AS Spring approached, I resolved to take a western tour; and with that view left Philadelphia in February. For the sake of variety, having frequently traveled through Pennsylvania, I concluded to go to Pittsburg via Baltimore, Maryland; Fairmont, in Western Virginia; and Uniontown, Western Pennsylvania—certainly a circuitous route. I desired to visit some friends in southwestern Pennsylvania, however, and it was not much out of my way, after all, to take the Philadelphia and Wilmington, and Baltimore and Ohio Railroads.

One very cold day, I went from Philadelphia to Baltimore, and at ten o’clock that night left the latter place on the express train that was to run through to Wheeling—intending myself to get off at Fairmont.

On this occasion, just after taking a seat in the car, a gentleman sat down by me, and after regarding my countenance attentively for a moment, said:

“Pardon me: isn’t your name Smith?”

I pardoned him, as desired, and told him it was.

“First name John?”

There was no denying it, and I replied in the affirmative.

“Delighted to meet you!” he exclaimed, as we shook hands cordially. “When did you leave Nashville?”

“I never left it,” was my response. “I was never there.”

“No? Then excuse me: you cannot be the gentleman I supposed you, although your appearance and name strikingly correspond with those of a person I knew in Nashville a year ago—especially the name. He had also lost a leg, as you have.”

“A remarkable coincidence,” said I. “In the course of my own travels, I have met with a great many of me—in name.”

My fellow-traveler was an agreeable and good-humored gentleman, and I related to him the following anecdote of Doctor B. Frank Palmer, of Philadelphia, the great manufacturer of artificial limbs. Receiving an order for a leg from plain John Smith one day, and being in a merry mood, the Doctor sat down and answered John’s letter thus:

“Look here! What do you mean? I have already furnished you with five hundred of my patent limbs, and I don’t think the Government allows you any more. However, I’ll send this one yet, and if you continue so extravagant in the use of patent legs, I advise you to set up a manufactory for your own accommodation.” * * *

The Doctor, who has manufactured thousands of artificial limbs for mutilated soldiers, once jocosely remarked to the writer that he found, by referring to his books, that John Smith had been literally hacked to pieces during the war. He had had his right hand cut off; his left hand; his right arm below the elbow; his left arm below the elbow; his right arm above the elbow; his left arm above the elbow; his right arm at shoulder-joint, with skin-flap; his left arm at shoulder-joint, with skin-flap; his right toes; his left toes; his right foot; his left foot; his right leg below the knee; his left leg below the knee; his right leg above the knee; his left leg above the knee; both hands, both arms below the elbow; both arms above the elbow; both feet; both legs below the knee; both legs above the knee; the right arm and left leg; the right arm and right leg; the right arm and both legs; the left arm and right leg; the left arm and left leg; the left arm and both legs; both arms and both legs; et cetera. All that can remain of him now, it might well be inferred, is about the size and shape of a sack of wheat, though far less useful to himself and the world.

The number of plain John Smiths on the Doctor’s book is quite astounding, to say nothing of the innumerable John A., John B., John C., John D., John E., John F., John G., John H., John I., John J., John K., John L., John M., John N., John O., John P., John Q., John R., John S., John T., John U., John V., John W., John X., John Y., and John Z., Smiths!

Things went on very finely through the night of my journey over the snow-covered mountains of Virginia, and in the morning the train stopped at Cumberland, on the Potomac, where the passengers took breakfast. Then we thundered on again among the frosted hills. Within ten miles of Grafton, Western Virginia, the wheels of the forward truck of the car I was in, jumped off the track, and went bouncing along on the ties beside the iron rails, in a way calculated to startle the timid. I sprang from my seat, seized the bell-cord, and gave it a vigorous pull; but although I surely made the engine-bell ring, I could see no immediate diminution in the speed of the train.

I knew that this state of things could not last long before the car should break to pieces. The stove was soon shaken from its moorings, and fell over, scattering the fire about and filling the car with smoke and dust; several of the seats were also shaken loose, a deliberate crashing was heard; and, glancing around among the passengers, I saw as delicious a collection of pale faces as I had ever seen. The men all sprang to their feet, the women screamed, and some raised their windows, as though to squeeze through and drop out. I raised my window and thrust my arm out, so that I might thus cling to the side of the car, in case the floor should be shattered and torn out, as it must soon have been if the train had not been checked.

At last, the welcome sound of the whistle was heard, the brakes were applied and the speed of the train began to slacken. Just then, the axles of the front truck broke, the frame smashed up, and the floor of the car began to give way. With screams of horror the passengers all rushed to the rear end of the car; but in another moment, before any further damage was done or any one hurt, the train came to a full stop. Then the passengers all rushed out as quickly as possible, as though there were still danger within, and some of them got their ribs strained, squeezing through the door. I walked out and examined the wreck. Up to this time, I had not felt any trepidation; but now, when it was all over, and I realized what terrible danger we had passed through, I could not help trembling. Had the train proceeded fifty yards further, the car we were in must have been torn to pieces, and it would have been indeed a lucky passenger who would have escaped death or severe injury.

There was one car in the rear of us, and as the wrecked car could not be moved, the two were left standing, and all the passengers crowded into the three or four cars in our front. Thus we proceeded to Grafton, where other cars were added.

The Baltimore and Ohio Railroad is very well conducted, and accidents on it are not of frequent occurrence. It just chanced to be my luck to witness this. I heard the conductor say that it was the only accident of any kind that had happened to his train for three years.

At Fairmont, on the Monongahela river, I got off the train, and took the stage for Uniontown, which is forty-five miles from the above place.

After spending a few weeks in Fayette county, I went down the Monongahela river to Pittsburg, intending to remain there a few days, and learn whether the sun was to be seen there or not.