[Illustration:  IN THE PARLOR-CAR]

The terminus emerged brilliantly from an examination of the complicated detail, both esthetic and practical, that is embedded in the apparent simplicity of its vast physiognomy.  I discovered everything in it proper to a station, except trains.  Not a sign of a train.  My impulse was to ask, “Is this the tomb of Alexander J. Cassatt, or is it a cathedral, or is it, after all, a railroad station?” Then I was led with due ceremony across the boundless plains of granite to a secret staircase, guarded by lions in uniform, and at the foot of this staircase, hidden like a shame or a crime, I found a resplendent train, the Congressional Limited.  It was not the Limited of my dreams; but it was my first American Limited, and I boarded it in a condition of excitement.  I criticized, of course, for every experienced traveler has decided views concerning trains de luxe.  The cars impressed rather than charmed me.  I preferred, and still prefer, the European variety of Pullman. (Yes, I admit we owe it entirely to America!) And then there is a harsh, inhospitable quality about those all-steel cars.  They do not yield.  You think you are touching wood, and your knuckles are abraded.  The imitation of wood is a triumph of mimicry, but by no means a triumph of artistic propriety.  Why should steel be made to look like wood?...  Fireproof, you say.  But is anything fireproof in the United States, except perhaps Tammany Hall?  Has not the blazing of fireproof constructions again and again singed off the eyebrows of dauntless firemen?  My impression is that “fireproof,” in the American tongue, is one of those agreeable but quite meaningless phrases which adorn the languages of all nations.  Another such phrase, in the American tongue, is “right away!” ...

I sat down in my appointed place in the all-steel car, and, turning over the pages of a weekly paper, saw photographs of actual collisions, showing that in an altercation between trains the steel-and-wood car could knock the all-steel car into a cocked hat!...  The decoration of the all-steel car does not atone for its probable combustibility and its proved fragility.  In particular, the smoking-cars of all the Limiteds I intrusted myself to were defiantly and wilfully ugly.  Still, a fine, proud train, handsome in some ways!  And the trainmen were like admirals, captains, and first officers pacing bridges; clearly they owned the train, and had kindly lent it to the Pennsylvania R.R.  Their demeanor expressed a rare sense of ownership and also of responsibility.  While very polite, they condescended.  A strong contrast to the miserable European “guard”—­for all his silver buttons!  I adventured into the observation-car, of which institution I had so often heard Americans speak with pride, and speculated why, here as in all other cars, the tops of the windows were so low that it was impossible to see the upper part of the thing observed (roofs, telegraph-wires, tree-foliage, hill-summits, sky) without bending the head and cricking the neck.  I do not deny that I was setting a high standard of perfection, but then I had heard so much all my life about American Limiteds!