The means of communication between Hillsdale and the commercial capital were very different in those days from the present.  Instead of the fine steamboats and railroad cars, which now connect the two places, the mode of travelling was by sailing vessels and stage coaches.  The latter were the surer—­but not the more popular.  In the wintry months, when the navigation of the river was unimpeded by ice, the condition of the roads was such that, in spite of the dreariness of water transit, at that season, the packets were able to maintain a fair rivalship with the coaches, while, in the summer, the latter stood but little chance in the competition, but were almost entirely deserted.  To this result the comfortable cabins of the coasters, designed for passengers (spacious and satisfactory for those times, however the refined effeminacy of the present generation might sneer at them), and the good fare they furnished, not a little contributed.  The Calypso was one of the finest of the line of packets to which she belonged, and provided with every convenience that could be desired.  She was a sloop of some ninety or one hundred tons, with a tall mast, that, to the timid eye of a landsman, seemed fitter for a vessel of twice her size, and when her enormous mainsail was raised and usual sail set, she looked more like one of those birds whose wings bear such a disproportion to the body, that in the contemplation we forget to what they are attached, than like a safe and sea-worthy craft.  But the shipwright who laid her keel and shaped her ribs, knew what he was about, and the Calypso was as staunch and stiff as she was handsome.  Her cabin extended full one-half the length of the vessel, and by means of a raised quarter deck, was conveniently high between joints, so that even the tallest man ran no risk of striking his head.  True, it was not embellished with gilding, and mahogany, and satinwood, but the paint was virgin white, the state-rooms commodious, the berths wide, and the bedding and linen scrupulously clean.  Captain Standish prided himself upon the comfort and propriety of his craft, and the good reputation he enjoyed and deserved.  The length of the passage varied according to the state of the winds and tides.  It might, under the most favorable circumstances, be made in less than twenty-four hours, and it might last a week.  It was at a period of the world’s existence, before steam and electricity had imparted a feverish impatience to the community, and men did not hurry as if they had not time enough to live.

But let it not be thought, that it is as one who peevishly resents the improvements made in mechanical and other departments of knowledge, we dwell upon these particulars.  We are quite awake to the fact that the world turns round, and although the consequence is an alternation of light and darkness, are satisfied with the change.  With the philosopher Pangloss we would rather believe, “dans ce meilleur des mondes possible,”