I watch the passage of the morning cars with the same feeling that I do the rising of the sun,which is hardly more regular.Their train of clouds stretching far behind and rising higher and higher,going to heaven while the cars are going to Boston,conceals the sun for a minute and casts my distant field into the shade,a celestial train beside which the petty train of cars which hugs the earth is but the barb of the spear.The stabler of the iron horse was up early this winter morning by the light of the stars amid the mountains,to fodder and harness his steed.Fire,too,was awakened thus early to put the vital heat in him and get him off.If the enterprise were as innocent as it is early!If the snow lies deep,they strap on his snowshoes,and,with the giant plow,plow a furrow from the mountains to the seaboard,in which the cars,like a following drill-barrow,sprinkle all the restless men and floating merchandise in the country for seed.All day the fire-steed flies over the country,stopping only that his master may rest,and I am awakened by his tramp and defiant snort at midnight,when in some remote glen in the woods he fronts the elements incased in ice and snow;and he will reach his stall only with the morning star,to start once more on his travels without rest or slumber.Or perchance,at evening,I hear him in his stable blowing off the superfluous energy of the day,that he may calm his nerves and cool his liver and brain for a few hours of iron slumber.If the enterprise were as heroic and commanding as it is protracted and unwearied!
Far through unfrequented woods on the confines of towns,where once only the hunter penetrated by day,in the darkest night dart these bright saloons without the knowledge of their inhabitants;this moment stopping at some brilliant station-house in town or city,where a social crowd is gathered,the next in the Dismal Swamp,scaring the owl and fox.The startings and arrivals of the cars are now the epochs in the village day.They go and come with such regularity and precision,and their whistle can be heard so far,that the farmers set their clocks by them,and thus one well-conducted institution regulates a whole country.Have not men improved somewhat in punctuality since the railroad was invented?Do they not talk and think faster in the depot than they did in the stage-office?There is something electrifying in the atmosphere of the former place.I have been astonished at the miracles it has wrought;that some of my neighbors,who,I should have prophesied,once for all,would never get to Boston by so prompt a conveyance,are on hand when the bell rings.To do things “railroad fashion”is now the byword;and it is worth the while to be warned so often and so sincerely by any power to get off its track.There is no stopping to read the riot act,no firing over the heads of the mob,in this case.We have constructed a fate,an Atropos,that never turns aside.(Let that be the name of your engine.)Men are advertised that at a certain hour and minute these bolts will be shot toward particular points of the compass;yet it interferes with no man's business,and the children go to school on the other track.We live the steadier for it.We are all educated thus to be sons of Tell.The air is full of invisible bolts.Every path but your own is the path of fate.Keep on your own track,then.
What recommends commerce to me is its enterprise and bravery.It does not clasp its hands and pray to Jupiter.I see these men every day go about their business with more or less courage and content,doing more even than they suspect,and perchance better employed than they could have consciously devised.I am less affected by their heroism who stood up for half an hour in the front line at Buena Vista,than by the steady and cheerful valor of the men who inhabit the snow-plow for their winter quarters;who have not merely the three-o'-clock-in-the-morning courage,which Bonaparte thought was the rarest,but whose courage does not go to rest so early,who go to sleep only when the storm sleeps or the sinews of their iron steed are frozen.On this morning of the Great Snow,perchance,which is still raging and chilling men's blood,I heard the muffled tone of their engine bell from out the fog bank of their chilled breath,which announces that the cars are coming,without long delay,notwithstanding the veto of a New England north-east snow storm,and I behold the plowmen covered with snow and rime,their heads peering above the mouldboard which is turning down other than daisies and the nests of field mice,like bowlders of the Sierra Nevada,that occupy an outside place in the universe.
