Chapter VIII: Part 8

The English “navvy” sat himself down on the very same piece of timber—took his pit-cap off his head—slowly wiped with it the perspiration from his hair and face—and then, looking for some seconds into the hole or shaft close beside him through which he had been lifted, as if he were calculating the number of cubic yards that had been excavated, he quite coolly, in broad Lancashire dialect, said to the crowd of French and English who were staring at him, as children and nursery-maids in our London Zoological Gardens stand gazing half-terrified at the white bear, “YAW’VE BEAN A DARMNATION SHORT TOIME ABAAOWT IT!”

Sir F. Head’s _Stokers and Pokers_.

REMARKABLE ACCIDENT.

The most remarkable railway accident on record happened some years ago on the North-Western road between London and Liverpool. A gentleman and his wife were travelling in a compartment alone, when—the train going at the rate of forty miles an hour—an iron rail projecting from a car on a side-track cut into the carriage and took the head of the lady clear off, and rolled it into the husband’s lap. He subsequently sued the company for damages, and created great surprise in court by giving his age at thirty-six years, although his hair was snow white. It had been turned from jet black by the horror of that event.

ENGINEERING LOAN, OR STAKING OUT A RAILWAY.

“Beau” Caldwell was a sporting genius of an extremely versatile character. Like all his fraternity, he was possessed of a pliancy of adaptation to circumstances that enabled him to succumb with true philosophy to misfortunes, and also to grace the more exalted sphere of prosperity with that natural ease attributed to gentlemen with bloated bank accounts.

Fertile in ingenuity and resources, Beau was rarely at his wit’s end for that nest egg of the gambler, a stake. His providence, when in luck, was such as to keep him continually on the _qui vive_ for a nucleus to build upon.

Beau, having exhausted the pockets and liberality of his contemporaries in Charleston, S.C., was constrained to “pitch his tent” in fresh pastures. He therefore selected Abbeville, whither he was immediately expedited by the agency of a “free pass.”

Snugly ensconced in his hotel, Beau ruminated over the means to raise the “plate.” The bar-keeper was assailed, but he was discovered to have scruples (anomalous barkeeper!) The landlord was a “grum wretch,” with no soul for speculation. The cornered “sport” was finally reduced to the alternative of “confidence of operation.” Having arranged his scheme, he rented him a precious negro boy, and borrowed an old theodolite. Thus equipped, Beau betook himself to the abode of a neighbouring planter, notorious for his wealth, obstinacy, and ignorance. Operations were commenced by sending the nigger into the planter’s barn-yard with a flagpole. Beau got himself up into a charming tableau, directly in front of the house. He now roared at the top of his voice, “72,000,000—51—8—11.”

After which he went to driving small stakes, in a very promiscuous manner, about the premises.

The planter hearing the shouting, and curious to ascertain the cause, put his head out of the window.

“Now,” said Beau, again assuming his civil engineering _pose_, “go to the right a little further—there, that’ll do. 47,000—92—5.”

“What the d---l are you doing in my barn-yard?” roared the planter.

Beau would not consent to answer this interrogation, but pursuing his business, hallooed out to his “nigger”—

“Now go to the house, place your pole against the kitchen door, higher—stop at that. 86—45—6.”

“I say there,” again vociferated the planter, “get out of my yard.”

“I’m afraid we will have to go right through the house,” soliloquized Beau.

“I’m d--d if you do,” exclaimed the planter.

Beau now looked up for the first time, accosting the planter with a courteous—

“Good day, sir.”

“Good d---l, sir; you are committing a trespass.”

“My dear friend,” replied Beau, “public duty, imperative—no trespass—surveying railroad—State job—your house in the way. Must take off one corner, sir,—the kitchen part—least value—leave the parlour—delightful room to see the cars rush by twelve times a day—make you accessible to market.”

Beau, turning to the nigger, cried out—

“Put the pole against the kitchen door again—so, 85.”

“I say, stranger,” interrupted the planter, “I guess you ain’t dined. As dinner’s up, suppose you come in, and we’ll talk the matter over.”

Beau, delighted with the proposition, immediately acceded, not having tasted cooked provisions that day.

“Now,” said the planter, while Beau was paying marked attention to a young turkey, “it’s mighty inconvenient to have one’s homestead smashed up, without so much as asking the liberty. And more than that, if there’s law to be had, it shan’t be did either.”

“Pooh! nonsense, my dear friend,” replied Beau, “it’s the law that says the railroad must be laid through kitchens. Why, we have gone through seventeen kitchens and eight parlours in the last eight miles—people don’t like it, but then it’s law, and there’s no alternative, except the party persuades the surveyor to move a little to the left, and as curves costs money most folks let it go through the kitchen.”

“Cost something, eh?” said the planter, eagerly catching at the bait thrown out for him. “Would not mind a trifle. You see I don’t oppose the road, but if you’ll turn to the left and it won’t be much expense, why I’ll stand it.”

“Let me see,” said Beau, counting his fingers, “forty and forty is eighty, and one hundred. Yes, two hundred dollars will do it.” Unrolling a large map, intersected with lines running in every direction, he continued—“There is your house, and here’s the road. Air line. You see to move to the left we must excavate this hill. As we are desirous of retaining the goodwill of parties residing on the route, I’ll agree on the part of the company to secure the alteration, and prevent your house from being molested.”

The planter revolved the matter in his mind for a moment and exclaimed:—

“You’ll guarantee the alteration?”

“Give a written document.”

