselves. I pointed out, to this gentleman and to the Messrs. Sloat, any number of situations for villas and country-houses, such as "Mr. Capability Brown," of London, would consider of unsurpassed advantages; and (let me tell you) New York is yet to open its eyes at this Eden within reach-this little Switzerland within two hours of Broadway.

Rather than wait for the more rapid mail-train, which I had intended to take at this station, I accepted a chair in the conductor's box on a slow freight-train, and so, with the fortunate opportunity of looking out on both sides, and seeing all of the country I was passing through, I pursued my way toward Piermont. The scenery, to the edge of the Hudson, is all beautiful. One wonders that the first opening of the railroad has not peopled such a valley with residents, at once. Like every new country, however, it is liable to fevers, where the water is stopped for mills and the moist vegetable deposit accumulates and decays, and this, perhaps, is a reason; but, with management and care, this evil is soon removed, and then, what neighborhood of New York can compare, for a residence, with the valley of the Ramapo ?

With recommending a trip hither to every lover of beauty, and every reader of the Home Journal, I will close this long letter, dear Morris, and remain

Yours, &c.

LETTER FROM WESTCHESTER.

Visit to Westchester-Speed of Harlem Train-Lots (of Dust) For Sale -Monotony of Elegance-Poverty necessary to Landscape-Reed's Villa at Throg's Neck-Bronx River Shut in from Publicity and FameMissing Train and Stage-Surly Toll-Keeper-Politeness of "Mine Host" -Suburban Manners of New York-High-bred Horse and Low-bred Owner-Contagion of Rowdyism, etc., etc.

DEAR MORRIS-Before leaving town for the summer, I made an excursion from the Island of Manhattan to the main land of Westchester, but doubt whether I saw any thing unfamiliar enough to chronicle. My friend, who was to meet me with his horses at Fordham, had instructed me to take the three o'clock Harlem train in the city, and come to him "in forty minutes;" but, though there seemed to be no unusual delay, we were one hour and fifty minutes performing this sixteen miles—a fact which will instruct any sanguine reader, who may think of passing the afternoon in Westchester, to take the morning train. Of dust, I think I have never experienced" so much in the same time and distance. The "lots" between Twenty-seventh street and Harlem seem nothing but lots of dust; and, either the law should take notice of fraudulent pretence, or the spelling should

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