IN the fall, I determined on another western tour, which I accomplished. In this tour I visited the following places: Columbus, Dayton, and Cincinnati, Ohio; Indianapolis and Lafayette, Indiana; Springfield, Decatur, Bloomington, El Paso, and Peoria, Illinois. I had intended to go on into Iowa again, but winter came on, and it began to get too cold for me. So, I returned to Philadelphia shortly before Christmas, via Logansport, Fort Wayne, and Pittsburg.

During this tour, not much happened that would interest or divert the reader. I might briefly mention one or two amusing incidents that came under my notice.

Often as I had passed through Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I had never stopped there; and, on my way west, I determined to drop off for twenty-four hours. In Lancaster every one talks English and German, (or Dutch, as they call it there,) with equal fluency; and it is not unusual for a person relating an incident or making some remarks, to begin in English, and end in Dutch; or vice versa.

While I was sitting in my hotel, not far from the depot, a Lancastrian, who lounged in, got to telling the proprietor a very interesting story, of an adventure he had recently met with while hunting ducks. He was relating the story in English, and I listened with interest. The purport of the story was that he and another man had shot at a duck simultaneously; it had fallen, and a dispute had arisen as to which had brought it down. Just as he reached the crisis of the story, where the dispute was about to be decided, against the other fellow, of course—and there seemed some funny circumstance about it, for they laughed immoderately—he jumped off the track, as it were, and finished in Dutch, something like this: “Undsehrichtienochtuchuherkroshomlustienblosterb hionmemmtehtehtchtchch-h-h—h-h-h—h——h——h —— ——-h—— — —h— — —h—cht—AUGH!”

Imagine how tantalizing this was to me. My knowledge of German or Dutch is very limited. Beyond Lager Bier und Schweitzer Kase, ein, swei, drei I simply know nothing of any of those Teutonic languages; and I, therefore, do not, to this day, know the denouement of the Lancastrian’s story.

While in Lancaster, I took the liberty of calling on two prominent men of opposite political parties, both of whom have since passed away. I allude to James Buchanan and Thaddeus Stevens. Each received me cordially and conversed with me in an easy and pleasant manner. From the citizens of Lancaster, I learned that they were kind-hearted and noble men, and that their private characters were above reproach. Those two public men were regarded with some bitterness during their lives; but whatever may have been their errors, I believe they were errors of the head and not of the heart. They are at rest now, and I earnestly ask the whole people of our Country to join me in saying—“Peace to the ashes of both!”

I shall never forget the extraordinary courage I saw displayed by an hotel clerk, in Columbus, Ohio, while sojourning there during the little tour in question. I was in the sitting-room, one day, when a large, rough-looking man, in a state of inebriation, came in, took a seat in one of the arm-chairs, and manifested symptoms of slumber. The clerk soon saw him, went promptly to him, and gave him to understand that that state of things wouldn’t do.

“Come,” said the clerk, “this won’t do. You must get out of this. We don’t want a man to come in here drunk, and sit around half asleep.”

“Wha-at?” growled the inebriate.

“I say you must get out of this,” said the clerk, laying his hand on his shoulder. “Come!”

He said this in a decided tone, as though he expected the drunken gentleman to get up and be led out. But the man made no move toward getting up, and, moreover, didn’t appear to be much afraid of the clerk.

“Did you hear what I said?” demanded the latter, shaking him slightly.

“Well, s’pose I did? What then?”

Such impudence to an hotel clerk!

“What then! I’ll show you what then! Now, you get out o’ here!” And he seized the inebriate’s shoulder.

Thereupon the latter arose slowly, and I supposed he was going out; but when he got straightened up, he turned defiantly on the clerk, and raised his fist as though about to strike “from the shoulder.”

“Clear out, you darn cuss!” he said, to the frightened clerk, who retreated with agility. “Don’ come layin’ yer hands onto me, or I’ll batter the nose off o’ yer face!”

“Well, you’ve got to get out of here,” said the clerk.

“You can’t put me out,” retorted the intoxicated gentleman, defiantly.

“You’ll see pretty soon,” said the clerk, who, however, kept at a safe distance. “I’m not going to allow a fellow that’s been somewhere and got full of rum to come in here and sleep it off! You got nothing to drink in this house.”

“I would if I’d ’a’ wanted it.”

“You would, eh?” The clerk now walked toward the door, and, in doing so, was obliged to pass within a few feet of the intruder; and the latter, not knowing what his intentions were, turned round slowly, as if on a pivot, so as to keep his face toward the clerk till he went out. In about three-quarters of a minute the latter returned, and exclaimed:

“What! Haven’t you gone yet?”