“Then it’s a bargain.”

The planter without more delay gave Beau an order on his city factor for the stipulated sum, and received in exchange a written document, guaranteeing the freedom of the kitchen from any encroachment by the C. L. R. R. Co.

Before leaving, Beau took the planter on one side and requested him not to disclose their bargain until after the railroad was built.

“You see, it mightn’t exactly suit the views of some people—partiality, you know.”

The last remark, accompanied by a suggestive wink, was returned by the planter in a similar demonstration of _owlishness_.

Beau resumed his theodolite, drove a few stakes on the hill opposite, and proceeded onward in the fulfilment of his duties. As his light figure receded into obscurity and the distance, the planter caught a sound vastly like 40—40—120—200.—And that was the last he ever heard of the railroad.

_Appleton’s American Railway Anecdote Book_.

MR. FRANK BUCKLAND’S FIRST RAILWAY JOURNEY.

Mr. Spencer Walpole remarks:—“Of Mr. Buckland’s Christ Church days many good stories are told. Almost every one has heard of the bear which he kept at his rooms, of its misdemeanours, and its rustication. Less familiar, perhaps, is the story of his first journey by the Great Western. The dons, alarmed at the possible consequences of a railway to London, would not allow Brunel to bring the line nearer than to Didcot. Dean Buckland in vain protested against the folly of this decision, and the line was kept out of harm’s way at Didcot. But, the very day on which it was opened, Mr. Frank Buckland, with one or two other undergraduates, drove over to Didcot, travelled up to London, and returned in time to fulfil all the regulations of the university. The Dean, who was probably not altogether displeased at the joke, told the story to his friends who had prided themselves in keeping the line from Oxford. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘you have deprived us of the advantage of a railway, and my son has been up to London.’”

SCENE BEFORE A SUB-COMMITTEE ON STANDING ORDERS. PETITIONING AGAINST A RAILWAY BILL, 1846.

“Well, Snooks,” began the Agent for the Promoters, in cross-examination, “you signed the petition against the Bill—aye?”

“Yees, zur. I zined summit, zur.”

“But that petition—did you sign that petition?”

“I do’ant nar, zur; I zined zummit, zur.”

“But don’t you know the contents of the petition?”

“The what, zur?”

“The contents; what’s in it.”

“Oa! Noa, zur.”

“You don’t know what’s in the petition!—Why, ain’t you the petitioner himself?”

“Noa, zur, I doan’t nar that I be, zur.”

[“Snooks! Snooks! Snooks!” issued a voice from a stout and benevolent-looking elderly gentleman from behind, “how can you say so, Snooks? It’s your petition.” The prompting, however, seemed to produce but little impression upon him for whom it was intended, whatever effect it may have had upon the minds of those whose ears it reached, but for whose service it was not intended].

“Really, Mr. Chairman,” observed the Agent for the Bill, who appeared to have no idea of _Burking_ the inquiry, “this is growing interesting.”

“The interest is all on your side,” remarked the Agent for the petition (against the Bill).

“Now, Snooks,” continued the Agent for the Bill, “apply your mind to the questions I shall put to you, and let me caution you to reply to them truly and honestly. Now, tell me—who got you to sign this petition?”

“I object to the question,” interposed the Agent for the petition. “The matter altogether is descending into mean, trivial, and unnecessary details, which I am surprised my friend opposite should attempt to trouble the Committee with.”

“I can readily understand, sir,” replied the other, “why my friend is so anxious to get rid of this inquiry—simple and short as it will be; but I trust, sir, that you will consider it of sufficient importance to allow it to proceed. I purpose to put only a few questions more on this extraordinary petition against the Bill (the bare meaning of the name of which the petitioner does not seem to understand) for the purpose of eliciting some further information respecting it.”

The Committee being thus appealed to by both parties, inclined their heads for a few moments in order to facilitate a communication in whispers, and then decided that the inquiry might proceed. It was evident that the matter had excited an interest in the minds and breasts of the honourable members of the Committee; created as much perhaps by the extreme mean and poverty-stricken appearance of the witness—a miserable, dirty, and decrepit old man—as by the disclosures he had already made.

“Well, Snooks, I was about to ask you (when my friend interrupted me) who got you to sign the petition, or that zummit as you call it?”

“Some genelmen, zur.”

“Who were they—do you know their names?”

“Noa, zur, co’ant say I do nar ’em a’, zur.”

“But do you know any of them, was that gentleman behind you one?”

[The gentleman referred to was the fine benevolent-looking individual who had previously kindly endeavoured to assist the witness in his answers, and who stood the present scrutiny with marked composure and complaisance].

“Yees, zur, he war one on ’em.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Noa, zur, I doant; but he be one of the railway genelmen.”

“What did he say to you, when he requested you to sign the petition?”

“He said I ware to zine (pointing to the petition) that zummit.”

“When and where, pray, did you sign it?”

“A lot o’ railway genelmen kum to me on Sunday night last; and they wo’ make me do it, zur.”

“On Sunday night last, aye!”

“What, on Sunday night!” exclaimed one honourable member on the extreme right of the Chairman, with horror depicted on his countenance; “are you sure, witness, that it was done in the evening of a Sabbath?”

“The honourable member asks you, whether you are certain that you were called upon by the railway gentlemen to sign the petition on a Sunday evening? I think you told me last Sunday evening.”

“Oa, yees, zur; they kum just as we war a garing to chapel.”

“Disgraceful, and wrong in the extreme!” ejaculated the honourable member.

