COURTESIES OF TRAVELERS.
AFTER a ramble through the wild mountainous region of southwestern
Pennsylvania, I returned to Philadelphia; and soon afterward started for
Washington, to remain there a few weeks in the capacity of
correspondent.
When I travel in a railroad car, I always prefer that end of the seat
next to the window. My reasons for this are various. For one thing a
person can get a little fresh air, when he wants it—and too much when he
don’t want it—he can get a far better view of the scenery without; and,
besides, he can keep a look-out ahead for collisions, and jump out head
foremost, if he sees another train coming from the opposite direction on
the same track. Influenced by these considerations, I always manage to
get to the depot a full half-hour before the starting-time of the train,
and this course never fails to secure me my favorite end of the seat.
On this occasion, I was at the depot at Broad and Prime streets, in good
time, and had no difficulty in locating myself on the train to my
perfect satisfaction. When the car was nearly full of passengers, and it
was within two minutes of the time for starting, a lady and gentleman
came in, and began to canvass the interior in search of a wholly vacant
seat that they might both occupy; but their search proved futile. Quite
a number of the seats were occupied by but one passenger, each, but
there was not one entirely vacant. Failing to find an empty seat, the
gentleman concluded he would make one empty, and he therefore came to
me, and said:
“Young man, won’t you take a seat with another gentleman and give us
this seat?”
“Very cheerfully,” I replied, “if the other gentleman will allow me to
sit by the window.”
He regarded this as equivalent to a refusal, and became vexed.
“But,” he said, rather petulantly, “don’t you see I have my _lady_ with
me?”
Until he said this, I had supposed her to be his _wife_.
“My friend,” I returned, “I came to the station early for the express
purpose of obtaining a comfortable seat, and I do not think it right
that I should keep it this long, and then give it up to another. I
therefore respectfully decline to relinquish my seat.”
“I hope,” said he, fairly grinding his teeth with anger and vexation,
“that _you_ will some day be traveling with a lady, and——”
“I hope so,” I interrupted; “but I fear I will never be so fortunate.”
“Well,” he rejoined, changing his tactics, “I will see the conductor,
and see if _he_ don’t make the arrangement for me.”
“Very well,” I retorted; “see the conductor. I myself would like to see
a conductor with the power and authority to take this seat from me. That
conductor would be a living wonder. Barnum would pay handsomely for
him.”
“Young man,” put in a gentleman behind me, who was also occupying a seat
alone, “why don’t you give them the seat? You can sit by me.”
“Why don’t _you_?” I retorted. “_You_ can sit by _me_.”
“I like to sit by the window,” he responded; “and am not well.”
“I, too, am partial to the window,” said I, “and have been at the point
of death for a long time, with the toothache and a bad cold. I am quite
an invalid.—Now, my friend,” I went on, addressing the gentleman with
his _lady_, “why did you come to me, the first one, and ask me to move,
when you see that I am a cripple? There are others in the car who occupy
whole seats, and who could certainly move more easily than I. Were I the
only one, I would willingly resign my seat, for the accommodation of the
lady.”
“I think you shouldn’t ask _him_ to move,” said a gentleman who sat with
another on an opposite seat. “A man with but one leg ought to have some
show in the world.”
This remark made the first gentleman a little ashamed of himself, and he
turned and said to his _lady_:
“Come, let us try another car.”
They walked to the car-door, and not one offered to surrender his
much-loved seat-by-the-window, to accommodate them. Man is naturally a
selfish creature, and nowhere is his selfishness brought out in so
strong a light as on a railroad car. Do not censure _me_, gentle public,
for not relinquishing my seat. This was not the first or last time I was
asked to abandon a comfortable seat in a car, after taking the trouble
to go early and secure it. It seems that in such cases they always come
right to me. I do not know why. It may be that I look young, innocent
and verdant; and that they jump to the conclusion that I am one of those
persons who, as the poet doesn’t say:
“Know _not_ their rights;
And, knowing _not_, dare _not_ maintain.”
When I saw the two unfortunates about to leave the car, I called them
back.
“Come,” I said; “you can have my seat. I cannot see a lady in a dilemma,
when I can relieve her by making so slight a sacrifice.” And I arose,
seized my crutch and was about to walk out from between the seats.
“No, no,” said the gentleman who occupied the seat behind me, and whose
better nature began to show itself, while, at the same time a dozen
others arose, ready to give up their seats. “No, _you_ musn’t move.
You’re crippled, and I am not. They can take my seat.” And he jumped up,
with an agility that one could scarcely expect to see displayed by an
_invalid_, and took a seat beside me; while the gentleman and his _lady_
returned, and took possession of the vacated seat, without a single
expression of thanks.
“Well,” said I, addressing my companion, “if you wish to take the end by
the window, I will exchange with you—at least, for part of the journey.”
“O, never mind,” he replied: “I am only going as far as Wilmington.”
Here, then, was a man who was only going about twenty miles, who had at
first refused to give up his seat for the accommodation of the lady, and
yet expected me to give up mine, which I had secured for a ride of a
hundred and forty miles. O, the selfishness of the traveler!
As I remarked before, there are always a dozen or two of passengers who
come aboard the car at the eleventh hour, and have a time of it getting
seated. Among them there are usually two or three gentlemen with their
_ladies_, as in this case, and they always come to me, the first thing,
and ask me to give up my seat. I have long since, however, adopted a
course to pursue on such occasions, which, although it involves a little
fib or two—which are certainly pardonable—spares me all controversy. On
being asked to remove from my seat and take the wrong end of another, I
smilingly state that I would cheerfully do so if I were alone, but that
unfortunately, my wife and three little boys are out on the platform,
bidding some friends good-by, and will presently come in to share the
seat with me. Of course they don’t detect the “white one” till the train
has started, and by that time, they have procured seats, by some means;
and I don’t care how much I overhear them—as I often do—wondering “where
that one-legged fellow’s wife and three little boys went to?”