* * * * * * * * * * When we were in the steam-boat, going up to Troy,[102] ---- put a letter into my hands, which he told me was written by the mother of Allegra, Byron's child. The letter was remarkable only for more straightforwardness and conciseness than is usual in women's letters. I do not know whether ---- gave it me to read on that account alone, or because it contained allusions to wild and interesting adventures of his own: perhaps there was a mingling of motives. There never was, by the by, a _homogeneous_ motive, as Brewster would say, in the human breast. We reached Troy in about twenty minutes, and walked up into the town to procure some species of vehicle for our progress to the falls. There was none ready; and while one was being procured, a man, who was standing near us, very civilly invited us to come into his shop and sit down, which we did very readily. The situation of the warehouses, on the side near the river, of the main street of Troy, is exceedingly pretty. They are, for the most part, large long rooms, opening to the street at the one end, and on the other looking down, from a considerable height, upon the Hudson. The shop we were in was a china-store; and the nice cold crockery-ware made one cool to look at it: the weather was roasting. Mr. ---- left us to gather information, and kindly brought me back word that the population of Troy was five hundred, _or_ five thousand, I really forget which; and, for my journal, it don't much matter; and that the storekeeper assured him the Trojans were an exceedingly refined and literary set of folks; and that the society, in point of these two advantages, was no whit behind Boston: there's for Boston!--We obtained a coach, and crossed a ferry, such as I had never seen before, worked by horses. Poor wretches! they reminded me of ----'s steeds, Martyre et Souffrance. Mr. ---- observed that they led the life of the majority; and so they do,--labour and suffering that custom renders endurable, and that ends by grinding down every faculty of mind or soul: we're a blessed pack of drudges, and deserve to be just what we are. After crossing the ferry, we drove about five miles through some gentle smiling lands, that made one feel very charitable. The Cohoes is, I believe, a Dutch name for a hill just above a turn in the Mohawk, where, after some shallow, rapid, hasty running over a rocky bed, the river flings itself down over a broad barrier, between thirty and forty feet high, with the most delightful gushing sound in the world. The foam looked very nice, and soft, and thick, and cold: I longed to be in the middle of it. * * * * * * * * * * After wandering about for some time, we sat ourselves down on a high grassy knoll just above the falls. * * * * *