more perfectly indifferent to its doings. Notwithstanding the tranquil state of this officer, and his unbroken peace of mind, the train was proceeding with tolerable rapidity; and the rails being but poorly laid, the jolts and bumps it met with in its progress were neither slight nor few.
There were three great caravans or cars attached. The ladies' car, the gentlemen's car, and the car for negroes: the latter painted black, as an appropriate compliment to its company. Martin and Mark Tapley were in the first, as it was the most comfortable; and, being far from full, received other gentlemen who, like them, were unblessed by the society of ladies of their own. They were seated side by side, and were engaged in earnest conversation.
"And so, Mark," said Martin, looking at him with an anxious expression,—"and so you are glad we have left New York far behind us, are you?"
"Yes, sir," said Mark. "I am. Precious glad."
"Were you not 'jolly' there?" asked Martin.
"On the contrairy, sir," returned Mark. "The jolliest week as ever I spent in my life, was that there week at Pawkins's."
"What do you think of our prospects?" inquired Martin, with an air that plainly said he had avoided the question for some time.
"Uncommon bright, sir," returned Mark. "Impossible for a place to have a better name, sir, than the Walley of Eden. No man couldn't think of settling in a better place than the Walley of Eden. And I'm told," added Mark after a pause, "as there's lots of serpents there, so we shall come out, quite complete and reg'lar."
So far from dwelling upon this agreeable piece of information with the least dismay, Mark's face grew radiant as he called it to mind: so very radiant, that a stranger might have supposed he had all his life been yearning for the society of serpents, and now hailed with delight the approaching consummation of his fondest Welshes.
"Who told you that?" asked Martin, sternly.
"A military officer," said Mark.
"Confound you for a ridiculous fellow!" cried Martin, laughing heartily in spite of himself. "What military officer? you know they spring up in every field"—
"As thick as scarecrows in England, sir," interposed Mark, "which is a sort of militia themselves, being entirely coat and wescoat, with a stick inside. Ha, ha!—Don't mind me, sir; it's my way sometimes. I can't help being jolly.—Why it was one of them inwading conquerors at Pawkins's, as told me. 'Am I rightly informed,' he says—not exactly through his nose, but as if he'd got a stoppage in it, very high up—'that you're a going to the Walley of Eden?' 'I heard some talk on it,' I told him. 'Oh!' says he, 'if you should ever happen to go to bed there—you may, you know,' he says, 'in course of time as civilisation progresses—don't forget to take a axe with you.' I looks at him tolerable hard. 'Fleas?' says I. 'And more,' says he. 'Wampires?' says I. 'And more,' says he. 'Musquitoes, perhaps?' says I. 'And more,' says he. 'What more?' says I. 'Snakes more,' says he; rattlesnakes. You're right to a certain extent, stranger; there
