by their Christian
names, fondly. They are capable of wonderful friendships in business.
They are cemented by one religion--and it is not golf. For them the
journey "home" is often not the evening journey, but the morning
journey. Call this a hard saying if you choose: it is true. Could a man
be happy long away from a hobby so entrancing, a toy so intricate and
marvelous, a setting so splendid? Is it strange that, absorbed in that
wondrous satisfying hobby, he should make love with the nonchalance of
an animal? At which point I seem to have come dangerously near to the
topic of the singular position of the American woman, about which
everybody is talking....

V

TRANSIT AND HOTELS

The choice of such a trite topic as the means of travel may seem to
denote that my observations in the United States must have been
superficial. They were. I never hoped that they would be otherwise. In
seven weeks (less one day) I could not expect to penetrate very far
below the engaging surface of things. Nor did I unnaturally attempt to
do so; for the evidence of the superficies is valuable, and it can only
be properly gathered by the stranger at first sight. Among the scenes
and phenomena that passed before me I of course remember best those
which interested me most. Railroads and trains have always appealed to
me; I have often tried to express my sense of their romantic savor. And
I was eager to see and appreciate these particular manifestations of
national character in America.

It happily occurred that my first important journey from New York was on
the Pennsylvania Road.

"I'll meet you at the station," I said to my particular friend.

"Oh no!" he answered, positively. "I'll pick you up on my way."

The fact was that not for ten thousand dollars would he have missed the
spectacle of my sensations as I beheld for the first time the most
majestic terminus in the world! He alone would usher me into the gates
of that marvel! I think he was not disappointed. I frankly surrendered
myself to the domination of this extraordinary building. I did not
compare. I knew there could be no comparison. Whenever afterward I
heard, as I often did, enlightened, Europe-loving citizens of the United
States complain that the United States was all very well, but there was
no art in the United States, the image of this tremendous masterpiece
would rise before me, and I was inclined to say: "Have you ever crossed
Seventh Avenue, or are you me