med in astonishment--

"Why, madam, don't you allow the little girl cake?"

"No, sir."

"What does she eat, pray?" (as if people lived upon cake generally).

"Bread and milk, and bread and meat."

"What! no butter? no tea or coffee?"

"None whatever."

"Ah!" sighed the poor man, as the chorus of woe arose again from his own
progeny, the cake having disappeared down their throats, "I suppose
that's why she looks so healthy."

I supposed so, too, but did not inquire whether the gentleman extended
his inference.

We pursued our way from Wilmington to Havre de Grace on the railroad,
and crossed one or two inlets from the Chesapeake, of considerable
width, upon bridges of a most perilous construction, and which, indeed,
have given way once or twice in various parts already. They consist
merely of wooden piles driven into the river, across which the iron
rails are laid, only just raising the train above the level of the
water. To traverse with an immense train, at full steam-speed, one of
these creeks, nearly a mile in width, is far from agreeable, let one be
never so little nervous; and it was with infinite cordiality each time
that I greeted the first bush that hung over the water, indicating our
approach to _terra firma_. At Havre de Grace we crossed the Susquehanna
in a steamboat, which cut its way through the ice an inch in thickness
with marvelous ease and swiftness, and landed us on the other side,
where we again entered the railroad carriages to pursue our road.

We arrived in Baltimore at about half-past two, and went immediately on
board the Alabama steamboat, which was to convey us to Portsmouth, and
which started about three-quarters of an hour after, carrying us down
the Chesapeake Bay to the shores of Virginia. We obtained an
unutterably hard beefsteak for our dinner, having had nothing on the
road, but found ourselves but little fortified by the sight of what we
really could not swallow. Between six and seven, however, occurred that
most comprehensive repast, a steamboat tea; after which, and the
ceremony of choosing our berths, I betook myself to the reading of
"Oliver Twist" till half-past eleven at night. I wonder if Mr. Dickens
had any sensible perception of the benedictions which flew to him from
the bosom of the broad Chesapeake as I closed his book; I am afraid not.
Helen says, "'tis pity well-wishing has no body," so it is that
gratitude, admiration, and moral approbation have none, for the