The scene is one of inextricable confusion, and it is not till the twenty miles of the Palisades are well passed that the bewildered passenger knows rightly whether his wife, child, or baggage, whichever may be his tender care, is not being left behind at the rate of fifteen miles in the hour. I have often flung my valise into the corner, and, sure that the whole of my person and personal effects was vmder way, watched the maniform embarrassments and troubles that beset the uninitiated voyager upon the Hudson. Fifteen minutes before the starting of the boat, there is not a passenger aboard: "time is money," and the American, counting it as part of the expense, determines to pay only "on demand." He arrives on the narrow pier at the same instant with seven hundred men, ladies, and children, besides lapdogs, crammed baskets, uncut novels, and baggage for the whole. No commissioner in the world would guarantee to get all this freight on board in the given time, and yet it is done, to the daily astonishment of newspaper hawkers, orange women, and penny-a-liners watching for dreadful accidents. The plank is drawn in, the wheels begin to paw like foaming steeds impatient to be off, the bell rings as if it were letting down the steps of the last hackney-coach, and away darts the boat, like half a town suddenly slipping off and taking a walk on the water. The "hands" (who follow their nomenclature literally, and have neither eyes nor bowels) trip up all the little children and astonished maids in coiling up the hawser: the