The one was an aged man, whose venerable head in attitude and expression indicated the profoundest melancholy: the other was a youth, and in his deep-set eye there was a quiet sadness more touching still.
There they stood, the native rightful lords of the fair land, looking out upon the lovely lake which yet bore the name their fathers had given it, watching the threatening storm that brooded there; a more fearful one had already burst over them.
Though I have mentioned the lake first, the little town of Canandaigua precedes it, in returning from the West.

It is as pretty a village as ever man contrived to build.

Every house is surrounded by an ample garden, and at that flowery season they were half buried in roses.
It is true these houses are of wood, but they are so neatly painted, in such perfect repair, and show so well within their leafy setting, that it is impossible not to admire them.
Forty-six miles farther is Geneva, beautifully situated on Seneca Lake.

This, too, is a lovely sheet of water, and I think the town may rival its European namesake in beauty.
We slept at Auburn, celebrated for its prison, where the highly-approved system of American discipline originated.

In this part of the country there is no want of churches; every little village has its wooden temple, and many of them too; that the Methodists and Presbyterians may not clash.
We passed through an Indian reserve, and the untouched forests again hung close upon the road.