The Nation: Mournful Whistles

In an almost literal sense, it was the railroad tie that bound the nation together—trains pumping commerce across the vast continental expanse, rattling and mournfully whistling through the prairie or small-town American nights with the promise of escape to the cities, of traveling on. For generations of Americans, the rhythm of trains has been part of their national memory, the clickety-clack of long journeys, the special sense of desolate silence that overwhelms the countryside when a train passes and disappears.

Last week, in an effort to turn the railroad into a modern if diminished mode of travel, the National Railroad Passenger Corp., called Amtrak, began its service. In the interests of efficiency, Amtrak eliminated nearly 200 trains. Among the casualties were some that had become legendary—the Wabash Cannonball from St. Louis to Detroit, the Capitol Limited from Washington to Chicago, the Nancy Hanks II from Savannah to Atlanta. Dozens of other great trains, such as the Twentieth Century Limited and the Phoebe Snow between Hoboken, N.J., and Chicago, had already vanished. What remains of rail service may become better than ever, as Amtrak promises rather unconvincingly, but the special mythic quality has been lost on the wind with the vanished steamers.