No? Bless me, what a _very_ unimaginative person you are! I have, frequently; and yet, I do not think I am any brighter than the ordinary run of people. Drawn some odd thousands of miles by the iron horse, as it has been my fortune to be during different periods of my life, I have seldom failed to associate his progress thus with those lesser Melpomenean nymphs, who may be selected to watch over the destinies of the steam god and fill up their leisure hours by "riding on a rail," in the favourite fashion of the South Carolinian darkeys. Of course the carriage wheels do not perpetually sing the same song:-- that would be monotonous. They know better than that, I can assure you. Sometimes they rattle out the maddest of mad waltzes--such as that which the imprudent German young lady, living near the Harz Mountains, found herself dancing one day against her will, when she had given expression to the very improper statement, that, she would "take the devil for a partner," if he only would put in an appearance at the gay and festive scene at which she was then present. Sometimes, again, they will evolve, note by note, the dreariest air that the composer of the Dead March in _Saul_ could have devised; or, croon you out a soothing lullaby, should you feel sleepy, to which the charming melody of "The Cradle Song" would bear no comparison. In fact, the nymphs know their work well; and so alter their strains as to suit every mood and humour of the variously-tempered travellers that listen to their musical cadences. As I proceeded now on my way to Southampton, where I was to take the ocean steamer for my passage to America, the railway nymphs were busy with their harmonies. Not sad or dispiriting by any means, but briskly enlivening was their lay. They seemed to me to sing-- "You're off on your travels! Off on your travels, To fame and fortune in another land! To wait and work, Frank! Wait and work, Frank! Ere you gain your own Min's hand!" And, perhaps, it was from the recollection of Monsieur Parole d'Honneur's kindness, and from my having been in company with him that winter in Paris, where I had heard that opera of Offenbach's for the first time, but the tune of the carriage wheels was strangely like the "Pars pour Crete" chorus in the second act of _La Belle Helene_--where, if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make room for the advent of Paris, the "gay deceiver," the successful intriguant! Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting, hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window, waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by. I remember every incident on the way. Not a thing escaped me.