“And did not that gentleman” (continued the Agent for the Bill), “nor any of the railway gentlemen, as you call them, when they requested you to sign, explain the nature and contents of the petition?”

“Noa, zur.”

“Then you don’t know at this moment what it’s for?”

“Noa, zur.”

“Of course, therefore, it’s not your petition as set forth?”

“I doant nar, zur. I zined zummit.”

“Now, answer me, do you object to this line of railway? Have you any dislike to it?”

“O, noa, zur. I shud loak to zee it kum.”

“Exactly, you should like to see it made. So you have been led to petition against it, though you are favourable to it?”

The petitioner against the Bill did not appear to comprehend the precise drift of the remark, and his only reply to the wordy fix into which the learned agent had drawn him was made in the dumb-show of scratching with his one disengaged hand (the other being employed in holding his hat) his uncombed head—an operation that created much laughter, which was not damped by the Agent’s putting, with a serious face, a concluding question or remark to him to the effect that he presumed he (the witness) had not paid, or engaged to pay, so many guineas a day to his friend on the other side for the prosecution of the opposition against the Bill—had he; yes, or no? The witness’s appearance was the only and best answer.

The petition, of course, upon this _exposé_, was withdrawn.

This, the substance of what actually took place before one of the Sub-Committees on Standing orders will give some idea of the nature of many of the petitions against Railway Bills, especially on technical points. It will serve to show in some measure what heartless mockeries these petitions mostly are; the moral evils they give birth to—and that, even while complaining of errors, they are themselves made up of falsehood.

AN IDEA ON RAILWAYS.

A happy comment on the annihilation of time and space by locomotive agency, is as follows:—A little child who rode fifty miles in a railway train, and then took a coach to her uncle’s house, some five miles further, was asked on her arrival if she came by the cars. “We came a little way in the cars, and all the rest of the way in a carriage.”

BURNING THE ROAD CLEAR.

It is related of Colonel Thomas A. Scott, that on one occasion, when making one of his swift trips over the American lines under his control, his train was stopped by the wreck of a goods train. There was a dozen heavily loaded covered trucks piled up on the road, and it would take a long time to get help from the nearest accessible point, and probably hours more to get the track cleared by mere force of labour. He surveyed the difficulty, made a rough calculation of the cost of a total destruction of the freight, and promptly made up his mind to burn the road clear. By the time the relief train came the flames had done their work and nothing remained but to patch up a few injuries done to the track so as to enable him to pursue his way.

HARSH TREATMENT OF A MAN OF COLOUR.

My treatment in the use of public conveyances about these times was extremely rough, especially on “The Eastern Railroad,” from Boston to Portland. On the road, as on many others, there was a mean, dirty, and uncomfortable car set apart for coloured travellers, called the “Jim Crow” car. Regarding this as the fruit of slaveholding prejudice, and being determined to fight the spirit of slavery wherever I might find it, I resolved to avoid this car, though it sometimes required some courage to do so. The coloured people generally accepted the situation, and complained of me as making matters worse rather than better, by refusing to submit to this proscription. I, however, persisted, and sometimes was soundly beaten by the conductor and brakeman. On one occasion, six of these “fellows of the baser sort,” under the direction of the conductor, set out to eject me from my seat. As usual, I had purchased a first-class ticket, and paid the required sum for it, and on the requirement of the conductor to leave, refused to do so, when he called on these men “to snake me out.” They attempted to obey with an air which plainly told me they relished the job. They, however, found me _much attached_ to my seat, and in removing me tore away two or three of the surrounding ones, on which I held with a firm grasp, and did the car no service in some respects. I was strong and muscular, and the seats were not then so firmly attached or of as solid make as now. The result was that Stephen A. Chase, superintendent of the road, ordered all passenger trains to pass through Lynn, where I then lived, without stopping. This was a great inconvenience to the people, large numbers of whom did business in Boston, and at other points of the road. Led on, however, by James N. Buffum, Jonathon Buffum, Christopher Robinson, William Bassett, and others, the people of Lynn stood bravely by me, and denounced the railway management in emphatic terms. Mr. Chase made reply that a railroad corporation was neither a religious nor a reformatory body; and that the road was run for the accommodation of the public; and that it required the exclusion of the coloured people from its cars. With an air of triumph he told us that we ought not to expect a railroad company to be better than the Evangelical Church, and that until the churches abolished the “negro pew,” we ought not to expect the railroad company to abolish the negro car. This argument was certainly good enough as against the Church, but good for nothing as against the demands of justice and equity. My old and dear friend, J. N. Buffum, made a point against the company that they “often allowed dogs and monkeys to ride in first-class cars, and yet excluded a man like Frederick Douglass!” In a very few years this barbarous practice was put away, and I think there have been no instances of such exclusion during the past thirty years; and coloured people now, everywhere in New England, ride upon equal terms with other passengers.

—_Life and Times of Frederick Douglass_.

QUITE TOO CLEVER

The elder Dumas was at the railway station, just starting to join his yacht at Marseilles. Several friends had accompanied him, to say good-bye. Suddenly he was informed that he had a hundred and fifty kilogrammes excess of luggage. “Ho, ho!” cried Dumas. “How many kilogrammes are allowed?” “Thirty for each person,” was the reply. Silently he made a mental calculation, and then in a tone of triumph bade his secretary take places for five. “In that way,” he explained, “we shall have no excess.”

A DIFFICULTY SOLVED.

