What a fierce weird pleasure to lie in my berth at night in the
luxurious palace-car, drawn by the mighty Baldwin--embodying, and
filling me, too, full of the swiftest motion, and most resistless
strength! It is late, perhaps midnight or after--distances join'd like
magic--as we speed through Harrisburg, Columbus, Indianapolis. The
element of danger adds zest to it all. On we go, rumbling and flashing,
with our loud whinnies thrown out from time to time, or trumpet-blasts,
into the darkness. Passing the homes of men, the farms, barns,
cattle--the silent villages. And the car itself, the sleeper, with
curtains drawn and lights turn'd down--in the berths the slumberers,
many of them women and children--as on, on, on, we fly like lightning
through the night--how strangely sound and sweet they sleep! (They say
the French Voltaire in his time designated the grand opera and a ship of
war the most signal illustrations of the growth of humanity's and art's
advance beyond primitive barbarism. Perhaps if the witty philosopher
were here these days, and went in the same car with perfect bedding and
feed from New York to San Francisco, he would shift his type and sample
to one of our American sleepers.)