houses are not soiled by the touch of actual merchandise. Nothing more
squalid than ink ever enters their gates. They traffic with symbols
only, and the symbols, no matter what they stand for, are never in
themselves sordid. The men who have created these houses seem to have
realized that, from their situation and their importance, a special
effort toward representative magnificence was their pleasing duty, and
to have made the effort with a superb prodigality and an astounding
ingenuity.

Take, for a good, glorious example, the very large insurance company,
conscious that the eyes of the world are upon it, and that the entire
United States is expecting it to uphold the national pride. All the
splendors of all the sky-scrapers are united in its building. Its foyer
and grand staircase will sustain comparison with those of the Paris
Opera. You might think you were going into a place of entertainment!
And, as a fact, you are! This affair, with nearly four thousand clerks,
is the huge toy and pastime of a group of millionaires who have
discovered a way of honestly amusing themselves while gaining applause
and advertisement. Within the foyer and beyond the staircase, notice the
outer rooms, partitioned off by bronze grilles, looming darkly gorgeous
in an eternal windowless twilight studded with the beautiful glowing
green disks of electric-lamp shades; and under each disk a human head
bent over the black-and-red magic of ledgers! The desired effect is at
once obtained, and it is wonderful. Then lose yourself in and out of the
ascending and descending elevators, and among the unending multitudes of
clerks, and along the corridors of marble (total length exactly measured
and recorded). You will be struck dumb. And immediately you begin to
recover your speech you will be struck dumb again....

Other houses, as has been seen, provide good meals for their employees
at cost price. This house, then, will provide excellent meals, free of
charge! It will install the most expensive kitchens and richly spacious
restaurants. It will serve the delicate repasts with dignity. "Does all
this lessen the wages?" No, not in theory. But in practice, and whether
the management wishes or not, it must come out of the wages. "Why do you
do it?" you ask the departmental chief, who apparently gets far more fun
out of the contemplation of these refectories than out of the
contemplation of premiums received and claims paid. "It is better for
the employees," he says. "But we do it because it is better for us. It
pays us. Good food, physical comfort, agreeable environment, scientific
ventilation--all these things pay us. We get results from them." He does
not mention horses, but you feel that the comparison is with horses. A
horse, or a clerk, or an artisan--it pays equally well to treat all of
them well. This is one of the latest discoveries of economic science, a
discovery not yet universally understood.

[Illustration: A YOUNG WOMAN WAS JUST FINISHING A FLORID SONG]

I say you do not mention horses, and you certainly must not hint that
the men in authority may have been actuated by motives of humanity. You
must believe what you are told--that the sole motive is to get results.
The eagerness with which all heads of model establishments would disavow
to me any thought of being humane was affecting in its _naivete_; it had
that touch of ingenuous wistfulness which I remarked everywhere in
America--and nowhere more than in the demeanor of many mercantile
highnesses. (I hardly expect Americans to understand just what I mean
here.) It was as if they would blush at being caught in an act of
humanity, like school-boys caught praying. Still, to my mind, the
white purity of their desire to get financial results was often muddied
by the dark stain of a humane motive. I may be wrong (as people say),
but I know I am not (as people think).

The further you advance into the penetralia of this arch-exemplar of
American organization and profusion, the more you are amazed by the
imaginative perfection of its detail: as well in the system of filing
for instant reference fifty million separate documents, as in the
planning of a concert-hall for the diversion of the human machines.

As we went into the immense concert-hall a group of girls were giving an
informal concert among themselves. When lunch is served on the premises
with chronographic exactitude, the thirty-five minutes allowed for the
meal give an appreciable margin for music and play. A young woman was
just finishing a florid song. The concert was suspended, and the whole
party began to move humbly away at this august incursion.

"Sing it again; do, please!" the departmental chief suggested. And the
florid song was nervously sung again; we applauded, the artiste bowed as
on a stage, and the group fled, the thirty-five minutes being doubtless
up. The departmental chief looked at me in silence, content, as much as
to say: "This is how we do business in America." And I thought, "Yet
another way of getting results!"

But sometimes the creators of the organization, who had provided
everything, had been obliged to confess that they had omitted from their
designs certain factors of evolution. Hat-cupboards were a feature of
the women's offices--delightful specimens of sound cabinetry. And still,
millinery was lying about all over the place, giving it an air of
feminine occupation that was extremely exciting to a student on his
travels. The truth was that none of those hats would go into the
cupboards. Fashion had worsted the organization completely. Departmental
chiefs had nothing to do but acquiesce in this startling untidiness.
Either they must wait till the circumference of hats lessened again, or
they must tear down the whole structure and rebuild it with due regard
to hats.

