question on question in a fashion which was most pertinacious and almost impertinent.  Percival became impatient, and tried to hurry away.  “I demand the information,” exclaimed the New Milfordite; “I demand it as my right.  You are only servants of the people; and you are paid, in part, at least, out of my pocket.”  “I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Percival; “we can’t stop, but we’ll refund.  Your portion of the geological tax,—­let me see,—­it must be about two cents.  We prefer handing you this to encountering a further delay.”  Our agricultural friend and master did not take the money, although he did the hint,—­and in sulky silence withdrew from our company.

Driving through the town of Warren, we stopped a farmer to inquire the way to certain places in the vicinity.  He gave us the information sought, staring at us meanwhile with a benevolently inquisitive expression, and, at last, volunteering the remark, that, if we wanted a job, we had better stop at the factory in the hollow.  We thanked him for his goodness, and thought, perhaps, of Sedgewick geologizing by the road-side, and getting a charitable half-crown flung at him by a noble lady who was on her way to dine in his company at the house of a mutual acquaintance.

Let us grant here one brief parenthesis of respect and astonishment to the scientific knowledge and philological acumen of a distinguished graduate of Yale College, and member of Congress, whom we encountered on our travels.  Hearing us speak of mosaic granite, a rock occurring in Woodbridge, to which we had given this name, from the checker-like arrangement of its felspathic ingredient, he concluded that we attributed its formation to the era of Moses, and asked Percival what evidence he had for such an opinion.  Small blame to him, perhaps, for the blunder, but it seemed a very droll one to geologists.

In Greenwich, the extreme southwestern town of the State, we encountered an incident to which my companion would sometimes refer with a slight degree of merriment.  In general, he was no joker, no anecdotist, and had but a feeble appreciation of droll sayings or humorous matters of any kind.  But in Greenwich he heard a memorable phrase.  Among the tavern-loungers was a man who had evidently seen better days, and who, either for that reason or because of the large amount of rum he had swallowed, entertained a lofty opinion of himself, and discoursed de omnibus rebus in a most consequential fashion.  He soon made himself a sort of medium between ourselves and his fellow-loafers.  Overhearing us say that we wished to pass the New York frontier for the sake of tracing out the strata then under examination, he proceeded with much pomposity to declare to his deeply curious auditory, that “it was his opinion that the Governor of the State should confer upon these gentlemen discretionary powers to pass the limits of Connecticut, whenever and wherever, in the prosecution of their labors, the interests of science required them so to do.”  After this, we rarely crossed the State line but Percival observed, “We are now taking advantage of our discretionary powers.”