Among the improvements that have been carried out at Windsor during the autumn, has been an entire alteration in the draining of the Home Park about Frogmore. New drains have been laid, and the waste earth has been used to level the ground. This portion of the Royal domain was almost wild at the beginning of the present reign. It consisted of fields, with low hedges and deep ditches, and was intersected by a road, on which stood several cottages and a public-house. It was quite an eyesore, and Prince Albert was at his wit’s end to know how to convert it into a park and exclude the public, as before this could be done, it was necessary to make a new road in place of the one it was desired to abolish, and altogether a large outlay was inevitable; and even in those days, it was out of the question to apply to Parliament for the amount required, which, I believe, was about £80,000.

The difficulty, however, was solved in rather a strange way. In the early days of railroads they were looked upon as nuisances, and the authorities at Windsor Castle were firmly resolved that no line should approach the Royal borough, in which resolution they were warmly supported by the equally stupid and short-sighted managers of Eton College. Although the inhabitants sighed for a railway, none was brought nearer than Slough. At this moment, when the park question was being agitated, the South Western Directors brought forward a proposition that they should make a line into Windsor, running along one side of the Home Park, and right under the Castle. This audacious idea was regarded with indignation at the Castle, until a hint was received that possibly, if Royal interest were forthcoming to support the plan, the Company might be able to facilitate the proposed alterations; and it then came out, strangely enough, they had fixed the precise sum needed (£80,000) as compensation for the disturbance of the Royal property. No more was heard of the objections to the scheme, which had been so vehemently denounced a few days before, but, no sooner did it transpire that the South-Western plan was not opposed by the Castle interest than down came the Great-Western authorities in a fever of indignation, for it appeared they had received an explicit promise that, if Windsor was ever desecrated by a railway, they should have the preference. So resolute was their attitude, that so far as I remember, the sitting of Parliament was actually protracted in order that their Bill might be passed; not that they got it without paying, for they gave £20,000 for an old stable and yard which were required for their station, and which happened to stand on Crown property. Things were sometimes managed strangely enough in those days.

—_Truth_, Dec. 29, 1881.

AN EXACTING LADY.

A lady of fashion with a pugdog and a husband entered the train at Paddington the other day. There were in the carriage but two persons, a well-known Professor and his wife; yet the lady of fashion coveted, not indeed his chair, but his seat. “I wish to sit by the window, sir,” she said, imperiously, and he had to move accordingly. “No, sir, that won’t do,” she said, as he meekly took the next place. “I can’t have a stranger sitting close to me. My husband must sit where you are.”

_Gentleman’s Magazine_.

AMERICAN PATIENCE AND IMPERTURBABILITY.

About an hour after midnight, on our journey from Boston to Albany, we came to a sudden pause where no station was visible; and immediately, very much to my surprise, the engine-driver, conductor, and several passengers were seen sallying forth with lanterns, and hastening down the embankment on our right. “What are they going to do now?” said I to a gentleman, who, like myself, kept his seat. “Only to take a look at some cars that were smashed this morning,” was the reply. On opening the window to observe the state of affairs, as well as the darkness would allow, there, to be sure, at the bottom and along the side of the high bank, lay an unhappy train, just as it had been upset. The locomotive on its side was partly buried in the earth; and the cars which had followed it in its descent lay in a confused heap behind. On the top of the bank, near to us, the last car of all stood obliquely on end, with its hind wheels in the air in a somewhat grotesque and threatening attitude. All was now still and silent. The killed and wounded, if there were any, had been removed. No living thing was visible but the errant engineer and others from our train clambering with lanterns in their hands over a prostrate wreck, and with heedless levity passing critical remarks on the catastrophe. Curiosity being satisfied all resumed their places, and the train moved on without a murmur of complaint as to the unnecessary, and, considering the hour, very undesirable delay. I allude to the circumstance, as one of a variety of facts that fell within my observation, illustrative of the singular degree of patience and imperturbability with which railway travellers in America submit uncomplainingly to all sorts of detentions on their journey.

_Things as they are in America_, by W. Chambers, 1853.

A WIDE-AWAKE CONDUCTOR.

Dana Krum, one of the conductors on the Erie Railway, was approached before train time by an unknown man, who spoke to him as if he had known him for years. “I say, Dana,” said he, “I have forgotten my pass, and I want to go to Susquehanna; I am a fireman on the road, you know.” But the conductor told him he ought to have a pass with him. It was the safest way. Pretty soon, Dana came along to collect tickets. Seeing his man, he spoke when he reached him. “Say, my friend, have you got the time with you?” “Yes,” said he, as he pulled out a watch, “it is twenty minutes past nine.” “Oh, it is, is it? Now, if you don’t show me your pass or fare, I will stop the train. There is no railway man that I ever saw who would say ‘Twenty minutes past nine.’ He would say, ‘Nine-twenty.’” He settled.

A KID-GLOVED SAMSON.

