minimum payment on the basis of the maximum bulk, weight, and
distance--seems to me essentially irrational. In some cases, indeed, it
cuts against the Express Company. When I first had occasion to move from
one abode to another in New York--a distance of about a quarter of a
mile--I thought with glee "Now the famous express system will save me
all trouble." But I found that it would cost two dollars to express my
belongings, whereas even the notoriously extortionate New York cabman
would convey me and all my goods and chattels for half that sum. So the
Express Company's loss was cabby's gain.

"The ship is cheered, the harbour cleared," and none too merrily are we
dropping down by the Statue of Liberty to Sandy Hook and the Atlantic.
(There is a point, by the way, a little below the Battery, from which
New York looks mountainous indeed. Its irregularly serrated profile is
lost, and the sky-scrapers fall into position one behind the other, like
an artistically grouped cohort of giants. "Hills peep o'er hills, and
Alps on Alps arise," while in the background the glorious curve of the
Brooklyn Bridge seems to span half the horizon. I could not but think of
Valhalla and the Bridge of the Gods in the _Rheingold_. Elevator
architecture necessarily sends one to Scandinavian mythology in quest of
similitudes.) It is with acute regret that I turn my back upon New York,
or, rather, turn my face to see it receding over the steamer's wake. Not
often in this imperfect world are high anticipations overtopped, as the
real American has overtopped my half-reminiscent dream of it. "The real
America?" That, of course, is an absurd expression. I have had only a
superficial glimpse of one corner of the United States. It is as though
one were to glance at a mere dog-ear on a folio page, and then profess
to have mastered its whole import. But I intend no such ridiculous
profession. I have seen something of the outward aspect of five or six
great cities; I have looked into one small facet of American social