University of Virginia Library

14. XIV.
A JOURNEY FROM BOSTON TO NEW
ORLEANS.

On the fifth of January, at eight A. M., I left
the Tremont House in a hackney carriage, the
wheels whereof had turned into runners. This
method of progression, rendered necessary by the
deep snows, is considered a great amusement in
the North. Being particularly dangerous to life
and limb, and usually terminating in pulmonary
consumption, the pastime is very properly called
sleighing.

With a through-ticket for the great city of
Cairo in my pocket, I took a seat in the cars at
the Worcester rail-road depot. After waiting
half-an-hour, during which time my sympathies
were deeply interested by the performance of an
unhappy young couple, one of whom was going
somewhere and the other wasn't, and who in consequence

were slobbering over each other to a terrible
extent, a sudden harsh bark was heard from
the engine, a grating jar, which acted on my teeth
like lemon-juice, followed, and we were off. The
motion of a rail-road car is of two kinds, which may
be called the “heave and set, or whip-saw movement,”
and the “tip and sifter,” names sufficiently
expressive to require no farther explanation. We
started on the “heave and set,” which gradually
merged into the “tip and sifter” as our velocity
increased.

On entering a rail-road car the first object of
the solitary traveller should be to secure an entire
seat to himself. This may generally be done successfully
by taking the outside seat and skilfully
disposing a small carpet-bag, great coat, umbrella,
and cane, so as to cover the inner one. As the
passengers throng into the car, many will gaze
earnestly at the place thus occupied, but will
usually prefer to move on rather than give you
trouble; but if the car is quite filled, the question
will undoubtedly be asked, “Is that seat taken,

Sir?” when you should reply with an imperturbable
countenance, “It is, Sir! and the inquirer,
with perhaps a slight glance of suspicion,
will move on. As a man's object should be to
make himself as comfortable as possible in this
world, that his mind may be in a proper frame to
prepare for the next, a slight deviation from truth
for the purpose of securing this object, like the
above, is quite pardonable, in which opinion I am
corroborated by my dear friend and Christian
teacher, Rev. H. B. — tch — s, whose celebrated
and useful aphorism, “Never lie, unless it is necessary,”
will doubtless recur to the reader's mind.

Having made my arrangements in accordance
with these views, and being as comfortable as circumstances
would permit, the motion of the cars
being that of a small boat in a high sea, and their
noise like unto a steam saw-mill, I composed myself
to the journey. At Framingham the usual
nuisances of rail-road cars commenced. First
appeared the small boy with the Boston newspapers,
which had been brought to him by our

train; then the dirty boy, with the parched corn,
who, in the intervals of trade, dabbles among his
merchandise with his sore hand, and devours so
much of that dry commodity, that you are fain to
believe him to be his own best customer; then the
big boy, with the fearful apples, “three for five
cents;” and finally that well-known, and most
indefatigable wretch with the “lozengers,” who
on this occasion actually sold a roll of the description
called “checkerberry” to an elderly individual
of the Muggins family sitting near me,
who eat them, and to my great joy, became wofully
disordered in consequence. But the boy
with the accordeon was not there — I think he
has not yet got so far North. It was but a week
before that I met him, however on the Philadelphia
cars. It was after eleven o'clock; the train
had passed New Brunswick, and the passengers
were trying to sleep, (ha! ha!) when the boy entered.
He was a seedy youth, with a seal-skin
cap, a singularly dirty face, a gray jacket of the
ventilating order, and a short but remarkably
broad pair of “corduroy-corduroys.” He wore
an enormous bag or haversack about his neck, and
bore in his hand that most infernal and detestable
instrument, an accordeon. I despise that instrument
of music. They pull the music out
of it, and it comes forth struggling and reluctant,
like a cat drawn by the tail from an ash-hole
or a squirrel pulled shrieking from a hollow log
with a ram-rod. This unprincipled boy commenced
pulling at his thing and horrified us with
the most awful version of that wretched “Dog
Tray” that I ever listened to. Then he walked
around the car and collected forty-two cents.
Then he returned to the center of the car, and
standing close to the stove, which was red hot —
the night being cold — he essayed to pull out
“Pop Goes the Weasel,” when suddenly pop
went the boy; he dropped the accordeon, burst
into tears, and clapping his hands behind him, executed
a frantic dance, accompanied by yells of
the most agonizing character. I saw it all, and
felt grateful to a retributive Providence. He had
stood too close to the stove and his corduroys were
in a light blaze; a few inches below the termination
of the gray jacket was the seat of his wo.
After he got on fire the conductor put him out,
and a sweet and ineffable calm came over me. I
realized that “whatever is, is right,” and I fell into
a deep and happy sleep.

