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and still again curving away to the south, presents itself to view, it is difficult to describe the grandeur of the scene.

Conesloga Brige.
From a Photograph.

At Pittsburgh, the time carried by the train is suddenly altered and retarded one hour, in conformity with Western time.

After leaving Pittsburgh I am unable to give any further sketch of the journey from actual observation, as it is now late at night, and the compartment allotted to me in the sleeping-car has been transformed into a comfortable berth hung with tapestry curtains. The electric lights, which illumine the entire train, have been lowered, and in a short time all is silent, save the smooth rumbling of the heavy train, as it flies rapidly over the steel rails.

Across the State of Ohio, pausing at Alliance, Crestline, and Lima, and then plunging into the State of Indiana, where, soon after daybreak, another halt is made at Fort Wayne, we now traverse a wide expanse of prairie, and, as this sort of scenery appears somewhat monotonous, we turn over for another nap, long after the sun is well up, when we are at length fully aroused by the voice of the dining-car waiter informing the passengers of the fact that breakfast will shortly be ready. The meal is served in a relay car, which we find has been taken on at Fort Wayne, and is as completely equipped for its purpose as its predecessor; in fact, these eating-cars are changed twice on the road from New York, in order that the provisions they carry may be fresh and of the best quality.

Almost before we have completed a plentiful morning meal, we notice, as we glance out of the window on the right, a streak of greenish blue, which tells us that we must now be approaching Chicago, as we have already reached the lower borders of the great lake Michigan, upon which that city stands. But long before we enter the great metropolis of the West, there are numerous indications of a busy and populous neighbourhood, denoting that we are already in the suburbs of some vast industrial and manufacturing centre.

Presently an official, carrying a bunch of leather straps in his hand, passes through the car to take charge of any luggage you wish to be delivered without any loss of time at your hotel. He is the agent of an omnibus line and local express company, which, for a trifling fee, will deliver your trunks and yourself at any hotel in Chicago. You hand over your checks to this person, gather up the odds and ends—small boxes, parcels, rugs, and other indispensable impedimenta of your journey, from which on no account do you intend to be separated—and by the time you have accomplished the gathering process the train comes to a standstill in the great depot at Chicago.

It is, of course, impossible within the limits of a traveller's sketch-book to convey any adequate idea of the great American Exposition of 1893. This description I must perforce leave to other pens and to the many readers of The Strand Magazine who will visit the Fair—a trip which, as I set out by declaring, can be easily accomplished in an eight days' pleasant journey from London.