James Fowler Rusling, Across America; Or, The Great West and the Pacific Coast
“ It was the very luxury of travel—the very poetry of locomotion. Sometimes I would lie for hours on deck, breathing in the balmy air, watching the gulls and frigate-birds as they hovered in our wake, or gazing on far-off hill and mountain, as the shore opened up before us—losing all sense of thought and action, content solely with being. Even novel-reading sometimes seemed a task, and writing a great burden. ”