Finally, we approached the sacred lair and fastness of the president,
whose massive portrait I had already seen on several walls. Spaciousness
and magnificence increased. Ceilings rose in height, marble was softened
by the thick pile of carpets. Mahogany and gold shone more luxuriously.
I was introduced into the vast antechamber of the presidential
secretaries, and by the chief of them inducted through polished and
gleaming barriers into the presence-chamber itself: a noble apartment,
an apartment surpassing dreams and expectations, conceived and executed
in a spirit of majestic prodigality. The president had not been afraid.
And his costly audacity was splendidly justified of itself. This man had
a sense of the romantic, of the dramatic, of the fit. And the qualities
in him and his _etat major_ which had commanded the success of the
entire enterprise were well shown in the brilliant symbolism of that
room's grandiosity.... And there was the president's portrait again,
gorgeously framed.

He came in through another door, an old man of superb physique, and
after a little while he was relating to me the early struggles of his
company. "My wife used to say that for ten years she never saw me," he
remarked.

I asked him what his distractions were, now that the strain was over and
his ambitions so gloriously achieved. He replied that occasionally he
went for a drive in his automobile.

"And what do you do with yourself in the evenings?" I inquired.

He seemed a little disconcerted by this perhaps unaccustomed bluntness.

"Oh," he said, casually, "I read insurance literature."

He had the conscious mien and manners of a reigning prince. His courtesy
and affability were impeccable and charming. In the most profound sense
this human being had succeeded, for it was impossible to believe that,
had he to live his life again, he would live it very differently.

Such a type of man is, of course, to be found in nearly every country;
but the type flourishes with a unique profusion and perfection in the
United States; and in its more prominent specimens the distinguishing
idiosyncrasy of the average American successful man of business is
magnified for our easier inspection. The rough, broad difference between
the American and the European business man is that the latter is anxious
to leave his work, while the former is anxious to get to it. The
attitude of the American business man toward his business is
pre-eminently the attitude of an artist. You may say that he loves
money. So do we all--artists particularly. No stock-broker's private
journal could be more full of dollars than Balzac's intimate
correspondence is full of francs. But whereas the ordinary artist loves
money chiefly because it represents luxury, the American business man
loves it chiefly because it is the sole proof of success in his
endeavor. He loves his business. It is not his toil, but his hobby,
passion, vice, monomania--any vituperative epithet you like to bestow on
it! He does not look forward to living in the evening; he lives most
intensely when he is in the midst of his organization. His instincts are
best appeased by the hourly excitements of a good, scrimmaging
commercial day. He needs these excitements as some natures need alcohol.
He cannot do without them.

[Illustration: ABSORBED IN THAT WONDROUS SATISFYING HOBBY]

On no other hypothesis can the unrivaled ingenuity and splendor and
ruthlessness of American business undertakings be satisfactorily
explained. They surpass the European, simply because they are never out
of the thoughts of their directors, because they are adored with a fine
frenzy. And for the same reason they are decked forth in magnificence.
Would a man enrich his office with rare woods and stuffs and marbles if
it were not a temple? Would he bestow graces on the environment if while
he was in it the one idea at the back of his head was the anticipation
of leaving it? Watch American business men together, and if you are a
European you will clearly perceive that they are devotees. They are open
with one another, as intimates are. Jealousy and secretiveness are much
rarer among them than in Europe. They show off their respective
organizations with pride and with candor. They admire one another
enormously. Hear one of them say enthusiastically of another: "It was a
great idea he had--connecting his New York and his Philadelphia places
by wireless--a great idea!" They call one another by their Christian
names, fondly. They are capable of wonderful friendships in business.
They are cemented by one religion--and it is not golf. For them the
journey "home" is often not the evening journey, but the morning
journey. Call this a hard saying if you choose: it is true. Could a man
be happy long away from a hobby so entrancing, a toy so intricate and
marvelous, a setting so splendid? Is it strange that, absorbed in that
wondrous satisfying hobby, he should make love with the nonchalance of
an animal? At which point I seem to have come dangerously near to the
topic of the singular position of the American woman, about which
everybody is talking....




