to be in inverse ratio to their distance from the engine. First came
emigrants, "honest miners," "cow-boys," and laborers; Irishmen, Germans,
Welshmen, Mennonites from Russia, quaint of garb and speech, and
Chinamen. Then came long cars full of people of better station, and last
the great Pullman "sleepers," in which the busy black porters were
making up the berths for well-to-do travellers of diverse nationalities
and occupations.

It was a curious study for a thoughtful observer, this motley crowd of
human beings sinking all differences of race, creed, and habits in the
common purpose to move Westward--to the mountain fastnesses, the
sage-brush deserts, the Golden Gate.

The warning bell had sounded, and the fireman leaned far out for the
signal. The gong struck sharply, the conductor shouted, "All aboard,"
and raised his hand; the tired ticket-seller shut his window, and the
train moved out of the station, gathered way as it cleared the outskirts
of the town, rounded a curve, entered on an absolutely straight line,
and, with one long whistle from the engine, settled down to its work.
Through the night hours it sped on, past lonely ranches and infrequent
stations, by and across shallow streams fringed with cottonwood trees,
over the greenish-yellow buffalo grass; near the old trail where many a
poor emigrant, many a bold frontiersman, many a brave soldier, had laid
his bones but a short time before.

Familiar as they may be, there is something strangely impressive about
all night journeys by rail; and those forming part of an American
transcontinental trip are almost weird. From the windows of a
night-express in Europe, or the older portions of the United States, one
looks on houses and lights, cultivated fields, fences, and hedges; and,