open a hole in the floor of my friend Nallin's
shop and show him Erebus, he would believe
it: as for volcanic sunsets and colour feasts
of sunrises, he doesn't see much in them. So
it is with railways. Men see no poetry in
being shot as from a cannon, or passing
from Bath to Bristol, with the speed of a
planet on a tour or a fallen star bent on
pleasure.

Listen, friend of the port-wine countenance
and the redundant stomach!

"O! curse the noise, I want to go to
sleep. Here's the Times; wonderful article
on Palmerston!—great man, Palmerston!—
great age, Palmerston!—great man of a
great age!"

Very well for to sleep. O! snore as thou
wert wont to snore! But know, O! insensate
man, that that sound of the engine is
like the champ and trample of a thousand
horse: it might be Tamerlane riding to conquest;
it might be Alaric thundering at
the gates of Rome.

Dear me, that shutting off steam, do you
know, sir, always suggests to me the sudden
hissing simmer of a piece of cold lard in a
hot frying-pan. It may be I am hungry,
but deuce take me if I thought of anything
else but a tremendous stew in a gigantic pan.
Look out now, friend of the exuberant
bowels, and tell me what thou seest.

"A confounded ugly country and six iron
rails, like six black lines ruled in my ledger."

Behold, then, the vision of the son of faith.
We are gliding on golden rails that the sunset
shines on, and are just about to thread
an arch. When we lean back, and the
great smoke-clouds that roll round us grow
crimson in the sunlight, we shall seem as if
we were in the car of the Indian mythology,
and were gliding away to Paradise.

My friend suggests that I am a Londoner,
and the fresh country air has rather got into
my head.

Insulted at this, I leave him to apoplexy
and the Times newspaper, and at the next
station change to a coupé-carriage close by
the stoker and watch him blaze the red
furnace till it roars again. I mark, when he
opens the door with a sudden, rough hastiness,
the great orange-like flame shine out
upon his Othello-like face, and turn him into
the semblance of a ministering demon. Stirring
up a kettle of stewed stock-brokers in a
purgatory kitchen, I hope to see him roll
in the gig, shingle-like, and turn and twist
the taps as if they were as many organ-keys.

Away with a battling tramp, and scurry,
and whistle, and whiz, we go, past astonished
labourers in green meadows, past telegraph-wires
on which as on interminable washing-houses
sit wry-necked sparrows, who look at
us as we fly past, as much as to say, "that's
an odd sort of bird, but I don't think much
of his plumage;" for critics who praise, have
generally some compensating clause by which
to make up for their moment of good-nature.
Like a white banner flies the engine's smoke,
—and away it rolls—stoops to join the great
white fog that has no wings, and sits and
broods about the damp autumn-fields.
Through dark caves of the tunnels—through
the dull barrennesses of high and bare
embankments we rush with the force of a steam-
catapult or a huge case-shot that is never
spent—like a battering-ram—taking a long
race, for this steam-horse, with fire for blood,
never wearies, never tires. Swift round
curves, and swift up low hills—swift past
village church and park, and farm-house, and
wood—over river—along the moor—through
fat and lean, rich and poor—rock and clay—
meadow and street; for this mad horse never
wearies—never tires.

I try second-class, and find much eating
and much merriment. They are more
easily amused than the more conceited first,
and are less afraid to show their honest
feelings. Perhaps they have more feeling—
who knows? Do they see more of the poetry
of the railroad? are they listening with rapt
ears, gazing with steadfast eyes—not a whit!
No, a gentleman with a brick-red colour on
his high cheek-bone, a hard pincher-mouth,
red hungry whiskers, and a strong whining
Aberdeen accent of, "Dreadful railway accident
near Lewes—fourteen lives lost—list of
sufferers." I look out and wonder at the horizontal
lightning-fashion in which we tore into
the tunnel and dig into the viaduct's doorways.

"First-class, ma'am, this way. No second-class."

"Why did you say first, then?"

"There's the bell!"

"O my box! where's my luggage? Porter!"
—(in a tone of hysterical anguish)—
"give me my box."

"Too late marm—next train at 4.32,—five
hours to wait marm. Waiting-room?—yes,
this way."

That is a lady's ideal of railway-poetry.

"Damp seats! oh dear,—why don't they
wipe the seats? this a carriage—it's a horse-box.
Here, guard! do you call this a
carriage? Infernal line—give me the broad
gauge! Window won't go up. D—n the
window—door won't shut—curse the door!
whish! here's a draught enough to cut your
head off. Guard! what does the company
mean by this draught? Won't let a man
smoke!—give me coach travelling, say I."

That is the commercial gentleman's ideal of
the poetry of railroads.

"O Lor! such a hissing, and squeaking,
and clatter, and then that whistle—like a
devil's baby! O dear, law, it went through
my poor head. And then the getting out at
the wrong station to wait five hours for the
next train. What I say is, Betty, give me a
good jogging market-cart."

That is the country-woman's ideal of railway
poetry.