At last we emerged from the town, and went steaming away merrily over the country.
Our companions inside were a motley group of all classes.

By good fortune, we found a spare seat on which to put our cloaks, &c., which was a luxury rarely enjoyed in my future travels, being generally obliged to carry them on my knee, as the American cars are usually so full that there is seldom a vacant place on which to lay them.
Our route lay partly along the line of the Mohawk, on the banks of which is situated the lovely village of Rockton, or Little Falls, where the gushing stream is compressed between two beautifully wooded cliffs, affording a water-power which has been turned to good account by the establishment of mills.

At this point the Erie canal is cut for two miles through the solid rock, and its unruffled waters, contrasting with the boiling river struggling through the narrow gorge, look like streams of Peace and Passion flowing and struggling side by side.

As the "iron horse" hurries us onward, the ears are assailed, amid the wild majesty of Nature, with the puny cockneyisms of "Rome," "Syracuse," &c.
Such absurdities are ridiculous enough in our suburban villas; but to find them substituted for the glorious old Indian names, is positively painful.
Among other passengers in the train, was a man conspicuous among his fellows for clean hide and clean dimity; on inquiry, I was told he was a Professor.

He looked rather young for a professorial chair, and further investigation confused me still more, for I found he was a _Professor of Soap_.