“No—nor aint a goin’ till I’m ready. An’, look out!” he exclaimed, as the clerk approached him again. “Don’t ye come near me, or I’ll spilter ye!”

I do not know exactly what he meant by this remarkable word, as I have searched in vain for it in the lexicons of several languages; but I suppose he meant something dreadful.

The clerk, however, did not seem inclined, as yet to make any aggressive movement: he merely walked past him, as before and again the pugnacious gentleman stood on the defensive, and personated a first-class pivot. Strange as it may seem, I could not help fancying that if I had been in authority at the hotel, as the clerk was, I would not have trifled quite so long with an insolent drunken man.

While these sage thoughts were revolving in my mind, the clerk seemed to grow all at once inspired with extraordinary courage. Starting suddenly from where he stood, he walked briskly toward the intruder, saying, decidedly:

“Now walk out of here in less than a second!” And he actually laid hands on the big fellow.

The secret of the matter was that two policemen entered at that moment, having been sent for by the clerk at the time of his brief absence from the room; and that was what raised his courage so wonderfully. The two officers walked the pugnacious inebriate out, and the clerk followed him to the door, saying:

“Confound you! You won’t come in here loafing around! Next time you try such a game, I’ll kick you out!”

“Go to——” The sound of the loafer’s voice died away, as he was trotted out by the preservers of the peace, and I am unable to record what the rest of the sentence was.

While at Decatur, Illinois, I heard a conversation between a traveler and an hotel clerk, that strikingly exemplifies the irregularity of western railroad trains.

“What time does the train go to Springfield?” he inquired, at the counter, about eight o’clock in the evening.

“At twelve,” replied the clerk.

“Then,” rejoined the traveler, who was evidently posted, “give me a room, and wake me at about one. That will be time enough.”

He was right. The “twelve o’clock train” from Lafayette, going through to Springfield, did not come along till about fifteen minutes after one. In the winter time, a traveler in the west can always count on a train about one hour after its time, unless some unusual accident has delayed it.

At Logansport, Indiana, I got taken down a little. The way of it was this: On the train from Peoria, I made the acquaintance of a gentleman who kept an hotel in Logansport, and, in the course of the morning, as we neared that place, I borrowed a literary paper from him, which I forgot to return. Having an hour or two to wait for a train to Fort Wayne, where I should be obliged to change cars again for Pittsburg, I went into the hotel of the gentleman mentioned, for the purpose of getting breakfast. Having taken breakfast, I thought of the paper I had borrowed, and not seeing the landlord, and desiring to return it to the owner in person, and thank him for the favor, I asked the clerk where he was

“He is out at the stables,” returned the clerk.

“Will he be in soon?”

“I don’t know. He went out to show a man a horse that he has for sale.”

“Then I will go out; shall I go through this way?” I asked, pointing to a path leading from the rear of the house to the stables.

“Yes, go right out that way. But be careful. There is a dog out in the yard that is a little cross sometimes, and——”

“O,” I interrupted, carelessly, “no dog bites me. I am not afraid.”

The fact is, I have ever prided myself on the “charm” I can exercise over the canine race, and have often taken the most ill-natured dogs in my hands, picked them up bodily, and even put my hands invitingly to their mouths, and they have not harmed me. The reason is simply that I never shrink from them, or exhibit any fear; which demeanor inspires the sagacious creatures with respect for a fellow.

It was a large, and beautifully-spotted black-and-white dog, and, as I pursued my way to the stables, it came trotting out from a kennel it occupied, and looked at me as much as to say:

“Are you afraid of me, sir?”

I looked calmly down upon the animal, as if to reply:

“Sagacious creature, I am not.”

To prove that I wasn’t, I paused to admire it, and fearlessly laid my hand upon its head. Thereupon, it capered around me, joyfully, and made a succession of springs upon me as though to kiss me. Just then three juvenile canines, that I had not observed before, came running from the kennel; and their resemblance to the adult one was so striking, that I had no difficulty in making out the fact that a near relationship existed between and among them. I stooped down to pat one of the little beauties on the head, and just then, the big one made another playful spring at my face, not with any intention of biting me,—I’ll be sworn to that,—when one of its confounded, awkward teeth struck me just below the eye and penetrated to the cheek-bone; and the crimson “gore” flowed from the incision.

It was a most provoking circumstance, for the clerk was looking from the window, and the landlord and another man just then appeared at the stable-door, all thinking that the dog had bitten me; which placed me in a ridiculous light, in the eyes of the clerk, after my boast that dogs were not in the habit of biting me. Although the dog did not purposely hurt me, and was still capering about, playfully, I execrated its awkwardness, and felt that I could have knocked the top of its head off with my crutch—had no one been looking. It was a female dog, too, and I told it so, very concisely, in my vexation: which was all the satisfaction I had.

