“Rosey” was the vulgate for Judge Rosecranz; whereupon Halicarnassus glossed over the rampant democracy by remarking that the diminutive was probably a term of endearment rather than familiarity; whereupon the manly voice—­if I might say it—­snickered audibly in the darkness, and we all relapsed into silence.  But could anything be more characteristic of a certain phase of the manners of our great and glorious country?  Where are the Trollopes?  Where is Dickens?  Where is Basil Hall?

It is but a dreary ride to Lake George on a dark and rainy evening, unless people like riding for its own sake, as I do.  If there are suns and stars and skies, very well.  If there are not, very well too:  I like to ride all the same.  I like everything in this world but Saratoga.  Once or twice our monotony was broken up by short halts before country-inns.  At one an excitement was going on.  “Had a casualty here this afternoon,” remarked a fresh passenger, as soon as he was fairly seated.  A casualty is a windfall to a country-village.  It is really worth while to have a head broken occasionally, for the wholesome stirring-up it gives to the heads that are not broken.  On the whole, I question whether collisions and collusions do not cause as much good as harm.  Certainly, people seem to take the most lively satisfaction in receiving and imparting all the details concerning them.  Our passenger-friend opened his budget with as much complacence as ever did Mr. Gladstone or Disraeli, and with a confident air of knowing that he was going not only to enjoy a piece of good-fortune himself, but to administer a great gratification to us.  Our “casualty” turned out to be the affair of a Catholic priest, of which our informer spoke only in dark hints and with significant shoulder-shrugs and eyebrow-elevations, because it was “not exactly the thing to get out, you know”; but if it wasn’t to get out, why did he let it out? and so from my dark corner I watched him as a cat does a mouse, and the lamp-light shone full upon him, and I understood every word and shrug, and I am going to tell it all to the world.  I translated that the holy father had been “skylarking” in a boat, and in gay society had forgotten his vows of frugality and abstinence and general mortification of the flesh, and had become, not very drunk, but drunk enough to be dangerous, when he came ashore and took a horse in his hands, and so upset his carriage, and gashed his temporal artery, and came to grief, which is such a casualty as does not happen every day, and I don’t blame people for making the most of it.  Then the moral was pointed, and the tale adorned, and the impression deepened, solemnized, and struck home by the fact that the very horse concerned in the “casualty” was to be fastened behind our coach, and the whole population came out with lanterns and umbrellas to tie him on,—­all but one man, who was deaf, and stood on the piazza, anxious and eager to know everything that had been and was still occurring, and yet sorry to give trouble, and so compromising the matter and making it worse, as compromises generally do, by questioning everybody with a deprecating, fawning air.