52 BIKDS AND POETS 



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 haiiled 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, '^alk 

 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, I am com- 

 forted and made stout of heart.,' night, where is 

 thy stay! 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 