V

TRANSIT AND HOTELS


The choice of such a trite topic as the means of travel may seem to
denote that my observations in the United States must have been
superficial. They were. I never hoped that they would be otherwise. In
seven weeks (less one day) I could not expect to penetrate very far
below the engaging surface of things. Nor did I unnaturally attempt to
do so; for the evidence of the superficies is valuable, and it can only
be properly gathered by the stranger at first sight. Among the scenes
and phenomena that passed before me I of course remember best those
which interested me most. Railroads and trains have always appealed to
me; I have often tried to express my sense of their romantic savor. And
I was eager to see and appreciate these particular manifestations of
national character in America.

It happily occurred that my first important journey from New York was on
the Pennsylvania Road.

"I'll meet you at the station," I said to my particular friend.

"Oh no!" he answered, positively. "I'll pick you up on my way."

The fact was that not for ten thousand dollars would he have missed the
spectacle of my sensations as I beheld for the first time the most
majestic terminus in the world! He alone would usher me into the gates
of that marvel! I think he was not disappointed. I frankly surrendered
myself to the domination of this extraordinary building. I did not
compare. I knew there could be no comparison. Whenever afterward I
heard, as I often did, enlightened, Europe-loving citizens of the United
States complain that the United States was all very well, but there was
no art in the United States, the image of this tremendous masterpiece
would rise before me, and I was inclined to say: "Have you ever crossed
Seventh Avenue, or are you merely another of those who have been to
Europe and learned nothing?" The Pennsylvania station is full of the
noble qualities that fine and heroic imagination alone can give. That
there existed a railroad man poetic and audacious enough to want it,
architects with genius powerful enough to create it, and a public with
heart enough to love it--these things are for me a surer proof that the
American is a great race than the existence of any quantity of wealthy
universities, museums of classic art, associations for prison reform, or
deep-delved safe-deposit vaults crammed with bonds. Such a monument does
not spring up by chance; it is part of the slow flowering of a nation's
secret spirit!

[Illustration: IN THE PARLOR-CAR]

The terminus emerged brilliantly from an examination of the complicated
detail, both esthetic and practical, that is embedded in the apparent
simplicity of its vast physiognomy. I discovered everything in it proper
to a station, except trains. Not a sign of a train. My impulse was to
ask, "Is this the tomb of Alexander J. Cassatt, or is it a cathedral, or
is it, after all, a railroad station?" Then I was led with due
ceremony across the boundless plains of granite to a secret staircase,
guarded by lions in uniform, and at the foot of this staircase, hidden
like a shame or a crime, I found a resplendent train, the Congressional
Limited. It was not the Limited of my dreams; but it was my first
American Limited, and I boarded it in a condition of excitement. I
criticized, of course, for every experienced traveler has decided views
concerning _trains de luxe_. The cars impressed rather than charmed me.
I preferred, and still prefer, the European variety of Pullman. (Yes, I
admit we owe it entirely to America!) And then there is a harsh,
inhospitable quality about those all-steel cars. They do not yield. You
think you are touching wood, and your knuckles are abraded. The
imitation of wood is a triumph of mimicry, but by no means a triumph of
artistic propriety. Why should steel be made to look like wood?...
Fireproof, you say. But is anything fireproof in the United States,
except perhaps Tammany Hall? Has not the blazing of fireproof
constructions again and again singed off the eyebrows of dauntless
firemen? My impression is that "fireproof," in the American tongue, is
one of those agreeable but quite meaningless phrases which adorn the
languages of all nations. Another such phrase, in the American tongue,
is "right away!" ...

I sat down in my appointed place in the all-steel car, and, turning over
the pages of a weekly paper, saw photographs of actual collisions,
showing that in an altercation between trains the steel-and-wood car
could knock the all-steel car into a cocked hat!... The decoration of
the all-steel car does not atone for its probable combustibility and its
proved fragility. In particular, the smoking-cars of all the Limiteds I
intrusted myself to were defiantly and wilfully ugly. Still, a fine,
proud train, handsome in some ways! And the trainmen were like admirals,
captains, and first officers pacing bridges; clearly they owned the
train, and had kindly lent it to the Pennsylvania R.R. Their demeanor
expressed a rare sense of ownership and also of responsibility. While
very polite, they condescended. A strong contrast to the miserable
European "guard"--for all his silver buttons! I adventured into the
observation-car, of which institution I had so often heard Americans
speak with pride, and speculated why, here as in all other cars, the
tops of the windows were so low that it was impossible to see the upper
part of the thing observed (roofs, telegraph-wires, tree-foliage,
hill-summits, sky) without bending the head and cricking the neck. I do
not deny that I was setting a high standard of perfection, but then I
had heard so much all my life about American Limiteds!