A correspondent of the _Chicago Journal_ relates the following feat of strength, to which he was witness:—

“On Sunday, about nine o’clock A.M., as the train westward was within three or four miles of Chicago, on the Fort Wayne road, a horse was discovered on the stilt-work between the rails. The train was stopped, and workmen were sent to clear the track. It was then discovered that the body of the horse was resting on the sleepers. His legs having passed through the open spaces, were too short to reach the ground. Boards and rails were brought, and the open space in front of the horse filled up, making a plank road for him in case he should be got up, and by means of ropes one of his fore feet was raised, and there matters came to a halt. It seemed that no strength or stratagem could avail to release the animal. Levers of boards were splintered, and the men tugged at the ropes in vain, when a passenger, who was looking quietly on, stepped forward, leisurely slipped off a pair of tinted kids, seized the horse by the tail, and with tremendous force hurled him forward on the plank road. No one assisted, and, indeed, the whole thing was done so quickly that assistance was impossible. The horse walked away looking foolish, and casting suspicious side-glances towards his caudal extremity. The lookers-on laughed and shouted, while the stranger resumed his kids, muttering something about the inconvenience of railway delays, lit a cigar, and walked slowly into the smoking car. He was finely formed, of muscular appearance, was very fashionably dressed, wore a moustache and whiskers of an auburn or reddish colour, and to all questions as to who he was, only answered that he was a Pennsylvanian travelling westward for his health. The horse would certainly weigh at least twelve hundred.”

A RAILWAY TRAIN TURNED INTO A MAN-TRAP.

A branch of the Bombay presidency runs through a wild region, the inhabitants of which are unsophisticated savages, addicted to thievery. The first day the line was opened a number of these Arcadians conspired to intercept the train, and have a glorious loot. To accomplish their object they placed some trunks of trees across the rails; but the engine driver, keeping a very sharp look out, as it happened to be his first trip on the line in question, descried the trunks while yet they were at a considerable distance from him. The breaks were then put on, and when the locomotive had approached within a couple of feet of the trunks it was brought to a standstill. Then, instantaneously, like Roderick Dhu’s clansmen starting from the heather, natives, previously invisible, swarmed up on all sides, and, crowding into the carriages, began to pillage and plunder everything they could lay their hands upon. While they were thus engaged, the guard gave the signal to the driver, who at once reversed his engine and put it to the top of its speed. The reader may judge of the consternation of the robbers when they found themselves whirled backwards at a pace that rendered escape impossible. Some poor fellows that attempted it were killed on the spot.

—_Central India Times_, June 22, 1867.

THE RULING OCCUPATION STRONG ON SUNDAY.

In an Episcopal church in the north, not one hundred miles from Keith, a porter employed during the week at the railway station, does duty on Sunday by blowing the bellows of the organ. The other Sunday, wearied by the long hours of railway attendance, combined, it may be, with the soporific effects of a dull sermon, he fell sound asleep during the service, and so remained when the pealing of the organ was required. He was suddenly and rather rudely awakened by another official when apparently dreaming of an approaching train, as he started to his feet and roared out, with all the force and shrillness of stentorian lungs and habit, “Change here for Elgin, Lossiemouth, and Burghead.” The effect upon the congregation, sitting in expectation of a concord of sweet sounds, may be imagined—it is unnecessary to describe it.

—_Dumfries Courier_, 1866.

THE GOOD THINGS OF RAILWAY ACCIDENTS.

We have always thought that, except to lawyers and railway carriage and locomotive builders, railway accidents were great misfortunes, but it is evident we were wrong and we hasten to acknowledge our error. Speaking on Thursday with a respectable broker about the heavy damages (£2,000) given the day before on account of the Tottenham accident against the Eastern Counties Company in the Court of Exchequer, he observed, “It is rather good when these things happen as it moves the stock. I have had an order for some days to buy Eastern Counties at 56 and could not do it, but this verdict has sent them down one per cent., and enabled me now to buy it.” With all our railway experience we never dreamt of such a benefit as this accruing from railway accidents, but it is evidently among the possibilities.

—_Herepath’s Railway Journal_, June 7th, 1860.

BENEFICIAL EFFECT OF A RAILWAY ACCIDENT.

A gentleman who was in a railway collision in 1869, wrote to the _Times_ in November of that year. After stating that he had been threatened with a violent attack of rheumatic fever; in fact, he observed, “my condition so alarmed me, and my dread of a sojourn in a Manchester hotel bed for two or three months was so great, that I resolved to make a bold sortie and, well wrapped up, start for London by the 3.30 p.m. Midland fast train. From the time of leaving that station to the time of the collision, my heart was going at express speed; my weak body was in a profuse perspiration; flashes of pain announced that the muscular fibres were under the tyrannical control of rheumatism, and I was almost beside myself with toothache. From the moment of the collision to the present hour no ache, pain, sweat, or tremor has troubled me in the slightest degree, and instead of being, as I expected, and indeed intended, in bed drinking _tinct. aurantii_, or absorbing through my pores oil of horse-chestnut, I am conscientiously bound to be at my office bodily sound. Don’t print my name and address, or the Midland Company may come down upon me for compensation.”

AN EARLY MORNING RIDE TO THE RAILWAY STATION.

