unpropitious for me to obtain a clear impression. And if, in his case, bitterness of spirit were more conspicuous than magnanimity, who can wonder?
I must now say a few words about some knockings in Rochester, which entertained me more than the so-called spiritual;—these I heard in the Telegraph Office of the city. I wished to know whether the former American minister in Stockholm, Mr. Lay, who now lived in Batavia, a little city in Western New York, was at home, in which case I wished to pay a visit to him and his wife on my way back to Niagara. Mr. Lay, who is still in a very suffering state after an apoplectic attack, had immediately on my arrival in America written to me very kindly, and sent a confidential person to take me to his house; but as I was then with the Downings, I was not able to avail myself of his kindness. Now, however, I was come into the neighbourhood of the Lays, and should be glad to see these amiable people, my former friends in Sweden, if it were merely to thank them. I wished therefore to send a message and make inquiries at Batavia, about sixty miles distant from Rochester.
I was taken to the Telegraph Office, a handsome, well-lighted room in a large covered arcade, in which were ornamental shops like those arched bazaar-arcades in Paris and London. I gave my message to one of the gentleman officials. He immediately caused some mystical knockings to take place, by means of which my message was sent to Batavia. In a few seconds it knocked again. This was the answer from Batavia, which said, “There is no person here of that name.” I requested it to knock back again, “Yes, there certainly is. Mr. George W. Lay was two years ago American envoy in Sweden, and now lives in Batavia.” In a few seconds more it was knocked back from Batavia, “Wait a little; we will inquire.” I waited now about five minutes, when again it knocked from Batavia, and said, “Quite right.
