As a matter of fact, we find the evening subway jam very restful. Being
neatly rounded in contour, with just a gentle bulge around the
equatorial transit, we have devised a very satisfactory system. We make
for the most crowded car we can find, and having buffeted our way in, we
are perfectly serene. Once properly wedged, and provided no one in the
immediate neighbourhood is doing anything with any garlic (it is well to
avoid the vestibules if one is squeamish in that particular) we lift our
feet off the floor, tuck them into the tail of our overcoat, and remain
blissfully suspended in midair from Chambers Street to Ninety-sixth. The
pressure of our fellow-passengers, powerfully impinging upon the
globular perimeter we spoke of, keeps us safely elevated above the
floor. We have had some leather stirrups sewed into the bottom of our
overcoat, in which we slip our feet to keep them from dangling
uncomfortably. Another feature of our technique is that we always go
into the car with our arms raised and crossed neatly on our chest, so
that they will not be caught and pinioned to our flanks. In that
position, once we are gently nested among the elastic mass of genial
humanity, it is easy to draw out from our waistcoat pocket our copy of
Boethius's "Consolations of Philosophy" and really get in a little
mental improvement. Or, if we have forgotten the book, we gently droop
our head into our overcoat collar, lay it softly against the shoulder of
the tall man who is always handy, and pass into a tranquil nescience.
The subway is a great consolation to the philosopher if he knows how to
make the most of it. Think how many people one encounters and never sees
again.