In the course of his peregrinations, the railway traveller may find himself in some out-of-the-way place, where no regular vehicle can be obtained to convey him to the station, and this _contretemps_ is aggravated when the time of departure happens to be early in the morning. Captain B—, a man of restless energy and adventurous spirit, emerged early one morning from a hovel in a distant village, where from stress of weather he had been compelled to pass the night. It was just dawn of day, and within an hour of the train he wished to go by would start from the station, about six miles distant. He had with him a portmanteau, which it would be impossible for him to carry within the prescribed time, but which he could not very well leave behind. Pondering on what he should do, his eye lighted on a likely looking horse grazing in a field hard by, while in the next field there was a line extended between two posts, for the purpose of drying clothes upon. The sight of these objects soon suggested the plan for him to adopt. In an instant he detached the line, and then taking a piece of bread from his pocket, coaxed the animal to approach him. Captain B— was an adept in the management of horses, and as a rough rider, perhaps, had no equal. In a few seconds he had, by the aid of a portion of the line, arranged his portmanteau pannier-wise across the horse’s back, and forming a bridle with the remaining portion of the line, he led his steed into the lane, and sprang upon his back. The horse rather relished the trip than otherwise, and what with the unaccustomed burden, and the consciousness that he was being steered by a knowing hand, he sped onwards at a terrific pace. While in mid career, one of the mounted police espied the captain coming along the road at a distance; recognizing the horse, but not knowing the rider, and noticing also the portmanteau, and the uncouth equipment, this rural guardian of the peace came to the conclusion that this was a case of robbery and horse stealing; and as the captain neared him, he endeavoured to stop him, and stretched forth his hand to seize the improvised bridle, but the gallant equestrian laughed to scorn the impotent attempt, and shook him off, and shot by him. Thus foiled, the policeman had nothing to do than to give chase; so turning his horse’s head he followed in full cry. The clatter and shouts of pursuer and pursued brought forth the inhabitants of the cottages as they passed, and many of these joined in the chase. Never since Turpin’s ride to York, or Johnny Gilpin’s ride to Edmonton, had there been such a commotion caused by an equestrian performance. To make a long story short, the captain reached the station in ample time; an explanation ensued; a handsome apology was tendered to the patrol, and a present equally handsome was forwarded, together with the abstracted property, to the joint owner of the horse and the clothes-line.

CHEAP FARES.

In the year 1868, Mr. Raphael Brandon brought out a book called _Railways and the Public_. In it he proposes that the railways should be purchased and worked by the government; and that passengers, like letters, should travel any distance at a fixed charge. He calculates that a threepenny stamp for third-class, a sixpenny stamp for second-class, and a shilling stamp for first-class, should take a passenger any distance whether long or short. With the adoption of the scheme, he believes, such an impetus would be given to passenger traffic that the returns would amount to more than double what they are at present. There may be flaws in Mr. Brandon’s theory, yet it may be within the bounds of possibility that some great innovator may rise up and do for the travelling public by way of organization what Sir Rowland Hill has done for the postage of the country by the penny stamp.

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO?

The above question was asked by a man of his friend who had been injured in a railway accident, “I am first going in for repairs, and then for _damages_,” was the answer.

REPROOF FOR SWEARING.

The manager of one of the great Indian railways, in addressing a European subordinate given to indulge in needless strong language, wrote as follows:—“Dear sir, it is with extreme regret that I have to bring to your notice that I observed very unprofessional conduct on your part this morning when making a trial trip. I allude to the abusive language you used to the drivers and others. This I consider an unwarrantable assumption of my duties and functions, and, I may say, rights and privileges. Should you wish to abuse any of our employés, I think it will be best in future to do so in regular form, and I beg to point out what I consider this to be. You will please to submit to me, in writing, the form of oath you wish to use, when, if it meets my approval, I shall at once sanction it; but if not, I shall refer the same to the directors; and, in the course of a few weeks, their decision will be known. Perhaps, to save time, it might be as well for you to submit a list of the expletives generally in use by you, and I can then at once refer those to which I object to the directors for their decision. But, pending that, you will please to understand that all cursing and swearing at drivers and others engaged on the traffic arrangements in which you may wish to indulge must be done in writing, and through me. By adopting this course you will perceive how much responsibility you will save yourself, and how very much the business of the company will be expedited, and its interests promoted.”

THE BULLY RIGHTLY SERVED.

In the _Railway Traveller’s Handy Book_, there is an account of an occurrence which took place on the Eastern Counties line:—“A big hulking fellow, with bully written on his face, took his seat in a second-class carriage, and forthwith commenced insulting everybody by his words and gestures. He was asked to desist, but only responded with language more abusive. The guard was then appealed to, who told him to mind what he was about, shut the door, and cried ‘all right.’ Thus encouraged the miscreant continued his disgraceful conduct, and became every moment more outrageous. In one part of the carriage were four farmers sitting who all came from the same neighbourhood, and to whom every part along the line was well known. One of these wrote on a slip of paper these words, ‘Let us souse him in Chuckley Slough.’ This paper was handed from one to the other, and each nodded assent. Now, Chuckley Slough was a pond near one of the railway stations, not very deep, but the waters of which were black, muddy, and somewhat repellent to the olfactory nerves. The station was neared and arrived at; in the meantime the bully’s conduct became worse and worse. As they emerged from the station, one of the farmers, aforesaid, said to the fellow, ‘Now, will you he quiet?’ ‘No, I won’t,’ was the answer. ‘You won’t, won’t you?’ asked a second farmer. ‘You’re determined you won’t?’ inquired a third. ‘You’re certain you won’t?’ asked the fourth. To all of which queries the response was in negatives, with certain inelegant expletives added thereto. ‘Then,’ said the four farmers speaking as one man, and rising in a body, ‘out you go.’ So saying, they seized the giant form of the wretch, who struggled hard to escape but to no purpose; they forced him to the window, and while the train was still travelling at a slow pace, and Chuckley Slough appeared to view, they without more ado thrust the huge carcass through the window, and propelling it forward with some force, landed it exactly in the centre of the black, filthy slough. The mingled cries and oaths of the man were something fearful to hear; his attempts at extrication and incessant slipping still deeper in the mire, something ludicrous to witness; all the passengers watched him with feelings of gratified revenge, and the last that was seen of him was a huge black mass, having no traces of humanity about it, crawling up the bank in a state of utter prostration. In this instance the remedy was rather a violent one; but less active measures had been found to fail, and there can be little doubt that this man took care ever afterwards not to run the risk of a similar punishment by indulging in conduct of a like nature.”

