In making this journey at night we introduced ourselves to the thoroughly American institution of sleeping-cars—­that is, of cars in which beds are made up for travelers.  The traveler may have a whole bed, or half a bed, or no bed at all, as he pleases, paying a dollar or half a dollar extra should he choose the partial or full fruition of a couch.  I confess I have always taken a delight in seeing these beds made up, and consider that the operations of the change are generally as well executed as the manoeuvres of any pantomime at Drury Lane.  The work is usually done by negroes or colored men, and the domestic negroes of America are always light-handed and adroit.  The nature of an American car is no doubt known to all men.  It looks as far removed from all bed-room accommodation as the baker’s barrow does from the steam engine into which it is to be converted by Harlequin’s wand.  But the negro goes to work much more quietly than the Harlequin; and for every four seats in the railway car he builds up four beds almost as quickly as the hero of the pantomime goes through his performance.  The great glory of the Americans is in their wondrous contrivances—­ in their patent remedies for the usually troublous operations of life.  In their huge hotels all the bell ropes of each house ring on one bell only; but a patent indicator discloses a number, and the whereabouts of the ringer is shown.  One fire heats every room, passage, hall, and cupboard, and does it so effectually that the inhabitants are all but stifled.  Soda-water bottles open themselves without any trouble of wire or strings.  Men and women go up and down stairs without motive power of their own.  Hot and cold water are laid on to all the chambers; though it sometimes happens that the water from both taps is boiling, and that, when once turned on, it cannot be turned off again by any human energy.  Everything is done by a new and wonderful patent contrivance; and of all their wonderful contrivances, that of their railroad beds is by no means the least.  For every four seats the negro builds up four beds—­that is, four half beds, or accommodation for four persons.  Two are supposed to be below, on the level of the ordinary four seats, and two up above on shelves which are let down from the roof.  Mattresses slip out from one nook and pillows from another.  Blankets are added, and the bed is ready.  Any over-particular individual—­an islander, for instance, who hugs his chains—­will generally prefer to pay the dollar for the double accommodation.  Looking at the bed in the light of a bed—­taking, as it were, an abstract view of it—­or comparing it with some other bed or beds with which the occupant may have acquaintance, I cannot say that it is in all respects perfect.  But distances are long in America; and he who declines to travel by night will lose very much time.  He who does so travel will find the railway bed a great relief.  I must confess that the feeling of dirt, on the following morning, is rather oppressive.