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.

“Sh-sh’h—­that’s a secret; an’ if I shud tell you, you cudn’t keep it.”

“Is it yours?”

“I dun sole mine to Mistah Vand’bilt las’ week; he name it de White Ghos’—­after me.”

“You mean the Black Devil.”

“No, I doan; he didn’t want to hu’t youah feelings; Mistah Vand’bilt a very consid’rate man.”

Sambo carried our things in, talking all the time.

“Now you jes’ go right into dinnah; I’ll take keer of the auto’bile; I’ll see that nun of those ign’rant folk stannin’ roun’ lay their han’s on it; they think Sambo doan know an auto’bile; didn’t I see you heah befoh? an’ didn’t I hole de hose when you put de watah in?  Me an’ you are de only two pussons in dis whole town who knows about de auto’bile,—­jes’ me an’ you.”

After dinner we rode down the broad main street and around the lake to the left in going to Geneva.  Barring the fact that the roads were soft in places, the afternoon’s ride was delightful, the roads being generally very good.

It was about five o’clock when we came to the top of the hills overlooking Geneva and the silvery lake beyond.  It was a sight not to be forgotten by the American traveller, for this country has few towns so happily situated as the village of Geneva,—­a cluster of houses against a wooded slope with the lake like a mirror below.

The little hotel was almost new and very good; the rooms were large and comfortable.  There was but one objection, and that the location at the very corner of the busiest and noisiest streets.  But Geneva goes to bed early,—­even on Saturday nights,—­and by ten or eleven o’clock the streets were quiet, while on Sunday mornings there is nothing to disturb one before the bells ring for church.