LIABILITY OF COMPANIES FOR DELAY OF TRAINS.

There have been cases where claims have been made and recovered in courts of law for loss arising from delay in the arrival of trains, but the law does not render the company’s liability unlimited. A remarkable case occurred not long since. A Mr. Le Blanche sued the London and North-Western Company for the cost of a special train to Scarborough, which he had ordered in consequence of his being brought from Liverpool to Leeds, too late for the ordinary train from Leeds to Scarborough. A judgment in the county court was given in favour of the applicant.

The railway company appealed to the superior court, and the points raised were argued by able counsel, when the decision of the county court judge was confirmed. The company was determined to put the case to the utmost possible test, and on appealing to the Supreme Court of Judicature the judgment was reversed, the decision being to the effect that, whilst there was some evidence of wilful delay, the measure of damage was wrong.

—_Our Railways_, by Joseph Parsloe.

THE DYING ENGINE DRIVER.

Doubts have been expressed whether our iron ships will ever be regarded in the same affectionate way as “liners” used to be regarded by our “old salts.” It has been supposed that the latest creations of science will not nourish sentiment. The following anecdote shows, however, as romantic an attachment to iron as was ever manifested towards wood. On the Great Western Railway, the broad gauge and the narrow gauge are mixed; the former still existing to the delight of travellers by the “Flying Dutchman,” whatever economical shareholders may have to say to the contrary. The officials who have been longest on the staff also cling to the broad gauge, like faithful royalists to a fast disappearing dynasty. The other day an ancient guard on this line was knocked down and run over by an engine; and though good enough medical attendance was at hand, had skill been of any use, the dying man wished to see “the company’s” doctor. The gentleman, a man much esteemed by all the employés, was accordingly sent for. “I am glad you came to see me start, doctor, (as I hope) by the up-train,” said the poor man. “I am only sorry I can do nothing for you, my good fellow,” answered the other. “I know that; it is all over with me. But there!—I’m glad it was _not one of them narrow-gauge engines that did it_!”

—_Gentleman’s Magazine_.

“DOWN BRAKES,” OR FORCE OF HABIT.

An Illinois captain, lately a railroad conductor, was drilling a squad, and while marching them by flank, turned to speak to a friend for a moment. On looking again toward his squad, he saw they were in the act of “butting up” against a fence. In his hurry to halt them, he cried, “Down brakes! Down brakes!”

TRENT STATION.

This station on the Midland system is often a source of no little perplexity to strangers. Sir Edward Beckett thus humorously describes it:—“You arrive at Trent. Where that is I cannot tell. I suppose it is somewhere near the river Trent, but then the Trent is a very long river. You get out of your train to obtain refreshment, and having taken it, you endeavour to find your train and your carriage. But whether it is on this side or that, and whether it is going north or south, this way or that way, you cannot tell. Bewildered, you frantically rush into your carriage; the train moves off round a curve, and then you are horrified to see some lights glaring in front of you, and you are in immediate expectation of a collision, when your fellow-passenger calms your fears by telling you that they are only the tail lamps of your own train.”

STEEL RAILS.

The first steel rail was made in 1857, by Mushet, at the Ebbw-Vale Iron Co.’s works in South Wales. It was rolled from cast blooms of Bessemer steel and laid down at Derby, England, and remained sixteen years, during which time 250 trains and at least 250 detached engines and tenders passed over it daily. Taking 312 working days in each year, we have the total of 1,252,000 trains and 1,252,000 detached engines and tenders which passed over it from the time it was first laid before it was removed to be worked over.

The substitution of steel for iron, to an extent rendered possible by the Bessemer process, has worked a great and abiding change in the condition of our ways, giving greater endurance both in respect of wear and in resistance to breaking strains and jars.

Two steel rails of twenty-one feet in length were laid on the 2nd of May, 1862, at the Chalk Farm Bridge, side by side with two ordinary rails. After having outlasted sixteen faces of the ordinary rails, the steel ones were taken up and examined, and it was found that at the expiration of three years and three months, the surface was evenly worn to the extent of only a little more than a quarter of an inch, and to all appearance they were capable of enduring a great deal more work. The result of this trial was to induce the London and North Western to enter very extensively into the employment of steel rails.

_Knight’s Dictionary of Mechanics_.

CURIOUS CASUALTY.

Out of three truck loads of cattle on the Great Western Railway two of the animals were struck dead by the lightning on Monday afternoon, July 5, 1852, not very far from Swindon. What renders it remarkable is, that one animal only in each of the two trucks was struck, and five or six animals in each escaped uninjured. The animal killed in one of the trucks was a bull, the cows escaping injury, and in the other truck it was a bull or an ox that was killed.

GEORGE STEPHENSON’S WEDDING PRESENT.

A correspondent, writing to the _Derbyshire Courier_ the week following the Stephenson Centenary celebration at Chesterfield, remarks:—“The other day I met a kindly and venerable gentleman who possesses quite a fund of anecdotes relating to the Stephensons, father and son. It appears we have, or had, relations of old George residing in Derby. Years ago, says my friend, an old gentleman, who by his appearance and carriage was stamped as a man distinguished among his fellow-men, was inquiring on Derby platform for a certain engine-driver in the North Midland or the Birmingham and Derby service, whose name he gave. On the driver being pointed out, the gentleman, with the rough but pleasing north-country burr in his voice, said, after asking his name, “Did you marry —?” “Yes, sir.” “Then she’s my niece, and I hope you’ll make her a good husband. I have not had the chance of giving you a wedding present until now.” Then slipping into his hand a bank note for £50, he talked of other matters. The joy of the engine-driver at receiving so welcome a present was not greater than being recognised and kindly received by his wife’s illustrious uncle, George Stephenson.”

THE POLITE IRISHMAN.

It’s a small matter, but a gentleman always feels angry at himself after he has given up his seat, in a railway car, to a female who lacks the good manners to acknowledge the favour. The following “hint” to the ladies will show that a trifle of politeness properly spread on, often has a happy effect.

The seats were all full, one of which was occupied by a rough-looking Irishman; and at one of the stations a couple of evidently well-bred and intelligent young ladies came in to procure seats, but seeing no vacant ones, were about to go into a back car, when Patrick rose hastily, and offered them his seat, with evident pleasure. “But you will have no seat yourself?” responded one of the young ladies with a smile, hesitating, with true politeness, as to accepting it. “Never ye mind _that_!” said the Hibernian, “ye’r welcome to ’t! I’d ride upon the cow-catcher till New York, any time, for a smile from such _jintlemanly_ ladies;” and retreated hastily to the next car, amid the cheers of those who had witnessed the affair.

AN ENTERTAINING COMPANION.

Once, during a tour in the Western States, writes Mr. Florence, the actor, an incident occurred in which I rather think I played the victim. We were _en route_ from Cleveland to Cincinnati, an eight or ten-hour journey. After seeing my wife comfortably seated, I walked forward to the smoking car, and, taking the only unoccupied place, pulled out my cigar case, and offered a cigar to my next neighbour. He was about sixty years of age, gentlemanly in appearance, and of a somewhat reserved and bashful mien. He gracefully accepted the cigar, and in a few minutes we were engaged in conversation.

“Are you going far west?” I inquired.

“Merely so far as Columbus.” (Columbus, I may explain is the capital of Ohio.) “And you, sir?” he added, interrogatively.

“I am journeying toward Cincinnati. I am a theatrical man, and play there to-morrow night.” I was a young man then, and fond of avowing my profession.

“Oh, indeed! Your face seemed familiar to me as you entered the car. I am confident we have met before.”

“I have acted in almost every State in the Union,” said I. “Mrs. Florence and I are pretty generally known throughout the north-west.”

“Bless me?” said the stranger in surprise, “I have seen you act many times, sir, and the recollection of Mrs. Florence’s ‘Yankee Girl,’ with her quaint songs, is still fresh in my memory.”

“Do you propose remaining long in Columbus?”

“Yes, for seven years,” replied my companion.

Thus we chatted for an hour or two. At length my attention was attracted to a little, red-faced man, with small sharp eyes, who sat immediately opposite us and amused himself by sucking the knob of a large walking stick which he carried caressingly in his hand. He had more than once glanced at me in a knowing manner, and now and then gave a sly wink and shake of the head at me, as much as to say, “Ah, old fellow, I know you, too.”

These attentions were so marked that I finally asked my companion if he had noticed them.

“That poor man acts like a lunatic,” said I, _sotto voce_.

“A poor half-witted fellow, possibly,” replied my fellow-traveller. “In your travels through the country, however, Mr. Florence, you must have often met such strange characters.”

We had now reached Crestline, the dinner station, and, after thanking the stranger for the agreeable way in which he had enabled me to pass the journey up to this point, I asked him if he would join Mrs. Florence and myself at dinner. This produced an extraordinary series of grimaces and winks from the red-faced party aforesaid. The invitation to dinner was politely declined.

The repast over, our train sped on toward Cincinnati. I told my wife that in the smoking car I had met a most entertaining gentleman, who was well posted in theatricals, and was on his way to Columbus. She suggested that I should bring him into our car, and present him to her. I returned to the smoking car and proposed that the gentleman should accompany me to see Mrs. Florence. The proposal made the red-faced man undergo a species of spasmodic convulsions which set the occupants of the car into roars of laughter.

“No, I thank you,” said my friend, “I feel obliged to you for the courtesy, but I prefer the smoking car. Have you another cigar?”

“Yes,” said I, producing another Partaga.

I again sat by his side, and once more our conversation began, and we were quite fraternal. We talked about theatres and theatricals, and then adverted to political economy, the state of the country, finance and commerce in turn, our intimacy evidently affording intense amusement to the foxy-faced party near us.

Finally the shrill sound of the whistle and the entrance of the conductor indicated that we had arrived at Columbus, and the train soon arrived at the station.

“Come,” said the red-faced individual, now rising from his seat and tapping my companion on the shoulder, “This is your station, old man.”

My friend rose with some difficulty, dragging his hitherto concealed feet from under the seat, when, for the first time, I discovered that he was shackled, and was a prisoner in charge of the Sheriff, going for seven years to the state prison at Columbus.

NOVEL ATTACK.

Auxerre, November 15th, 1851.—Last week, at the moment when a railway tender was passing along the line from Saint Florentin to Tonnerre, a wolf boldly leaped upon it and attacked the stoker. The man immediately seized his shovel and repulsed the aggressor, who fell upon the rail and was instantly crushed to pieces.

—_National_.

WOLVES ON A RAILWAY.