I AROSE this morning at an early hour, and, after partaking of a hearty breakfast, I at once repair to the Grand Central Depot in Glasgow where, a few minutes later, I seat myself in an English railway car. These cars are, of course, made on the same general plan as ours, yet they are in some respects quite different. The coaches are of about the same length as those used in America, but not so wide by eighteen inches or two feet. Each coach is divided into five compartments, each being five and one-half or six feet long. Each of these compartments has two doors, one on either side of the car, also two seats. Persons occupying these different seats must face each other, so one party or the other must ride backwards. They have no water or other conveniences on the train, as we Americans are accustomed to; no bell-rope to pull, in case of accident; no baggage-checks—each passenger must look after his own baggage. As for myself, I have no baggage, save what I can carry in the car with me. They have first, second, and third-class compartments, the fare per mile being four, three, and two cents respectively. I have examined closely, and can not detect one particle of difference between the first and second-class compartments, either one being fully as good as our first-class car. The English first and second-class compartments are slightly superior to the third-class. It is a saying among the Europeans that only millionaires, soreheads (crowned heads), and fools ride first-class. Being neither a millionaire nor a crowned head, and, as I am unwilling to be classed as a fool, I always take third-class passage. I believe in talking, asking questions, and exchanging ideas with every man I meet, be he high or low, rich or poor. So, while standing at the depot this morning, amid a great crowd of people, looking at the engines, I remark to a pleasant-looking conductor standing near me, that there is quite a difference in the engines used in this country and those used in America. He wants to know what that difference is. I tell him that our engines have cow-catchers before them and his has none. “A cow-catcher,” says he, “and what is that?” I explain to him that a cow-catcher is an arrangement fastened on in front of the engines to remove obstructions from the road, to knock cows from the track, etc. “Ah, indeed! We never need those in this country, and can you tell me,” he continues, “why we do not need them?” “Well, sir,” I reply, “I can see only one reason.” “And what is that, pray?” I answer, “It must be, sir, that you do not run fast enough to overtake a cow.” This creates quite a laugh at the conductors expense, though none seems to enjoy it more heartily than he. Just at this moment, the train starts, and I am off for Ayr, some forty miles away. [Illustration: CLARENCE P. JOHNSON.]