Everybody knows what a New York winter is like. We plunge at once into the hurly-burly, and for the next few months we “do as the world doth--say as it sayeth,” and being bound to the wheel whirl with it till the hard king, frost, melts and disappears under the genial breath of a somewhat humid spring; then we turn our faces southward. It is impossible for the best disposed person to extract much pleasure from a dismal drive across the plains of Pennsylvania, while the heavens are weeping copiously, drenching the sick earth with their tears, and dropping a grey cloud mantle over it. A heavy mist is hiding everything, and moves like a shrouded funeral procession among the tall trees, as though it had wrapped the dead winter in its grave-clothes, and was carrying it away for burial in some invisible world we know not of. A damp chillness clings and crawls everywhere; it finds its way to our very bones; we shiver, and draw our wraps closer round us. The whole world seems veiled in mourning for the sins of our forefathers; even the buoyant spirits of the famous Mark Tapley must have gone down under these dreary surroundings. There is nothing to be seen, nothing to be heard, but the pattering rain upon the windows, and the snort or occasional scream of our engine, like the shriek of a bird of prey, as it sweeps on its iron road. We look round us; everything and everybody seems in a state of depression, wrapped in a general gloom. The whimpering cries of the children sink into a dismal rhythmical wail, as though they wrangled by arithmetic, and wept according to rule. There was a small family of these human fledglings aboard, and the parent bird was sorely tried in her endeavour to keep within bounds the belligerent spirits of her flock; in vain she called their attention to imaginary “gee-gees” and the invisible wonders outside--they stared out into the blankness, discovered the deception, and howled louder than ever. The cock-horse limped on its way to Banbury Cross, and even the lady with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes made music in vain. At last a mysterious voice issued from a muffled man in a corner, offering “ten dollars to anybody who would smother that baby.” We all sympathised with the spirit of the offer, but perhaps the fear of after-consequences prevented anybody from accepting it. The mother dived into a boneless, baggy umbrella, which apparently served as luncheon basket, wardrobe, and, I verily believe might have been turned into a cradle; thence she abstracted crackers, apples, and candies--and cotton handerchiefs which she vigorously applied to their little damp noses. This interesting family got off at Baltimore and left us for diversion to our own resources, to feed upon our own reserve fund of spirits, which afforded but poor entertainment.