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The Vault at PfaffsAn Archive of Art and Literature by the Bohemians of Antebellum New York
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Text for Page 116 [06-11-1851]

              half-hour�s pause during a thunder-storm, which kept us under shelter on a door-
step, we called on Picton.     There with him till 11, talking of topics public,
private & national.     The �Era� exists no longer; � and a new paper yclept
the �Leader� is projected.   �Era� paid, though not well enough.     Left, and
parting at Duane, to our separate beds.
  12. Thursday.  Rather a dull morning, scarcely promising the glorious day
which followed.   Taking the cars at Chamber Street, was rumbled on down
Hudson & out in the brink of the North river, till trees and country
replaced timber yards.     The customary travellers, masculines reading the days
papers, the feminines talking with Yankee accent.    A stout man, with a compan-
ion seated behind me.    Pleasantly rapid journey, the Hudson on the left & country
on the right.   Arrived at Yonkers   I alight, and making inquiry, jog down
the railroad track for the space of a mile.   The tall rock �Palisades� on
the opposite shore, summit and base clad in verdure,  the river clear and
sparkling, and the blue �ther without a cloud.      Directed by a Railroad-
Paddylander I, at length, ascend the steep bank,  and winding up a neglected
path, I come suddenly in sight of Fonthill Castle.    A castellated machi-
nilated, half-Tudor-half incongruous Norman edifice, turret rising above turret.
A marvellous sleeping-beauty-in-the wood air about it; grass growing even to the lintel
summer-insects buzzing drowsily, and the wild flowers and cedars gently moving
in the breeze.  I try bell and door handle, walk round the building: � it is
clearly deserted.   Crossing a ploughed corner of land, I skirt a fence, and clamber
into the adjoining grounds.   A little verandah�d villa, all deserted: another, and
of greater pretensions, deserted also.       Returning to my Railroad adviser, by his
direction pursued a path leading from the castle door; through a field of rye, the
tall blades of which reached to my shoulders, skirting a little thicket, and 
up a lane, where was a farm-villa, with sheds & prettily covered well.
A word with a red-shirted man in adjoining field had informed me.  that Mr               
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