then, of these tidal waves, it is a flat impossibility that transit can
be altogether comfortable. The "elevated" trains and electric trolleys
are overcrowded, certainly; but you can always find a place in them, and
they carry you so rapidly that the discomfort is rendered as little
irksome as possible. A society has been formed, I see, to agitate
against this overcrowding; but it seems to me it will only waste its
pains. Let it agitate for an underground railway, by all means; and if,
as I gather, the underground railway scheme is obstructed by
self-seeking vested interests, let it do its best to break down the
obstruction. Until some altogether new means of transport are provided,
the attempt to restrict the number of passengers which a car or trolley
may carry is, I think, antisocial, and must prove futile. The force of
public convenience would break the red-tape barrier like a cobweb. The
trains and trolleys follow each other at the very briefest intervals; it
does not seem possible that a greater number should be run on the
existing lines; and, that being so, there is no alternative between
overcrowding and the far greater inconvenience of indefinite delay.
Fancy having to "take a number," as they do in Paris, and await your
turn for a seat! New York would be simply paralysed. It is needless to
point out, of course, that where steam or electricity is the motive
power there is no cruelty to animals in overcrowding.

The American people, rightly and admirably as it seems to me, choose the
lesser of two evils, and minimise it by good temper and mutual civility.
At a certain hour of every morning, the "L" railroad trains are as
densely packed as our Metropolitan trains on Boat-Race Day. There are
people clinging in clusters to each of the straps, and even the
platforms between the cars are crowded to the very couplings. It often
appears hopelessly impossible for any new-comer to squeeze in, or for
those who are wedged in the middle of a long car to force their way out.