There is no place in the world where human nature shows to such sad
disadvantage as in waiting-rooms at railway stations, especially in the
"Ladies' Room." In the "Gentlemen's Room" there is less of that ghastly,
apathetic silence which seems only explainable as an interval between two
terrible catastrophes. Shall we go so far as to confess that even the
unsightly spittoons, and the uncleanly and loquacious fellowship resulting
from their common use, seem here, for the moment, redeemed from a little
of their abominableness,--simply because almost any action is better than
utter inaction, and any thing which makes the joyless, taciturn American
speak to his fellow whom he does not know, is for the time being a
blessing. But in the "Ladies' Room" there is not even a community of
interest in a single bad habit, to break the monotone of weary stillness.
Who has not felt the very soul writhe within her as she has first crossed
the threshold of one of these dismal antechambers of journey? Carpetless,
dingy, dusty; two or three low sarcophagi of greenish-gray iron in open
spaces, surrounded by blue-lipped women, in different angles and attitudes
of awkwardness, trying to keep the soles of their feet in a perpendicular
position, to be warmed at what they have been led to believe is a
steam-heating apparatus; a few more women, equally listless and
weary-looking, standing in equally difficult and awkward positions before
a counter, holding pie in one hand, and tea in a cup and saucer in the
other, taking alternate mouthfuls of each, and spilling both; the rest
wedged bolt upright against the wall in narrow partitioned seats, which
only need a length of perforated foot-board in front to make them fit to
be patented as the best method of putting whole communities of citizens
into the stocks at once.
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