anything against Elmira, though possibly its embattled reformatory,
frowning from the hillside, contributed its gloomy associations to our
spirits. It was against towns in general that our gorge rose. Did our
vagabond ethics necessitate our conscientiously tramping every foot of
these "gritty paving-stones," we asked each other, as we entered upon a
region of depressing suburbs, and we called a halt on the spot to discuss
the point. The discussion was not long, and it was brought to a
cheerful, demoralized end by the approach of the trolley, into which,
regardless of right or wrong, we climbed with alacrity, not to alight
till not only Elmira was left behind, but more weary suburbs, too, on the
other side. That night, as old travellers phrase it, we lay at Waverly,
on the frontier of Pennsylvania, a sad, dirty little town, grotesquely
belying its romantic name, and only surpassed in squalor by the
classically named Athens--beware, reader, of American towns named out of
classical dictionaries! Here, however, our wanderings in the
brick-and-mortar wilderness were to end, for by a long, romantic, old,
covered bridge we crossed the Chemung River, and there once more, on the
other side, was Nature, lovelier than ever, awaiting us. Not Dante, when
he emerged from Hades and again beheld the stars, drew deeper breaths of
escape than we, thus escaping from--Athens!

And soon we were to meet the Susquehanna--beautiful, broad-bosomed name,
that has always haunted my imagination like the name of some beautiful
savage princess--_La belle sauvage_. Susquehanna! What a southern
opulence in the soft, seductive syllables! Yes, soon we were to meet the
Susquehanna. Nor had we long to wait, and little did we suspect what our
meeting with that beautiful river was to mean.

The Chemung, on whose east bank we were now walking, seemed a noble
enough river, very broad and all the more picturesque for being