The Limited started with exactitude, and from the observation-car I
watched the unrolling of the wondrous Hudson tunnel--one of the major
sights of New York, and a thing of curious beauty.... The journey passed
pleasantly, with no other episode than that of dinner, which cost a
dollar and was worth just about a dollar, despite the mutton. And with
exactitude we arrived at Washington--another splendid station. I
generalized thus: "It is certain that this country understands railroad
stations." I was, however, fresh in the country, and had not then seen
New Haven station, which, as soon as it is quite done with, ought to be
put in a museum.

We returned from Washington by a night train; we might have taken a day
train, but it was pointed out to me that I ought to get into "form" for
certain projected long journeys into the West. At midnight I was
brusquely introduced to the American sleeping-car. I confess that I had
not imagined anything so appalling as the confined, stifling, malodorous
promiscuity of the American sleeping-car, where men and women are herded
together on shelves under the drastic control of an official aided by
negroes. I care not to dwell on the subject.... I have seen European
prisons, but in none that I have seen would such a system be tolerated,
even by hardened warders and governors; and assuredly, if it were,
public opinion would rise in anger and destroy it. I have not been in
Siberian prisons, but I remember reading George Kennan's description of
their mild horrors, and I am surprised that he should have put himself
to the trouble of such a tedious journey when he might have discovered
far more exciting material on any good road around New York. However,
nobody seemed to mind, such is the force of custom--and I did not mind
very much, because my particular friend, intelligently foreseeing my
absurd European prejudices, had engaged for us a state-room.

This state-room, or suite--for it comprised two apartments--was a
beautiful and aristocratic domain. The bedchamber had a fan that would
work at three speeds like an automobile, and was an enchanting toy. In
short, I could find no fault with the accommodation. It was perfect,
and would have remained perfect had the train remained in the station.
Unfortunately, the engine-driver had the unhappy idea of removing the
train from the station. He seemed to be an angry engine-driver, and his
gesture was that of a man setting his teeth and hissing: "Now, then,
come out of that, you sluggards!" and giving a ferocious tug. There was
a fearful jerk, and in an instant I understood why sleeping-berths in
America are always arranged lengthwise with the train. If they were not,
the passengers would spend most of the night in getting up off the floor
and climbing into bed again. A few hundred yards out of the station the
engine-driver decided to stop, and there was the same fearful jerk and
concussion. Throughout the night he stopped and he started at frequent
intervals, and always with the fearful jerk. Sometimes he would slow
down gently and woo me into a false tranquillity, but only to finish
with the same jerk rendered more shocking by contrast.

The bedchamber was delightful, the lavatory amounted to a boudoir, the
reading-lamp left nothing to desire, the ventilation was a continuous
vaudeville entertainment, the watch-pocket was adorable, the mattress
was good. Even the road-bed was quite respectable--not equal to the best
I knew, probably, but it had the great advantage of well-tied rails, so
that as the train passed from one rail-length to the next you felt no
jar, a bliss utterly unknown in Europe. The secret of a satisfactory
"sleeper," however, does not lie in the state-room, nor in the
glittering lavatory, nor in the lamp, nor in the fan, nor in the
watch-pocket, nor in the bed, nor even in the road-bed. It lies in the
mannerisms of that brave fellow out there in front of you on the engine,
in the wind and the rain. But no one in all America seemed to appreciate
this deep truth. For myself, I was inclined to go out to the
engine-driver and say to him: "Brother, are you aware--you cannot
be--that the best European trains start with the imperceptible
stealthiness of a bad habit, so that it is impossible to distinguish
motion from immobility, and come to rest with the softness of doves
settling on the shoulders of a young girl?" ... If the fault is not the
engine-driver's, then are the brakes to blame? Inconceivable!... All
American engine-drivers are alike; and I never slept a full hour in any
American "sleeper," what with stops, starts, hootings, tollings,
whizzings round sharp corners, listening to the passage of
freight-trains, and listening to haughty conductor-admirals who
quarreled at length with newly arrived voyagers at 2 or 3 A.M.! I do not
criticize; I state. I also blame myself. There are those who could
sleep. But not everybody could sleep. Well and heartily do I remember
the moment when another friend of mine, in the midst of an interminable
scolding that was being given by a nasal-voiced conductor to a passenger
just before the dawn, exposed his head and remarked: "Has it occurred to
you that this is a sleeping-car?" In the swift silence the whirring of
my private fan could be heard.