The musical nuisance, fortunately was spared
us on this occasion. A tourist travelling by rail-road
across the United States would have but little
opportunity to collect notes for his forthcoming
work. Thus my idea of Albany, at which Dutch
village we arrived shortly after dark, are, a hasty
scramble down a platform; then huddling into a
sled with other bewildered and half-frozen passengers;
then a rapid foot-race of about a quarter of
a mile, encouraged by shouts of “Leg it! the cars
are off.” “No they aint; plenty of time.”
“Hi! hi! there, round the corner, them's the
cars,” etc.; then more cars and we ground on.

It was on this Albany and Buffalo train that a
little incident occurred which may be worthy of

mention, and serve as a caution to future innocent
travellers. I had observed that at each change of
cars, and they were frequent, when the general
scramble took place, one car was defended from
the assault by a stalwart man, usually of the Irish
persuasion, who deaf to menaces, unsoftened by
entreaty, and uncorrupted by bribes, maintained
his post for the benefit of the “leddies.” “Leddies
car, Sir, av ye please; forrid cars for gintlemen
without leddies.” Need I say that this car
so reserved was by the far most comfortable of the
train, and that with that stern resolve which ever
distinguishes me in the discharge of my duty
toward myself, I determined to get into it coute
qui coute. So when we changed cars at Utica, I
rushed forth, and seeing a nice young person, with
a pretty face, bonnet and shawl, and a large portmanteau,
urging her way through the crowd, I
stepped up by her side and with my native grace
and gallantry offered my arm and my assistance.
They were gratefully accepted, and proud of my
success, I ushered my fair charge up to the platform
of the ladies' car. My old enemy was holding
the door. “Is that your lady, Sir?” said he.
With an inward apology to Mrs. Phœnix for the
great injustice done to her charms by the admission,
I replied: “Yes.” Judge of my horror
when this low employée of a monopolizing and
unaccommodating rail-road company addressing
my companion with the tone and manner of an old
acquaintance, said: “Well, Sal, I guess you've
done well, but I don't believe his family will think
much of the match.” However, I got into the
ladies' car and having repudiated the young person
Sarah, got an exceedingly pleasant seat by the side
of a very warm and comfortable young lady of a
sleepy turn and quiet disposition. I wouldn't have
exchanged her for two buffalo-robes, but alas!
she got off at Syracuse, and then, frosty Caucasus,
how cold it was! And so grinding, and
jolting, jarring, sliding, and freezing, wore away
the long night.

In the morning we were at Buffalo. I saw
nothing of it but a rail-road depot; but I remember

thinking as I stamped my feet and thrashed
my arms to restore the circulation, that if that
sort of weather continued, “the Buffalo girls
couldn't come out to-night,” and would probably
have to postpone their appearance until the summer
season.

Among the passengers on the Erie rail-road was
a very interesting family, on their way to Terre
Haute. (Ind.) There was the father, a fine manly
figure; the mother, pale, delicate, and ladylike;
and niece, cousins, and babies innumerable,
but all pretty and pleasant to behold. But the
gem of the family was “Belle.” Belle was the
factotum, she nursed the babies, went errands for
her father, helped her mother, and was always on
hand to render assistance to any body, anywhere;
and though her patience must have been sorely
tried, she preserved her amiability and genuine
good nature so thoroughly that she became to me
an object of constant attention and admiration.
She was evidently the manager of that family,
and went about every thing with a business-like

air, quite refreshing to observe. She was about
sixteen years old, very pretty, neatly dressed, and
of a most merry and vivacious disposition, as was
evinced by every sparkle of her bright eyes.
Farewell, “Belle,” probably you'll never see this
tribute from your unknown admirer, or meet
him in propria personæ; but the loss will hardly
be felt, for you must have more admirers already
than you know what to do with. Happy is the
man that's destined to ring the Belle of Terre
Haute.

All day and all night we ground on, “ripping
and staving.” We passed through Columbus
where the people had been having a grand ball to
celebrate the completion of their State Capitol,
and picked up three hundred and eighty-four survivors,
each of whom contained a pint and a half
of undiluted whiskey. And so in the morning we
came to Cincinnati, where for fifteen minutes we
tarried at the Burnett House, the most magnificent
hotel in these United States. Here I met
with Fisher, the celebrated rail-road traveller, who

accompanied us to Sandoval, and with whom I
was particularly charmed. Fisher is the original
inventor of that ingenious plan of getting rid of
an unpleasant occupant of the same seat, by opening
the window on the coldest night, so that the
draught shall visit searchingly the back of the
victim's neck; and of that method of taking up
the seat and disposing it as an inclined plane, and
going to sleep thereon in such a complicated manner
as to defy subsequent intrusion. What he
does not know about rail-roads is of no manner of
consequence and useless to acquire. Thanks to
his experience, we enjoyed the luxury of two seats
together, and it was with deep regret that I parted
with him at Sandoval. The change of cars
from the Erie to the Illinois Central, is a delightful
incident. The latter has the broad gauge, the
seats are comfortable and convenient, the speed
exhilarating, and no exertion is spared by the civil
conductors to render the passengers as happy as
circumstances will permit. I have never travelled
more comfortably than on the Illinois Central,
and hereby wish long life and prosperity to
the company.

