The Limited started with exactitude, and from the observation-car I watched the unrolling of the wondrous Hudson tunnel—­one of the major sights of New York, and a thing of curious beauty....  The journey passed pleasantly, with no other episode than that of dinner, which cost a dollar and was worth just about a dollar, despite the mutton.  And with exactitude we arrived at Washington—­another splendid station.  I generalized thus:  “It is certain that this country understands railroad stations.”  I was, however, fresh in the country, and had not then seen New Haven station, which, as soon as it is quite done with, ought to be put in a museum.

We returned from Washington by a night train; we might have taken a day train, but it was pointed out to me that I ought to get into “form” for certain projected long journeys into the West.  At midnight I was brusquely introduced to the American sleeping-car.  I confess that I had not imagined anything so appalling as the confined, stifling, malodorous promiscuity of the American sleeping-car, where men and women are herded together on shelves under the drastic control of an official aided by negroes.  I care not to dwell on the subject....  I have seen European prisons, but in none that I have seen would such a system be tolerated, even by hardened warders and governors; and assuredly, if it were, public opinion would rise in anger and destroy it.  I have not been in Siberian prisons, but I remember reading George Kennan’s description of their mild horrors, and I am surprised that he should have put himself to the trouble of such a tedious journey when he might have discovered far more exciting material on any good road around New York.  However, nobody seemed to mind, such is the force of custom—­and I did not mind very much, because my particular friend, intelligently foreseeing my absurd European prejudices, had engaged for us a state-room.

This state-room, or suite—­for it comprised two apartments—­was a beautiful and aristocratic domain.  The bedchamber had a fan that would work at three speeds like an automobile, and was an enchanting toy.  In short, I could find no fault with the accommodation.  It was perfect, and would have remained perfect had the train remained in the station.  Unfortunately, the engine-driver had the unhappy idea of removing the train from the station.  He seemed to be an angry engine-driver, and his gesture was that of a man setting his teeth and hissing:  “Now, then, come out of that, you sluggards!” and giving a ferocious tug.  There was a fearful jerk, and in an instant I understood why sleeping-berths in America are always arranged lengthwise with the train.  If they were not, the passengers would spend most of the night in getting up off the floor and climbing into bed again.  A few hundred yards out of the station the engine-driver decided to stop, and there was the same fearful jerk and concussion.  Throughout the night he stopped and he started at frequent intervals, and always with the fearful jerk.  Sometimes he would slow down gently and woo me into a false tranquillity, but only to finish with the same jerk rendered more shocking by contrast.