Traveling incessantly for forty-eight hours, I reached Philadelphia on a winter night, when the wind was howling and the snow falling fast. I had slept very little on the trains during the last two nights, and it might well be surmised that an individual like John Smith (or “any other man”) would feel like “turning in,” under the circumstances. Such a conclusion would be but rational.

But it is said that, “Man is a creature of circumstances;” and that adage was fully exemplified by my remarkable experience on that memorable night.

I had already instructed the baggage-agent on the Pennsylvania Central train to send my trunk to my residence, and I was just stepping forth from the depot, at Thirty-first and Market streets, with the view of walking home through the jovial snow-storm, when a familiar voice accosted me with:

“Hallo, Smith! Where have you been this long time? Where are you going?”

I recognized a young friend named Feeny, who was standing near a sleigh, to which two handsome and spirited horses were attached. In the sleigh sat another friend named Aaron, who also said:

“Why, Smith! How do you do? Glad to see you. Where have you been?”

“In the West,” I replied.

“Going home?”

“Yes.”

“Not going to walk?”

“Yes.”

“O, don’t do that! Get into the sleigh with Feeny and me, and ride.”

“By all means,” urged Feeny.

“Are you going directly home?” They lived near my residence.

“N—no—but that need make no difference. We were just taking a little sleigh-ride. You don’t mind a ride of an hour before you go home?”

“I am rather weary,” I replied. “I have been rattling along in the cars for two days and two nights. Have come all the way from Peoria, Illinois.”

“Well, jump in. We will at least take a little drive down Darby Road. You must feel chilly. Here is something to warm you.”

This was an article of glassware, containing a genial fluid, designed for the interior of mankind. Having availed myself of this blessing, I sprung into the sleigh; Feeny jumped in after me; and we dashed away in the blinding storm.

“We were just at the depot to meet a friend we expected,” said he, “but he did not come.”

Away we went out Market street, defying even the wintry wind to outstrip us. Instead of turning down the Darby Road, as proposed, we kept on out Market street.

“We’ll take a little ride out this way first,” said Mr. Aaron, “then we will return, go down Darby Road, cross Gray’s Ferry Bridge, and go home.”

“All right!”

We had an extensive ride through West Philadelphia; and candor compels me to say that some of the proprietors of hotels in that vicinity lost nothing by it.

At last, we found ourselves dashing down Darby Road: the noble steeds still fresh and vigorous, and we three “jolly boys” suffering nothing at all from the malady known as “depression of spirits.”

Rest! I thought not of it now. I remembered not that I had slept none for two nights. Away we went in the snow-storm; the wide fields of snow my imaginary bed, the murky clouds my curtains, the wind and sleigh-bells singing a merry song in concert to lull me to—wakefulness and mirth.

We approached a certain toll-gate. What hour it was, I can never know; but any one supposing it to be earlier than the beginning of another day, would subject himself to great ridicule among the “posted.”

“Wonder if the toll-man’s up?” said Feeny.

“Doubtful,” responded Aaron.

“We’ll wake him, of course,” said I.

“Certainly—if we can yell loud enough.”

We dashed onward. So far from tiring, our horses seemed to gain new strength and energy just then. The toll-gate and the little house there situated, were very near.

We did not slacken our speed.

“Toll!” yelled Feeny, in a loud voice.

“Toll! Toll!” shouted Aaron, as we reached the gate without stopping.

“Toll! Toll! Toll!” I shrieked, in a jolly mood as we dashed by.

Alas! the keeper of the gate never had the felicity to receive that “toll.” He did not get his due; but we got plenty of snow.

“Get up! Get up!” screamed Aaron, addressing the horses.

The animals “flew.”

The snow-covered road rushed away behind us so fast that I fancied we were leaving the whole earth behind, and plunging away into space.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” shouted Feeny.

“Hip-Hip-Hoowee!”

We reached the road leading to Gray’s Ferry Bridge, and Mr. Aaron, who had the lines, drove recklessly “round the corner.”

The result may be imagined. The centrifugal force overturned the sleigh in about the sixteenth part of a second; we were all spilt; Aaron was hurled into a fence-corner; Feeny was scattered along the road behind the sleigh; I, with my crutch and cane strewn all around me, was “chucked” into a snow-bank at the road-side, in an inverted position—fairly buried in the cold snow, and my lonely foot pointing up toward the clouded heavens: and in the midst of this scene of general confusion, our conveyance dashed away through the winter night, and—we had to pick ourselves up and walk home, a distance of two miles and three quarters!