At sunset, after partially satisfying a long-suffering appetite from a table at a restorer, on the verge of the canal, where dainty guests should eat with closed eyes and unwavering faith in the purity of the viands and the proper proportions of flies and butter, I embarked for Utica, six miles eastward. It was the close of a calm, sultry day, and peculiarly grateful August 20, 1848 was the evening breeze that fanned us as we glided along upon that tiny river, through cultivated fields and pleasant woodlands.
"Sweet to the pensive is departing day,
When only one small cloud, so still and thin,
So thoroughly imbued with amber light,
And so transparent that it seems a spot
Of brighter sky, beyond the furthest mount,
Hangs o'er the hidden orb; or where a few
Long, narrow stripes of denser, darker grain,
At each end sharpened to a needle's point,
With golden borders, sometimes straight and smooth,