I arrived in New York from Washington, as I arrived at all my
destinations after a night journey, in a state of enfeebled
submissiveness, and I retired to bed in a hotel. And for several hours
the hotel itself would stop and start with a jerk and whiz round
corners.

*       *       *       *       *

For many years I had dreamed of traveling by the great, the unique, the
world-renowned New York-Chicago train; indeed, it would not be a gross
exaggeration to say that I came to America in order to take that train;
and at length time brought my dream true. I boarded the thing in New
York, this especial product of the twentieth century, and yet another
thrilling moment in my life came and went! I boarded it with pride;
everybody boarded it with pride; and in every eye was the gleam: "This
is the train of trains, and I have my state-room on it." Perhaps I was
ever so slightly disappointed with the dimensions and appointments of
the state-room--I may have been expecting a whole car to myself--but the
general self-conscious smartness of the train reassured me. I wandered
into the observation-car, and saw my particular friend proudly employ
the train-telephone to inform his office that he had caught the train. I
saw also the free supply of newspapers, the library of books, the
typewriting-machine, and the stenographer by its side--all as promised.
And I knew that at the other end of the train was a dining-car, a
smoking-car, and a barber-shop. I picked up the advertising literature
scattered about by a thoughtful Company, and learned therefrom that this
train was not a mere experiment; it was the finished fruit of many
experiments, and that while offering the conveniences of a hotel or a
club, it did with regularity what it undertook to do in the way of
speed and promptness. The pamphlet made good reading!...

I noted that it pleased the Company to run two other very important
trains out of the terminus simultaneously with the unique train.
Bravado, possibly; but bravado which invited the respect of all those
who admire enterprise! I anticipated with pleasure the noble spectacle
of these three trains sailing forth together on three parallel tracks;
which pleasure was denied me. We for Chicago started last; we started
indeed, according to my poor European watch, from fifteen to thirty
seconds late!... No matter! I would not stickle for seconds:
particularly as at Chicago, by the terms of a contract which no company
in Europe would have had the grace to sign, I was to receive, for any
unthinkable lateness, compensation at the rate of one cent for every
thirty-six seconds!

Within a quarter of an hour it became evident that that train had at
least one great quality--it moved. As, in the deepening dusk, we swung
along the banks of the glorious Hudson, veiled now in the vaporous
mysteries following a red sunset, I was obliged to admit with increasing
enthusiasm that that train did move. Even the persecutors of Galileo
would never have had the audacity to deny that that train moved. And one
felt, comfortably, that the whole Company, with all the Company's
resources, was watching over its flying pet, giving it the supreme right
of way and urging it forward by hearty good-will. One felt also that the
moment had come for testing the amenities of the hotel and the club.

"Tea, please," I said, jauntily, confidently, as we entered the
spotless and appetizing restaurant-car.

The extremely polite and kind captain of the car was obviously taken
aback. But he instinctively grasped that the reputation of the train
hung in the balance, and he regained his self-possession.

"Tea?" His questioning inflection delicately hinted: "Try not to be too
eccentric."

"Tea."

"Here?"

"Here."

"I can serve it here, of course," said the captain, persuasively. "But
if you don't mind I should prefer to serve it in your state-room."

We reluctantly consented. The tea was well made and well served.

[Illustration: BREAKFAST EN ROUTE]

In an instant, as it seemed, we were crossing a dark river, on which
reposed several immense, many-storied river-steamers, brilliantly lit. I
had often seen illustrations of these craft, but never before the
reality. A fine sight-and it made me think of Mark Twain's incomparable
masterpiece, _Life on the Mississippi_, for which I would sacrifice the
entire works of Thackeray and George Eliot. We ran into a big town, full
of electric signs, and stopped. Albany! One minute late! I descended to
watch the romantic business of changing engines. I felt sure that
changing the horses of a fashionable mail-coach would be as nothing to
this. The first engine had already disappeared. The new one rolled
tremendous and overpowering toward me; its wheels rose above my head,
and the driver glanced down at me as from a bedroom window. I was
sensible of all the mystery and force of the somber monster; I felt the
mystery of the unknown railway station, and of the strange illuminated
city beyond. And I had a corner in my mind for the thought: "Somewhere
near me Broadway actually ends." Then, while dark men under the ray of a
lantern fumbled with the gigantic couplings, I said to myself that if I
did not get back to my car I should probably be left behind. I regained
my state-room and waited, watch in hand, for the jerk of restarting. I
waited half an hour. Some mishap with the couplings! We left Albany
thirty-three minutes late. Habitues of the train affected nonchalance.
One of them offered to bet me that "she would make it up." The admirals
and captains avoided our gaze.

