AFTER a ramble through the wild mountainous region of southwestern Pennsylvania, I returned to Philadelphia; and soon afterward started for Washington, to remain there a few weeks in the capacity of correspondent.

When I travel in a railroad car, I always prefer that end of the seat next to the window. My reasons for this are various. For one thing a person can get a little fresh air, when he wants it—and too much when he don’t want it—he can get a far better view of the scenery without; and, besides, he can keep a look-out ahead for collisions, and jump out head foremost, if he sees another train coming from the opposite direction on the same track. Influenced by these considerations, I always manage to get to the depot a full half-hour before the starting-time of the train, and this course never fails to secure me my favorite end of the seat.

On this occasion, I was at the depot at Broad and Prime streets, in good time, and had no difficulty in locating myself on the train to my perfect satisfaction. When the car was nearly full of passengers, and it was within two minutes of the time for starting, a lady and gentleman came in, and began to canvass the interior in search of a wholly vacant seat that they might both occupy; but their search proved futile. Quite a number of the seats were occupied by but one passenger, each, but there was not one entirely vacant. Failing to find an empty seat, the gentleman concluded he would make one empty, and he therefore came to me, and said:

“Young man, won’t you take a seat with another gentleman and give us this seat?”

“Very cheerfully,” I replied, “if the other gentleman will allow me to sit by the window.”

He regarded this as equivalent to a refusal, and became vexed.

“But,” he said, rather petulantly, “don’t you see I have my lady with me?”

Until he said this, I had supposed her to be his wife.

“My friend,” I returned, “I came to the station early for the express purpose of obtaining a comfortable seat, and I do not think it right that I should keep it this long, and then give it up to another. I therefore respectfully decline to relinquish my seat.”

“I hope,” said he, fairly grinding his teeth with anger and vexation, “that you will some day be traveling with a lady, and——”

“I hope so,” I interrupted; “but I fear I will never be so fortunate.”

“Well,” he rejoined, changing his tactics, “I will see the conductor, and see if he don’t make the arrangement for me.”

“Very well,” I retorted; “see the conductor. I myself would like to see a conductor with the power and authority to take this seat from me. That conductor would be a living wonder. Barnum would pay handsomely for him.”

“Young man,” put in a gentleman behind me, who was also occupying a seat alone, “why don’t you give them the seat? You can sit by me.”

“Why don’t you?” I retorted. “You can sit by me.”

“I like to sit by the window,” he responded; “and am not well.”

“I, too, am partial to the window,” said I, “and have been at the point of death for a long time, with the toothache and a bad cold. I am quite an invalid.—Now, my friend,” I went on, addressing the gentleman with his lady, “why did you come to me, the first one, and ask me to move, when you see that I am a cripple? There are others in the car who occupy whole seats, and who could certainly move more easily than I. Were I the only one, I would willingly resign my seat, for the accommodation of the lady.”

“I think you shouldn’t ask him to move,” said a gentleman who sat with another on an opposite seat. “A man with but one leg ought to have some show in the world.”

This remark made the first gentleman a little ashamed of himself, and he turned and said to his lady:

“Come, let us try another car.”

They walked to the car-door, and not one offered to surrender his much-loved seat-by-the-window, to accommodate them. Man is naturally a selfish creature, and nowhere is his selfishness brought out in so strong a light as on a railroad car. Do not censure me, gentle public, for not relinquishing my seat. This was not the first or last time I was asked to abandon a comfortable seat in a car, after taking the trouble to go early and secure it. It seems that in such cases they always come right to me. I do not know why. It may be that I look young, innocent and verdant; and that they jump to the conclusion that I am one of those persons who, as the poet doesn’t say:

When I saw the two unfortunates about to leave the car, I called them back.

“Come,” I said; “you can have my seat. I cannot see a lady in a dilemma, when I can relieve her by making so slight a sacrifice.” And I arose, seized my crutch and was about to walk out from between the seats.

“No, no,” said the gentleman who occupied the seat behind me, and whose better nature began to show itself, while, at the same time a dozen others arose, ready to give up their seats. “No, you musn’t move. You’re crippled, and I am not. They can take my seat.” And he jumped up, with an agility that one could scarcely expect to see displayed by an invalid, and took a seat beside me; while the gentleman and his lady returned, and took possession of the vacated seat, without a single expression of thanks.

“Well,” said I, addressing my companion, “if you wish to take the end by the window, I will exchange with you—at least, for part of the journey.”

“O, never mind,” he replied: “I am only going as far as Wilmington.”

Here, then, was a man who was only going about twenty miles, who had at first refused to give up his seat for the accommodation of the lady, and yet expected me to give up mine, which I had secured for a ride of a hundred and forty miles. O, the selfishness of the traveler!

As I remarked before, there are always a dozen or two of passengers who come aboard the car at the eleventh hour, and have a time of it getting seated. Among them there are usually two or three gentlemen with their ladies, as in this case, and they always come to me, the first thing, and ask me to give up my seat. I have long since, however, adopted a course to pursue on such occasions, which, although it involves a little fib or two—which are certainly pardonable—spares me all controversy. On being asked to remove from my seat and take the wrong end of another, I smilingly state that I would cheerfully do so if I were alone, but that unfortunately, my wife and three little boys are out on the platform, bidding some friends good-by, and will presently come in to share the seat with me. Of course they don’t detect the “white one” till the train has started, and by that time, they have procured seats, by some means; and I don’t care how much I overhear them—as I often do—wondering “where that one-legged fellow’s wife and three little boys went to?”