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