traveler gives an unconscious imitation of the pic- | ery jolt was an overturn. The next passenger, with the bald head and the drawn down cheeks, is one of those deceptive men whom you meet with in every society. He looks like a banker, a manager of an insurance company, or a lecturer upon political economy. You suppose him to be a perfect cyclopædia of exact information -a man who has no end of statistics in his shiny head, and you assume that his taciturnity is the result of deep thought on some of the great problems of existence. You will be surprised to learn that he lives upon the severity of his appearance, and is nothing more than a head-waiter at a sea-side tavern. The sour-looking old gentleman, twiddling his thumbs at the farther end of the carriage, whose broad hat nearly shuts out our view of the drifting shower, has no business in a train of pleasure. He has joined the company at a side station on the road, and is going to get out at another side station to dun some poor tenants for back rent. This may be a very necessary thing to do, but a holiday train is hardly the proper vehicle to help him to do it. We are now all fond of fast trains. At first, indeed, we regarded them with distrust, and entered them timidly; we held our breath as we listened to the quick puffing of the engine, and saw fields and mountains, trees and animals, apparently rushing past us. We shuddered as we dashed through a tunnel or clattered over a bridge. Every mad shriek of the whistle sounded to us like an explosion; ev But by-and-by we found that we could hold our breath and keep our seats, no matter what our speed. Familiarity breeds contempt. We learned to despise slow trains. Ten miles an hour was a bore and a nuisance. We demanded twenty or thirty at least; and when we read that in England a mile a minute was frequently attained, we set down our railways as "slow coaches," quite "behind the times." We accepted forty miles an hour only provisionally, and under protest. Short of that, how could we breakfast at New York and sup at Niagara? or avoid wasting a week between Boston and St. Louis? Life was really quite too short, and we had too much to do, to jog along at a slow rate. Let us have a mile a minute. The pace changes, and the magic Bronze Horse is tearing along at the rate of fifty miles an hour. The old gentleman upon another seat leans on his umbrella, and blinks as he feels his cheeks buffeted by the fresh air, laden as it is with the scent of new hay. The young woman next to him, who is running down on a flying visit to her mother, nurses her plump boy, and tells him to look out for grandma over the hills. The cheerful passenger at her side draws his face into a hundred wrinkles as he watches the trees, stations, and churches whirling past the window; the fat gentleman laughs, and shakes like a jelly, as he proves the speed by his substantial watch; and the Jewish-looking gentleman in the corner settles down into a self-satisfied smirk, as he feels that he is getting the fullest value for his ticket. It would be an endless task to pass from car to car, and from seat to seat, noting all their occupants. Here is the good lady who is making her first trip. Her destination is two hundred miles beyond; but at every stop she is quite sure that this must be her stoppingplace, and between stations she is always asking the conductor if he is quite sure that we have not passed "Mud Hollow Station." There is the young woman who has a "ticket through," with baggage duly checked; she knows that somebody will be waiting for her at the end of the route, and that all will be right when she gets there. So she gives no trouble to herself or any body else; but divides her time between her lunch-basket and the last Magazine. A very sensible young lady that so thinks the conductor--though this is her first long journey alone; and he takes special care, whenever cars are changed, to see that she is on board the right one. Leaving these and a score more of the like characters, we will note a few passengers whose types we are sure to meet on every train. Upon one seat we are amused by the Agreeable Man. He knows the name of every station we pass, how far it is from town, and what it is famous for. He has traveled a good deal on railways, and is full of anecdotes. He advises some of the passengers where to go for a comfortable dinner. He pulls THE DISAGREEABLE MAN. THE AGREEABLE MAN. up the window to oblige the ladies, and is particular in asking how high he shall fix it. He carries a number of traveling appliances with him, some of the most ingenious kind, and is never without a pocket cork-screw. He even carries a shoe-horn inclosed in a leathern case, a folding cap in a pouch, and a few sweet lozenges to please the children. He is always ready to listen to a story or to make a joke, and to take advantage of any thing he may meet with on the journey. The Disagreeable Man sits with his goodhumored wife by his side, and has been sulking ever since the train started. The Disagreeable Man is not happy in his mind. He thinks every town much finer than the one he is going to; every day much pleasanter than the one he is traveling on; and every carriage much more comfortable than the one he is sitting in. His round-faced pleasant wife tries to persuade him that every thing is for the best, but he is not open to conviction. As we draw near our journey's end we peep into another carriage, and find there a most obtrusive traveler. We can give him no better title than the Cheap Swell, because he is a Frankenstein raised by the cheap tailor. He looks like a living advertisement for "popular" dress and jewelry; for colored shirts with Greek names; for the latest style of cheap coat, and the latest extravagance in cheap trowsers. He smokes a bad, rank, cheap cigar, in preference to an honest pipe, and smokes it regardless of ladies or fellow-passengers. He lives for appearance, for external show, for seeming what he is not, and comes to the country chiefly to astonish villagers with his town manners. He firmly believes that he will marry an heiress of unbounded wealth, who will dote upon his turned-up nose and tobacco-scented hair. Facing this cheap swell are two females, one young and the other middle-aged, who may be distinguished by the title of the Two Bottles. They are mother and daughter; but while the old lady is stout, flushed, vulgar, and not above carrying the meat and beer-bottle, the youngest wears tight kid gloves, a Eugénie hair front, and refreshes herself now and then with a sniff of Eau-de-Cologne. The old lady has given her daughter a showy education, with a view of making her a "better woman than her mother," and has only produced a piece of affected gentility-almost as repulsive as the cheap swellwho thinks herself too good for her company. She will marry the cheap swell, or somebody like him: each thinking the other to be the possessor of a for |