heart. The dark mouth of the shaft, high up on the side of the hill, is repulsive as a cancer to the eye searching for beauty. Storms might shatter the forests, or fire sweep them, and the grandeur of the hills would be untouched. But in the midst of billowed foliage, and within sound of the rills, the puff of a steam-engine beside a black hole in the mountain-side robs the scene of all loveliness, and hurries the observer out of sight of the profanation.
But where was I? At Wilkesbarre only! We put our boats up at a pretty boat-house above the bridge, and we thought we should stay an hour to see the city, and then proceed. It is very pleasant to recall the manner and face of the man who kept that boat-house, and who was, we learned later, no other than "Commodore Brobst, of the Wilkesbarre Navy," a well-known and popular person. He was very kind indeed; but while he was showing us his handsome boats, his little boy was scudding off to a newspaper office, and "The Commodore" seemed to enjoy himself hugely when, a few minutes later, a reporter stepped down to the float and said:—
"Gentlemen, we have been expecting you. The editor of my paper is coming here presently to welcome you; and also a committee of reception, which was appointed three days ago."
