ans of instruction, but I do not understand it when
applied as praise to his works."

"Not understand it, madam? Is it not attributing genius to the
author, and what is teaching compared to that?"

296

I do not wish to repeat all my own _bons mots_ in praise of
study, and on the disadvantages of profound ignorance, but I
would, willingly, if I could, give an idea of the mixed
indignation and contempt expressed by our companion at the idea
that study was necessary to the formation of taste, and to the
development of genius. At last, however, he closed the
discussion thus,--"There is no use in disputing a point that is
already settled, madam; the best judges declare that Mr. H--g's
portraits are equal to that of Lawrence."

"Who is it who has passed this judgement, sir?"

"The men of taste of America, madam."

I then asked him, if he thought it was going to rain?

The stages do not appear to have any regular stations at which
to stop for breakfast, dinner, and supper. These necessary
interludes, therefore, being generally _impromptu_, were
abominably bad. We were amused by the patient manner in which
our American fellow-travellers ate whatever was set before them,
without uttering a word of complaint, or making any effort to
improve it, but no sooner reseated in the stage, than they began
their complaints--"twas a shame"--"twas a robbery"--"twas
poisoning folks"--and the like. I, at last, asked the reason of
this, and why they did not remonstrate? "Because, madam, no
American gentleman or lady that keeps an inn won't bear to be
found fault with."

We reached Utica very late and very weary; but the delights of a
good hotel and perfect civility sent us in good humour to bed,
and we arose sufficiently refreshed to enjoy a day's journey
through some of the loveliest scenery in the world.

Who is it that says America is not picturesque? I forget; but
surely he never travelled from Utica to Albany. I really cannot
conceive that any country can furnish a drive of ninety-six miles
more beautiful, or more varied in its beauty. The road follows
the Mohawk River, which flows through scenes changing from
fields, waving with plenty, to rocks and woods; gentle slopes,
covered with cattle, are divided from each other by precipices
500 feet high. Around the little falls there is a character of
beauty as singular as it is striking. Here, as I observed of
many other American rivers, the stream appears to run i