n the cords that suspended
them, uttering an affrighted and melancholy cry whenever I came near and
flapped my handkerchief, and appearing quite tired and sinking into
despair. At last he happened to fly low enough to pass through the door,
and immediately vanished into the gladsome sunshine.--Ludicrous
situation of a man, drawing his chaise down a sloping bank, to wash in
the river. The chaise got the better of him, and, rushing downward as if
it were possessed, compelled him to run at full speed, and drove him up
to his chin into the water. A singular instance, that a chaise may run
away with a man without a horse!

* * * * *

_Saturday, August 12th._--Left Augusta a week ago this morning for
Thomaston. Nothing particular in our drive across the country.
Fellow-passenger, a Boston dry-goods dealer, travelling to collect
bills. At many of the country shops he would get out, and show his
unwelcome visage. In the tavern, prints from Scripture, varnished and on
rollers,--such as the Judgment of Christ; also, a droll set of colored
engravings of the story of the Prodigal Son, the figures being clad in
modern costume,--or, at least, that of not more than half a century ago.
The father, a grave, clerical person, with a white wig and black
broadcloth suit; the son, with a cocked hat and laced clothes, drinking
wine out of a glass, and caressing a woman in fashionable dress. At
Thomaston, a nice, comfortable, boarding-house tavern, without a bar or
any sort of wines or spirits. An old lady from Boston, with her three
daughters, one of whom was teaching music, and the other two were
school-mistresses. A frank, free, mirthful daughter of the landlady,
about twenty-four years old, between whom and myself there immediately
sprang up a flirtation, which made us both feel rather melancholy when
we parted on Tuesday morning. Music in the evening, with a song by a
rather pretty, fantastic little mischief of a brunette, about eighteen
years old, who has married within a year, and spent the last summer in a
trip to the Springs and elsewhere. Her manner of walking is by jerks,
with a quiver, as if she were made of calves-feet jelly. I talk with
everybody: to Mrs. Trott, good sense,--to Mary, good sense, with a
mixture of fun,--to Mrs. Gleason, sentiment, romance, and nonsense.

Walked with Cilley to see General Knox's old mansion,--a large,
rusty-looking edifice of wood, with some grandeur in the architec