As travellers like to give their own impressions of a journey,though every inch of the way may have been described a half a dozen times before,Iadd some of the notes made by the way,hoping that they will amuse the reader,and convince the skeptical that such a being as Nurse Perewinkle does exist,that she really did go to Washington,and that these Sketches are not romance.
New York TrainSeven P.M.Spinning along to take the boat at New London.Very comfortable;munch gingerbread,and Mrs.C.'s fine pear,which deserves honourable mention,because my first loneliness was comforted by it,and pleasant recollections of both kindly sender and bearer.Look much at Dr.H.'s paper of directionsput my tickets in every conceivable place,that they may be get-at-able,and finish by losing them entirely.Suffer agonies till a compassionate neighbour pokes them out of a crack with his pen-knife.Put them in the inmost corner of my purse,that in the deepest recesses of my pocket,pile a collection of miscellaneous articles atop,and pin up the whole.Just get composed,feeling that I've done my best to keep them safely,when the Conductor appears,and I'm forced to rout them all out again,exposing my precautions,and getting into a flutter at keeping the man waiting.Finally,fasten them on the seat before me,and keep one eye steadily upon the yellow torments,till I forget all about them,in chat with the gentleman who shares my seat.Having heard complaints of the absurd way in which American women become images of petrified propriety,if addressed by strangers,when traveling alone,the inborn perversity of my nature causes me to assume an entirely opposite style of deportment;and,finding my companion hails from Little Athens,is acquainted with several of my three hundred and sixty-five cousins,and in every way a respectable and respectful member of society,I put my bashfulness in my pocket,and plunge into a long conversation on the war,the weather,music,Carlyle,skating,genius,hoops,and the immortality of the soul.
Ten,P.M.Very sleepy.Nothing to be seen outside,but darkness made visible;nothing inside but every variety of bunch into which the human form can be twisted,rolled,or "massed,"as Miss Prescott says of her jewels.Every man's legs sprawl drowsily,every woman's head (but mine,)nods,till it finally settles on somebody's shoulder,a new proof of the truth of the everlasting oak and vine simile;children fret;lovers whisper;old folks snore,and somebody privately imbibes brandy,when the lamps go out.The penetrating perfume rouses the multitude,causing some to start up,like war horses at the smell of powder.When the lamps are relighted,every one laughs,sniffs,and looks inquiringly at his neighborevery one but a stout gentleman,who,with well-gloved hands folded upon his broad-cloth rotundity,sleeps on impressively.Had he been innocent,he would have waked up;for,to slumber in that babe-like manner,with a car full of giggling,staring,sniffing humanity,was simply preposterous.Public suspicion was down upon him at once.I doubt if the appearance of a flat black bottle with a label would have settled the matter more effectually than did the over dignified and profound repose of this short-sighted being.His moral neck-cloth,virtuous boots,and pious attitude availed him nothing,and it was well he kept his eyes shut,for "Humbug!"twinkled at him from every window-pane,brass nail and human eye around him.
