A nigger, and our guide of this afternoon, have just seated themselves
in the corner of the drawing room where I am writing, and are playing,
one the fiddle, and the other the guitar. Perhaps they are trying to get
up a "hop," later, but there do not seem materials enough for it, and
their tune is at present squeaky--jerky--with an attempt at an adagio.
The nigger is now playing "Comin' thro' the Rye," with much expression,
both of face and fiddle! Oh, such, squeaks! I wish Louisa heard them.
Here come the variations with accompaniment of guitar.--Later.--The
nigger is now singing plaintive love ditties!
_International Hotel, Niagara Falls, September 18th._--We had gone from
the station at Trenton to Trenton Falls in a close, lumbering, heavy
coach, which is of very ordinary use in America. But yesterday morning
we went over the same ground in an omnibus, which allowed us to see the
great beauty of the country to perfection; and, although we had
occasional heavy showers, the day was, on the whole, much more
propitious for travelling, as the atmosphere was very clear, and the
sandy dust was laid. We returned to Utica, or "Utikay," as they call it,
and, having an hour to spare, went and saw the State Lunatic Asylum; but
there was not much to remark upon it, although everything, as seems
generally the case in this country, was very orderly and well kept.
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