with Geneva. Here the Grand Canal
terminates by another spacious Basin, filled with boats.

I took a walk, as it was a pleasant evening, the wind blowing fresh up
the lake--down to the Buck. But instead of the smooth and beautiful
expanse of the Cayuga, Seneca, and Canandaigua, was heard the roar of
the Atlantic. The surf dashed against the shore with violence, and the
breakers advanced and receded in rapid succession--and it was to me
almost irreconcilable that it was nothing but Lake Erie. I counted
something like 30 vessels of considerable size at the wharves, for
navigating this fresh water sea. And to make the matter short, Buffalo
is a brisk and pleasant place. And now, whether I am credited or not, I
state it as a fact, independent and absolute--that the distance from
Weedsport to Batavia is 100 miles--that it is as thickly settled on
each side of the road as far as can be seen, as is the road from New
York to Philadelphia, being about the same distance--that the towns and
villages are as much finer and neater, as the land is better--and that
there are 10 trees and stumps along the latter, where there is one along
the former,--and as to scenery, the odds are so much in favor of the
former, that I cannot, nor will not, attempt to compare them.

_Extract No. 7_

I left Buffalo on the 12th in the stage for Niagara Falls, or
Manchester, distant from Buffalo twenty-three miles, fare one dollar.
For the first time since I set out, I had plenty of room, as there were
but six in the stage. We came to Black Rock in one and a half miles--it
is a smart place, but never can equal Buffalo. I was here informed that
a passage could be procured to Waterloo, in Upper Canada, on the
opposite side, whence a stage runs to Chippewa. But as the current flows
at the rate of nine miles an hour towards the great falls, I declined
the experiment. The canal passes directly by the side of the river,
until you arrive at the village of Tontawanto, distant twelve miles,
where it takes the creek, by being dammed at its mouth. This place is
near the Indian village of the same name, and is truly a low, dirty, and
savage-looking town--so the sooner I leave it, the better. Our road has
been, and still continues along the banks of the rapid Niagara. But of
all the roads I have ever seen, travelled, or heard of, this comes
nearer to shaking soul out of body than any other.

Grand Island commences six miles below Buffalo, and continues twe