ed. 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 wishes.

'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 milita 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 wi