We dined, _a la carte_; the first time I had ever dined _a la carte_ on
any train. An excellent dinner, well and sympathetically served. The
mutton was impeccable. And in another instant, as it seemed, we were
running, with no visible flags, through an important and showy street of
a large town, and surface-cars were crossing one another behind us. I
had never before seen an express train let loose in the middle of an
unprotected town, and I was _naif_ enough to be startled. But a huge
electric sign--"Syracuse bids you welcome"--tranquilized me. We briefly
halted, and drew away from the allurement of those bright streets into
the deep, perilous shade of the open country.

I went to bed. The night differed little from other nights spent in
American sleeping-cars, and I therefore will not describe it in detail.
To do so might amount to a solecism. Enough to say that the jerkings
were possibly less violent and certainly less frequent than usual,
while, on the other hand, the halts were strangely long; one, indeed,
seemed to last for hours; I had to admit to myself that I had been to
sleep and dreamed this stoppage.

From a final cat-nap I at last drew up my blind to greet the oncoming
day, and was rewarded by one of the finest and most poetical views I
have ever seen: a misty, brown river flanked by a jungle of dark reddish
and yellowish chimneys and furnaces that covered it with shifting
canopies of white steam and of smoke, varying from the delicatest grays
to intense black; a beautiful dim gray sky lightening, and on the ground
and low, flat roofs a thin crust of snow: Toledo! A wonderful and
inspiring panorama, just as romantic in its own way as any Spanish
Toledo. Yet I regretted its name, and I regretted the grotesque names of
other towns on the route--Canaan, Syracuse, Utica, Geneva, Ceylon,
Waterloo, and odd combinations ending in "burg." The names of most of
the States are superb. What could be more beautiful than Ohio, Idaho,
Kentucky, Iowa, Missouri, Wyoming, Illinois--above all, Illinois?
Certain cities, too, have grand names. In its vocal quality "Chicago" is
a perfect prince among names. But the majority of town names in America
suffer, no doubt inevitably, from a lack of imagination and of
reflection. They have the air of being bought in haste at a big
advertising "ready-for-service" establishment.

Remembering in my extreme prostration that I was in a hotel and club,
and not in an experiment, I rang the bell, and a smiling negro
presented himself. It was only a quarter to seven in Toledo, but I was
sustained in my demeanor by the fact that it was a quarter to eight in
New York.

"Will you bring me some tea, please?"

He was sympathetic, but he said flatly I couldn't have tea, nor
anything, and that nobody could have anything at all for an hour and a
half, as there would be no restaurant-car till Elkhart, and Elkhart was
quite ninety miles off. He added that an engine had broken down at
Cleveland.

I lay in collapse for over an hour, and then, summoning my manhood,
arose. On the previous evening the hot-water tap of my toilette had
yielded only cold water. Not wishing to appear hypercritical, I had said
nothing, but I had thought. I now casually turned on the cold-water tap
and was scalded by nearly boiling water. The hot-water tap still yielded
cold water. Lest I should be accused of inventing this caprice of
plumbing in a hotel and club, I give the name of the car. It was
appropriately styled "Watertown" (compartment E).

In the corridor an admiral, audaciously interrogated, admitted that the
train was at that moment two hours and ten minutes late. As for Elkhart,
it seemed to be still about ninety miles away. I went into the
observation-saloon to cheer myself up by observing, and was struck by a
chill, and by the chilly, pinched demeanor of sundry other passengers,
and by the apologetic faces of certain captains. Already in my
state-room my senses had suspected a chill; but I had refused to believe
my senses. I knew and had known all my life that American trains were
too hot, and I had put down the supposed chill to a psychological
delusion. It was, however, no delusion. As we swept through a snowy
landscape the apologetic captains announced sadly that the engine was
not sparing enough steam to heat the whole of the train. We put on
overcoats and stamped our feet.

