"The misfortune which made a Cyclops of me—the loss of my left eye."
"Never, sir. Pray how was it?"
"Put out by the cinder of a locomotive," growled the one-eyed gentleman, seizing the poker and stirring up the fire viciously. "Bad things these railroads, sir," he added, when he had demolished a huge fragment of sea coal. "Only last week—little boy playing on bank in his father's garden—little dog ran on the track—boy went down to call him off—express train came along—forty-five miles an hour and no stoppages—ran over boy and dog—agonized parents sought for the remains—nothing found except one shoe, the buckle of his hatband, and brass collar of the dog."
"Extraordinary!"
"No, sir; not extraordinary," said the one-eyed gentleman. "I maintain it's a common occurrence. Sir, I keep a railroad journal at home, as large as a family Bible. It is filled with brief accounts—brief, mind you—of railroad accidents. Next year I shall have to buy another book."
"Then you are a decided enemy of railroads?"
"Decided!" said the one-eyed gentleman. "Their prevalence and extent is a proof that the age is lapsing into barbarism. Ah! you remember the stage coaches?"
"Certainly."
"Well, sir," said the one-eyed gentleman, warmly, "travelling was travelling in those days; sir, it was a pleasure. The coaches were fast enough for any reasonable man; ten miles an hour, including stoppages. Ah!" he added, smacking his lips, "what a fine thing it was to start on a journey of a glorious October morning, when every thing looked bright and smiling! You mounted to the box or the roof, well wrapped up in your greatcoat and shawl, with your trunk safely strapped upon the rack behind. The driver was a man of substance—solid, of a gravity tempered with humor, a giant in a brown box-coat, with gray hat and mittens. How he handled the ribbons and took his cattle through Elm Street! How the long bridges rumbled and thundered as we bowled along away, away into the country! The country! it was the country then; inhabited by country people, not peopled with a mixed society of farmers and cits, six o' one and half a dozen of t'other. How nicely we glided along! There were birds, in those days, singing by the roadside; now the confounded locomotives have scared them all off. By and by we came to a tavern. Out rushed a troop of hostlers and keepers skilled in horse flesh. The cattle were just allowed to wet their lips, water was dashed on their legs and feet, and then, after the parcels and papers had been tossed off, away we went again. Five miles farther on, we pulled up to change. The fresh team was led out, bright, shining, and glittering, in tip-top condition. The driver descended to stretch his legs and personally superintend the putting to of the fresh horses. When he mounted the box again, his experienced eye glanced rapidly at the team, and then, with an 'all right—let 'em go!' we were on the road once more."
The one-eyed gentleman paused, after this flow of eloquence, and gazed pensively into the midst of the glowing coals. After a few moments' silence, he resumed:—