34 SPARKS FROM. A GEOLOGIST'S HAMMER. 



Refreshed, we resume our march. The sun has crept 

 around on our side of the mountain, and the extract of 

 muscle begins to ooze copiously through the pores of the 

 skin. Spruce Americans ride past us on their donkeys, 

 intelligibly conscious of the awkwardness of their atti- 

 tudes and movements. The characteristic English wom- 

 an, thick, gelatinous and dowdy, planted on a saddle 

 two feet broad, capers along in the procession, while her 

 John, whiskered after the stereotyped mutton-leg fashion, 

 clad in his Scotch jeans, with a wild flower in his button- 

 hole, and lorgnette swung from his shoulder, perspires 

 along the mule-path in her rear. But every situation 

 has its compensations. Even now approaches a lad whose 

 mien, and whose very position in the company which he 

 leads, proclaim that he has crossed the Atlantic from a 

 country which has celebrated the centennial of its inde- 

 pendence. He is full of centennial. Fellow countryman, 

 a salutation ! Just behind is " pa," upon his mule, full 

 of pride over his young American; and alongside is a 

 pretty, jaunty young lady, whose profusion of smiles and 

 conspicuous defiance of lookers-on proclaim her ready for 

 anything prohibited to European girls. There is no mis- 

 taking it; this is the daughter. This is the "American 

 young woman abroad." There is nothing so fresh, so 

 charming, so inspiring, so satisfying, in all the breadth 

 of the continent, as the American young woman. The 

 man that could see this sylph float past him, or listen to 

 the music of her prattle, so full of nonsense, and yet 

 so full of meaning, without feeling moved to throw 

 his hat in the air and hurrah for the American girl, is 

 only fit to lead a mule by the bridle. Young man 

 old man you will never appreciate your blessings until 