The train was now full of ravening passengers. And as Elkhart with
infinite shyness approached, the ravening passengers formed in files in
the corridors, and their dignity was jerked about by the speed of the
icy train, and they waited and waited, like mendicants at the kitchen
entrance of a big restaurant. And at long last, when we had ceased to
credit that any such place as Elkhart existed, Elkhart arrived. Two
restaurant-cars were coupled on, and, as it were, instantly put to the
sack by an infuriated soldiery. The food was excellent, and newspapers
were distributed with much generosity, but some passengers, including
ladies, had to stand for another twenty minutes famished at the door of
the first car, because the breakfasting accommodation of this particular
hotel and club was not designed on the same scale as its bedroom
accommodation. We reached Chicago one hundred and ten minutes late. And
to compensate me for the lateness, and for the refrigeration, and for
the starvation, and for being forced to eat my breakfast hurriedly under
the appealing, reproachful gaze of famishing men and women, an official
at the Lasalle station was good enough to offer me a couple of dollars.
I accepted them....

[Illustration: IN THE SUBWAY ONE ENCOUNTERS AN INSISTENT, HURRYING
STREAM]

An unfortunate accident, you say. It would be more proper to say a
series of accidents. I think "the greatest train in the world" is
entitled to one accident, but not to several. And when, in addition to
being a train, it happens to be a hotel and club, and not an experiment,
I think that a system under which a serious breakdown anywhere between
Syracuse and Elkhart (about three-quarters of the entire journey) is
necessarily followed by starvation--I think that such a system ought to
be altered--by Americans. In Europe it would be allowed to continue
indefinitely.

Beyond question my experience of American trains led me to the general
conclusion that the best of them were excellent. Nevertheless, I saw
nothing in the organization of either comfort, luxury, or safety to
justify the strange belief of Americans that railroad traveling in the
United States is superior to railroad traveling in Europe. Merely from
habit, I prefer European trains on the whole. It is perhaps also merely
from habit that Americans prefer American trains.

*       *       *       *       *

As regards methods of transit other than ordinary railroad trains, I
have to admit a certain general disappointment in the United States. The
Elevated systems in the large cities are the terrible result of an
original notion which can only be called unfortunate. They must either
depopulate the streets through which they run or utterly destroy the
sensibility of the inhabitants; and they enormously increase and
complicate the dangers of the traffic beneath them. Indeed, in the view
of the unaccustomed stranger, every Elevated is an affliction so
appallingly hideous that no degree of convenience could atone for its
horror. The New York Subway is a masterpiece of celerity, and in other
ways less evil than an Elevated, but in the minimum decencies of travel
it appeared to me to be inferior to several similar systems in Europe.

The surface-cars in all the large cities that I saw were less smart and
less effective than those in sundry European capitals. In Boston
particularly I cannot forget the excessive discomfort of a journey to
Cambridge, made in the company of a host who had a most beautiful house,
and who gave dinners of the last refinement, but who seemed
unaccountably to look on the car journey as a sort of pleasant
robustious outing. Nor can I forget--also in Boston--the spectacle of
the citizens of Brookline--reputed to be the wealthiest suburb in the
world--strap-hanging and buffeted and flung about on the way home from
church, in surface-cars which really did carry inadequacy and brutality
to excess.

The horse-cabs of Chicago had apparently been imported second-hand
immediately after the great fire from minor towns in Italy.

[Illustration: THE STRAP-HANGERS]

There remains the supreme mystery of the vices of the American taxicab.
I sought an explanation of this from various persons, and never got one
that was convincing. The most frequent explanation, at any rate in New
York, was that the great hotels were responsible for the vices of the
American taxicab, by reason of their alleged outrageous charges to the
companies for the privilege of waiting for hire at their august
porticos. I listened with respect, but with incredulity. If the
taxicabs were merely very dear, I could understand; if they were
merely very bad, I could understand; if they were merely numerically
insufficient for the number of people willing to pay for taxicabs, I
could understand. But that they should be at once very dear, very bad,
and most inconveniently scarce, baffled and still baffles me. The sum of
real annoyance daily inflicted on a rich and busy but craven-hearted
city like New York by the eccentricity of its taxicab organization must
be colossal.

