But we went along, and, in keeping with our new prosaic feeling, we hooked on to a little steamer running down to Nanticoke, and escaped nine miles of paddling. At Nanticoke we could not cross the dam,—so we went into the canal which begins there. Deeper and deeper we were sinking into the prosaic; and the sense of a departed sympathy made us silent and almost irritable. I heard Smith repeating to himself the sad lines of Wordsworth:—
We regretted the promise that bound us to return, and necessitated at least some preparation. We resolved to telegraph back recalling it. But there was no telegraph-office for a long distance down the canal. The current was slow, but in our favor. We paddled steadily ahead, almost silent, till the sun bent down to the mountains, and the canal seemed to become a mere gloomy ditch. Then we began to think of camping and getting supper; but for miles no suitable place appeared. Just about sunset we overtook
