ABOUT the middle of July, I resolved to return to Philadelphia before completing my tour; and one evening I took an express train for Pittsburg, via the Pittsburg, Fort Wayne and Chicago Railroad. The train was not crowded, and each passenger in the car I was in had a whole seat to himself.

We had traveled about a hundred miles, and were rolling across the State of Indiana, in the darkness of night, when two persons got on at a station, somewhere, came to the middle of the car, and one took a seat beside me, while the other sat immediately in front. I glanced casually at my companion, and had not the slightest difficulty in making out that he was a sharper.

“This is a fine evening,” he said to me, politely, as the train thundered onward.

“Very,” I replied.

Let it be borne in mind, however, that he had no special reason for stating, nor I for agreeing, that it was a “fine evening.” On the contrary, it was dark and cloudy, and looked like rain.

“How far are you going?” he asked.

“To Philadelphia,” I frankly replied.

“Ah? So am I.”

“Do you live there?” I queried.

“No; but I have an uncle there—a merchant——”

“What street?” I asked, pertly.

“Why—I—O, yes! Market street.” He then changed the subject, and said: “I see you have lost a leg.”

“Yes,” I assented.

“In the war, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Ah!” he pursued, with earnestness, “many noble youths have made this sacrifice for their country, and I hope they will never be forgotten.”

“I hope so, truly,” I replied.

“I know,” he went on, “that you must find it very inconvenient traveling, in your condition—especially when it comes to changing cars, and the like—and I was going to suggest that I would remain with you till we reach Philadelphia, and render you any assistance——”

“Thank you,” I interrupted. “The truth is, I used to get around very clumsily, when I had two feet to take care of; but now, having got rid of one of the encumbrances, I get about astonishingly well. If you knew how convenient it is to have but one leg to take care of, you wouldn’t retain both yours a week. You’d have one of them sawed off, sir. You would indeed.”

Mr. Sharper began to see that I wasn’t his man, and he presently got up and took a seat just in front of his pal. On the same seat was a young man who evidently had not made a regular business of traveling, and with him Mr. Sharper struck up an animated conversation, soon gaining his confidence. By and by, he introduced a very curious puzzle, with two cups and ivory balls, which he said he had bought that day from an Italian peddler with one eye, who had lost a brother and two wives in a storm at sea, on his way to this country. I was not near enough to see the exact construction of the cups and balls; but it was not long before he got up a bet about them, with the green traveler. His confederate, sitting on the seat between him and me, still pretending to be a stranger to him, made a sham bet of thirty dollars, and the other man on the same seat—also a man who had never been sharpened on the grindstone of experience—bet fifteen dollars. The money was put up in the hands of a passenger, and, of course, Sharper won. He and his confederate got off at the next station, each about twenty dollars “in;” leaving a couple of foolish passengers so much poorer, and, it is to be hoped, so much wiser.

Reader, in your travels, beware of friendly strangers. John Smith always bewares of ’em, and it pays.

A description of a forty hours’ ride by railroad, would prove as tiresome to the reader as the ride always does to me. It is a delightful thing, in fine weather, to take a ride of fifty or a hundred miles on a train; to see the fields, and houses, and gardens, and barns, and woods, and fences flying past you, and to feel that lightning would get tired before it could catch you: but when you have to ride a thousand miles, as I have often done, the thing becomes frightfully monotonous, and is any thing but a pastime.

Especially when night comes does the ride grow tiresome. As for sleeping-cars, I have long since vetoed them, as far as I am concerned. I decide that they are a nuisance, and I believe the majority of travelers will ratify and endorse my decision—and thus render it legal. I never slept in one yet, that I did not suffer all the time, either from heat or cold. Such a thing as an even or moderate temperature, I never experienced in a sleeping-car. Then the space! To be stuffed, as tight as the wad in a pop-gun, into a narrow cell, which they honor with the appellation of “berth,” a cell so narrow as to evoke unpleasant contemplations of the anticipated long and narrow home we must all go to; so narrow and contracted that you haven’t room for your elbows; so narrow that you can’t turn over without getting out upon the floor for the purpose; so narrow and close that, as you lie on your back, you are afraid to wink, lest you should scrape your eyelids against the ceiling above you and break the lashes off: to be crammed into a place like this, I say, with an implied promise of repose, is the opposite extreme of extraordinary felicity!

However, occupying a seat in a car, for a whole night, is no delicacy, either; although I prefer it to the “berth.” How frequently one consults his time-piece on such an occasion! I look at my watch, and find it, say, twelve o’clock, P. M. Then I recline on my seat and try to steal a little sleep. At first, I feel quite comfortable, and fancy I can sleep in that position for several hours. But scarcely have I time to draw a breath, before I find that my head does not rest quite comfortably against the window-sill or the back of the seat; I move it slightly; then I find that my arm is going asleep; I move it; then my ankle is twisted; I move it; then I find that my whole body is out of shape; I move, turn round and lie with my head the other way; then I close my eyes, and doze; I wake, presently, with a start; find my nose itching, and my leg asleep and beginning to tingle as though ten million insects were swarming in it; I then rub my eyes, think an hour has passed, look at my watch, and find it thirteen minutes after eleven. Find I made a mistake of an hour when I looked the other time.

At last, the night has dragged itself away; and, O, how welcome are the tips of morning’s “rosy wings,” as they flutter upon the horizon among the hills or over the plains! How welcome are the gray streaks that play in the east, ushering glorious morning upon the skies! How welcome the green fields again, as the curtain of the gloomy night is lifted from the face of Nature! I involuntarily exclaim with Shakspeare: