It was a little before one o'clock in the morning when I traversed the silent prairie village of Dwight, in the direction of the railway station. The oscillation of the train which carried me thenceforward to St. Louis exceeded anything of the kind I had before met with. It was a perpetual jumping reel, which made the bones ache. Moreover, the pace was so slow—about twenty miles an hour—that it was pastnoon when we reached the terminus on the banks of the Mississippi, and there, owing to the absence of a ferry steamer to carry us across, nearly an hour's delay took place before we reached the city.

I was unceremoniously shaken out of my sleep at daybreak, alike with the other occupants of the sleeping-car, by an ebony-faced individual, wishing to know if I wanted breakfast. He received anything but a calm reply from some of those disturbed by him. However, I was amused as he was walking away by hearing some one call out to him, “Bring me a cup of coffee on a waiter.”

“On who?” was the darkey's responsive query, and he chuckled as he spoke. I imagine his thoughts recurred to a waiter in human form, for he seemed to enjoy the idea amazingly.

The view of St. Louis from the opposite, or Illinois side of the river, is very fine. In its river-side warehouses it may be likened to Liverpool, while the vicinity of the State House reminds one, when seen afar off, of Lisbon. But no sooner does the traveler land than the resemblance is no longer recognized, and the scene hardly suggests comparison.