As one
watches each of those passengers, riding with some inscrutable
purpose of his own (or an even more inscrutable lack of purpose)
toward duty or liberation, he may be touched with anger and contempt
toward individuals; but he must admit the majesty of the spectacle
in the mass. One who loves his country for a certain candour and
quick vigour of spirit will view the scene again and again in the
hope of spying out some secrets of the national mind and destiny.
Daily he bathes in America. He has that curious sense of mystical
meaning in common things that a traveller feels coming home from
abroad, when he finds even the most casual glimpses strangely
pregnant with national identity. In the advertisements, despite all
their absurdities; in voices humorous or sullen; even in the books
that the girls are reading (for most girls read books in the subway)
he will try to divine some authentic law of life.
He is but a poor and mean-spirited lover--whether of his city, his
country, or anything else--who loves her only because he has known
no other. We are shy of vociferating patriotism because it is callow
and empty, sprung generally from mere ignorance. The true
enthusiast, we would like to think, is he who can travel daily some
dozen or score of miles in the subway, plunged in the warm wedlock
of the rush hours; and can still gather some queer loyalty to that
rough, drastic experience.
Pages:
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225