52 BIRDS AND POETS 
VII 
There is a feeling in heroic poetry, or in a burst 
of eloquence, that I sometimes catch in quite differ- 
ent fields. I caught it this morning, for instance, 
when I saw the belated trains go by, and knew how 
they had been battling with storm, darkness, and 
distance, and had triumphed. They were due at 
my place in the night, but did not pass till after 
eight o’clock in the morning. ‘Two trains coupled 
together, — the fast mail and the express, — making 
an immense line of coaches hauled by two engines. 
They had come from the West, were all covered 
with snow and ice, like soldiers with the dust of 
battle upon them. They had massed their forces, 
and were now moving with augmented speed, and 
with a resolution that was epic and grand. Talk 
about the railroad dispelling the romance from the 
landscape; if it does, it brings the heroic element 
in. The moving train is a proud spectacle, espe- 
cially in stormy and tempestuous nights. When I 
look out and see its light, steady and unflickering as 
the planets, and hear the roar of its advancing tread, 
or its sound diminishing in the distance, | am com- 
forted and made stout of heart. O night, where is 
thy stay! O space, where is thy victory! Or to 
see the fast mail pass in the morning is as good as 
a page of Homer. It quickens one’s pulse for all 
day. It is the Ajax of trains. I hear its defiant, 
warning whistle, hear it thunder over the bridges, 
and its sharp, rushing ring among the rocks, and in 
