We cannot help repeating a narrative which we heard on one occasion, told
with infinite gravity by a clergyman whose name we at once inquired
about, and of whom we shall only say, that he is one of the worthiest and
best sons of the kirk, and knows when to be serious as well as when to
jest. “Don’t tell me,” said he to a simple-looking Highland brother, who
had apparently made his first trial of railway travelling in coming up to
the Assembly—“don’t tell me that tunnels on railways are an unmitigated
evil: they serve high moral and æsthetical purposes. Only the other day
I got into a railway carriage, and I had hardly taken my seat, when the
train started. On looking up, I saw sitting opposite to me two of the
most rabid dissenters in Scotland. I felt at once that there could be no
pleasure for me in that journey, and with gloomy heart and countenance I
leaned back in my corner. But all at once we plunged into a deep tunnel,
black as night, and when we emerged at the other end, my brow was clear
and my ill-humour was entirely dissipated. Shall I tell you how this
came to be? All the way through the tunnel I was shaking my fists in the
dissenters’ faces, and making horrible mouths at them, and _that_
relieved me, and set me all right. Don’t speak against tunnels again, my
dear friend.”
—_Fraser’s Magazine_.