We left Rochester at ten o'clock, Saturday, the 24th, intending to
go east by Egypt, Macedon, Palmyra,--the Oriental route, as my
companion called it; but after leaving Pittsford we missed the
road and lost ourselves among the hills, finding several grades so
steep and soft that we both were obliged to dismount.

An old resident was decidedly of the opinion that the roads to the
southeast were better than those to the northeast, and we turned
from the Nile route towards Canandaigua.

Though the roads were decidedly better, in many places being well
gravelled, the heavy rains of the previous two days made the going
slow, and it was one-thirty before we pulled up at the old hotel
in Canandaigua for dinner.

As the machine had been there before, we were greeted as friends.
The old negro porter is a character,--quite the irresponsible head
of the entire establishment.

"Law's sakes! you heah agen? glad to see you; whar you come from
dis time? Rochester! No, foh sure?--dis mawning?--you doan say so;
that jes' beats me; to think I live to see a thing like that; it's
a reg'lar steam-engine, aint it?"

"Sambo," called out a bystander, making fun of the old darkey, "do
you know what you are looking at?"

"Well, if I doan, den I can't find out frum dis yere crowd."

"What do they call it, Sambo?" some one else asked.