The third day and the third night were over,
we had passed safely through the city of Sandoval,
which consists of one house, where the cars
are detained five hours for the benefit of an aged
villain who gave us very poor roasted buzzard and
called it wild turkey; and, grateful to Providence,
we arrived at Grand Cairo.

I stepped out of the cars a shorter man than
when I started. The friction for three days and
three nights had reduced my height two-and-a-half
inches; a singular psychological fact, which I recommend
to the consideration of the learned
Walker.

Cairo is a small hole at the junction of the Ohio
and Mississippi River, surrounded by an artificial
bank to prevent inundation. There are here
about thirteen inhabitants, but the population is
estimated at three thousand, that being a rough
estimate of the number of people that were once
congregated there, when five trains of cars arrived

before a boat left for New Orleans. They were
enjoying the luxury of the small-pox at Cairo
when we arrived; they are always up to something
of the kind; a continued succession of
amusements follow. The small-pox having terminated
its engagement, the cholera makes its appearance,
and is then followed by yellow fever for
the season. Sweet spot! Dickens has immortalized
it under the name of Eden, an evident misnomer,
for no man worth as much as Adam could
remain there by any possibility.

The fine steamer “James Montgomery” was
about to leave for New Orleans, and we soon
found ourselves most comfortably, indeed luxuriously
established on board. A very merry passage
we had to this great Crescent City, under the
charge of our stout and jovial captain, whose efforts
to amuse us, seconded as he was by the pretty
and vivacious “widow,” were entirely successful.
The “General” also, a noble specimen of
the gentlemen of Tennessee, proved himself a
most agreeable travelling companion, and endeared

himself to our little society by his urbanity, cheerfulness
and fund of amusing and interesting anec
dotes. Among our passengers was, moreover, the
celebrated Eliza Logan, probably the finest actress
now on the American stage, who has acquired a
most enviable popularity, not only by her great
profesional talent, but by her charms of conversation
and her estimable reputation as a lady.
She chants the “Marseillaise” in a style that
would delight its author. One who wishes to
realize for an instant what death is, should listen
to her enunciation of the last words of the refrain
of this celebrated composition; if he can repress
a shudder, he is something more or less than man.
Accompanied by my old friend Butterfield, who
had joined us at Memphis, I landed at New-Orleans,
and proceeded forthwith to the Saint
Charles Hotel. At this great tavern Amos expected
to meet his wife, who had arrived from
California, to rejoin him after a three months'
separation. I never have seen a man so nervous.
He rode on the outside of the coach with the
driver, that he might obtain the earliest view of
the building that contained his adored one. It
was with great difficulty that I kept pace with
him as he “tumultuously rushed” up the step
leading to the Rotunda. In an instant he was at
the office and gasping “Mrs. Butterfield.” “In
the parlor, Sir,” replied Dan, and he was off. I
followed and saw him stop with surprise as he
came to the door. In the centre of the parlor
stood Mrs. Butterfield. That admirable woman
had adopted the very latest and most voluminous
style; and having on a rich silk of greenish hue,
looked like a lovely bust on the summit of a new-mown
hay-stack. Butterfield was appalled for a
moment, but hearing her cry “Amos,” he answered
hysterically, “My Amander!” and rushed
on. He ran three times round Mrs. Butterfield,
but it was of no use, he couldn't get in. He tried
to climb her, but the hoops gave way and frustrated
the attempt. He extended his arms to her; she
held out hers to him; tears were in their eyes.
It was the most affecting thing I ever witnessed.
Finally Mrs. Butterfield sat down, and Amos got
behind the chair and kissed her, until their offspring,
by howling and biting the calf of his leg,
created a diversion. They were very happy, so
were the people in the parlor. Every body appeared
delighted; and a small boy, a year or two
older than little Amos, jumped up and down like a
whip-saw, and halloa'd “Hoop-ee” with all his
might.

“Butterfield,” said I, an hour or two later, “I
suspect that Mrs. Butterfield had adopted hoops.”

“Oh! yes,” answered he, “I saw that sticking
out. Perhaps it will obviate the little tendency
she had to blow up. I'm glad of it.”

I have taken room No. 3683 in this establishment,
and am a looker on in Vienna. To be sure
my view is that usually termed, “the bird's eye,”
but I am getting a tolerably good idea of things.
I should like very much to attend the ordination
of Brother Buchanan in March next, and hear

the Russian Minister preach, but I fear it will be
impossible.

You will hear from me when you receive my
next letter. Respectfully yours.