No account of its first beginnings would, however, be complete for our
time, which did not also give an idea of the impressions produced on one
travelling over it before yet the novelty of the thing had quite worn
away. It was a long time, comparatively, after September, 1830, before
the men who had made a trip over the railroad ceased to be objects of
deep curiosity. Here is the account of his experience by one of these
far-travelled men, with all its freshness still lingering about it:—
“Although the whole passage between Liverpool and Manchester is a series
of enchantments, surpassing any in the Arabian Nights, because they are
realities, not fictions, yet there are epochs in the transit which are
peculiarly exciting. These are the startings, the ascents, the descents,
the tunnels, the Chat Moss, the meetings. At the instant of starting, or
rather before, the automaton belches forth an explosion of steam, and
seems for a second or two quiescent. But quickly the explosions are
reiterated, with shorter and shorter intervals, till they become too
rapid to be counted, though still distinct. These belchings or
explosions more nearly resemble the pantings of a lion or tiger, than any
sound that has ever vibrated on my ear. During the ascent they become
slower and slower, till the automaton actually labours like an animal out
of breath, from the tremendous efforts to gain the highest point of
elevation. The progression is proportionate; and before the said point
is gained, the train is not moving faster than a horse can pace. With
the slow motion of the mighty and animated machine, the breathing becomes
more laborious, the growl more distinct, till at length the animal
appears exhausted and groans like the tiger, when overpowered in combat
by the buffalo.
“The moment that the height is reached and the descent commences, the
pantings rapidly increase; the engine with its train starts off with
augmenting velocity; and in a few seconds it is flying down the declivity
like lightning, and with a uniform growl or roar, like a continuous
discharge of distant artillery.
“At this period, the whole train is going at the rate of thirty-five or
forty miles an hour! I was on the outside, and in front of the first
carriage, just over the engine. The scene was magnificent, I had almost
said terrific. Although it was a dead calm the wind appeared to be
blowing a hurricane, such was the velocity with which we darted through
the air. Yet all was steady; and there was something in the precision of
the machinery that inspired a degree of confidence over fear—of safety
over danger. A man may travel from the Pole to the Equator, from the
Straits of Malacca to the Isthmus of Darien, and he will see nothing so
astonishing as this. The pangs of Etna and Vesuvius excite feelings of
horror as well as of terror; the convulsion of the elements during a
thunderstorm carries with it nothing but pride, much less of pleasure, to
counteract the awe inspired by the fearful workings of perturbed nature;
but the scene which is here presented, and which I cannot adequately
describe, engenders a proud consciousness of superiority in human
ingenuity, more intense and convincing than any effort or product of the
poet, the painter, the philosopher, or the divine. The projections or
transits of the train through the tunnels or arches are very
electrifying. The deafening peal of thunder, the sudden immersion in
gloom, and the clash of reverberated sounds in confined space combine to
produce a momentary shudder or idea of destruction—a thrill of
annihilation, which is instantly dispelled on emerging into the cheerful
light.
“The meetings or crossings of the steam trains flying in opposite
directions are scarcely less agitating to the nerves than their transits
through the tunnels. The velocity of their course, the propinquity or
apparent identity of the iron orbits along which these meteors move, call
forth the involuntary but fearful thought of a possible collision, with
all its horrible consequences. The period of suspense, however, though
exquisitely painful, is but momentary; and in a few seconds the object of
terror is far out of sight behind.
“Nor is the rapid passage across Chat Moss unworthy of notice. The
ingenuity with which two narrow rods of iron are made to bear whole
trains of wagons, laden with many hundred tons of commerce, and bounding
across a wide, semi-fluid morass, previously impassable by man or beast,
is beyond all praise and deserving of eternal record. Only conceive a
slender bridge of two minute iron rails, several miles in length, level
as Waterloo, elastic as whalebone, yet firm as adamant! Along this
splendid triumph of human genius—this veritable _via triumphalis_—the
train of carriages bounds with the velocity of the stricken deer; the
vibrations of the resilient moss causing the ponderous engine and its
enormous suite to glide along the surface of an extensive quagmire as
safely as a practiced skater skims the icy mirror of a frozen lake.
“The first class or train is the most fashionable, but the second or
third are the most amusing. I travelled one day from Liverpool to
Manchester in the lumber train. Many of the carriages were occupied by
the swinish multitude, and others by a multitude of swine. These last
were naturally vociferous if not eloquent. It is evident that the other
passengers would have been considerably annoyed by the orators of this
last group, had there not been stationed in each carriage an officer
somewhat analogous to the Usher of the Black Rod, but whose designation
on the railroad I found to be ‘Comptroller of the Gammon.’ No sooner did
one of the long-faced gentlemen raise his note too high, or wag his jaw
too long, than the ‘Comptroller of the Gammon’ gave him a whack over the
snout with the butt end of his shillelagh; a snubber which never failed
to stop his oratory for the remainder of the journey.”
To one familiar with the history of railroad legislation the last
paragraph is peculiarly significant. For years after the railroad system
was inaugurated, and until legislation was invoked to compel something
better, the companies persisted in carrying passengers of the third class
in uncovered carriages, exposed to all weather, and with no more
decencies or comforts than were accorded to swine.