As to the condition of the roadways, the vocabulary of blame had been
exhausted long before I arrived. Two things, however, struck me in New
York which I had not heard of by report: the greasiness of the streets,
transforming every automobile into a skidding death-trap at the least
sign of moisture, and the leisureliness of the road-works. The busiest
part of Thirty-fourth Street, for example--no mean artery, either--was
torn up when I came into New York, and it was still torn up when I left.
And, lastly, why are there no island refuges on Fifth Avenue? Even at
the intersection of Fifth and Broadway there is no oasis for the pursued
wayfarer. Every European city has long ago decided that the provision of
island refuges in main thoroughfares is an act of elementary justice to
the wayfarer in his unequal and exhausting struggle with wheeled
traffic.

All these criticisms, which are severe but honest, would lose much of
their point if the general efficiency of the United States and its
delightful genius for organization were not so obvious and so impressive
to the European. In fact, it is precisely the brilliant practical
qualities of the country which place its idiosyncrasies in the matter
of transit in so startling a light.... I would not care to close this
section without a grateful reference to the very natty electric coupes,
usually driven by ladies, which are so refreshing a feature of the
streets of Chicago, and to the virtues of American private automobiles
in general.

*       *       *       *       *

It is remarkable that a citizen who cheerfully and negligently submits
to so many various inconveniences outside his home should insist on
having the most comfortable home in the world, as the American citizen
unquestionably has! Once, when in response to an interviewer I had
become rather lyrical in praise of I forget what phenomenon in the
United States, a Philadelphia evening newspaper published an editorial
article in criticism of my views. This article was entitled "Offensive
Flattery." Were I to say freely all that I thought of the American
private house, large or small, I might expose myself again to the same
accusation.

[Illustration: THE PASSENGERS ON THE ELEVATED AT NIGHT ARE ODDLY
ASSORTED.]

When I began to make the acquaintance of the American private house, I
felt like one who, son of an exiled mother, had been born abroad and had
at length entered his real country. That is to say, I felt at home. I
felt that all this practical comfort and myself had been specially
destined for each other since the beginning of time, and that fate was
at last being fulfilled. Freely I admit that until I reached America I
had not understood what real domestic comfort, generously conceived,
could be. Certainly I had always in this particular quarreled with my
own country, whose average notion of comfort still is to leave the
drawing-room (temperature 70 deg.--near the fire) at midnight, pass by a
windswept hall and staircase (temperature 55 deg.) to a bedroom full of fine
fresh air (temperature 50 deg. to 40 deg.), and in that chamber, having removed
piece by piece every bit of warm clothing, to slip, imperfectly
protected, between icy sheets and wait for sleep. Certainly I had always
contested the joyfulness of that particular process; but my imagination
had fallen short of the delicious innumerable realities of comfort in an
American home.

Now, having regained the "barbaric seats" whence I came, I read with a
peculiar expression the advertisements of fashionable country and town
residences to rent or for sale in England. Such as: "Choice residence.
Five reception-rooms. Sixteen bedrooms. Bathroom--" Or: "Thoroughly
up-to-date mansion. Six reception-rooms. Splendid hall. Billiard-room.
Twenty-four bedrooms. Two bath-rooms--" I read this literature (to be
discovered textually every week in the best illustrated weeklies), and I
smile. Also I wonder, faintly blushing, what Americans truly _do_ think
of the residential aspects of European house-property when they first
see it. And I wonder, without blushing, to what miraculous degree of
perfected comfort Americans would raise all their urban traffic if only
they cared enough to keep the professional politician out of their
streets as strictly as they keep him out of their houses.

*       *       *       *       *

The great American hotel, too, is a wondrous haven for the European who
in Europe has only tasted comfort in his dreams. The calm orderliness of
the bedroom floors, the adequacy of wardrobes and lamps, the reckless
profusion of clean linen, that charming notice which one finds under
one's door in the morning, "You were called at seven-thirty, and
answered," the fundamental principle that a bedroom without a bath-room
is not a bedroom, the magic laundry which returns your effects duly
starched in eight hours, the bells which are answered immediately, the
thickness of the walls, the radiator in the elevator-shaft, the
celestial invention of the floor-clerk--I could catalogue the civilizing
features of the American hotel for pages. But the great American hotel
is a classic, and to praise it may seem inept. My one excuse for doing
so is that I have ever been a devotee of hotels, and once indeed wrote a
whole book about one. When I told the best interviewer in the United
States that my secret ambition had always been to be the manager of a
grand hotel, I was quite sincere. And whenever I saw the manager of a
great American hotel traversing with preoccupied and yet aquiline glance
his corridors and public rooms, I envied him acutely.