attempted to pierce the Hoosac Mountain; but after several years
he abandoned the work, and the whole property of the company was
transferred to the State of Massachusetts. When the state took
possession it began work on its own account, and in 1868 the
legislature appropriated five millions of dollars, and made a contract
with Walter and Francis Shanly, of Canada, for the completion of the
tunnel. They began work in the following March, and there is very
little doubt of their completing the tunnel.
In 1870 I made an excursion up the valley of the Connecticut as far as
Greenfield, and there took the railway train to the Hoosac Mountain.
At the east side or end of the tunnel I abandoned the cars, and took
to a six-horse coach. I managed to obtain a seat near the driver, a
burly, moon-faced fellow, who collected fifty cents extra for the
privilege of riding near him. He treated everybody on the outside as
politely as though he were king of the Cannibal Islands, and we were
his subjects. For downright impudence, with a good deal of rudeness to
the bushel, I will back an American stage-driver against any other man
in the world.
Soon after dinner we drove away from the station, and after the horses
had given us a little circus exhibition on their own account, which
threatened to overturn us and break half a dozen necks, we climbed
slowly up the valley skirting the edge of a forest, whose leaves were
tinged with the varying colors of autumn. Our progress up the eastern
face of the mountain was slow, but when we came down the western side
the case was different. On the upper part of the mountain there is a
long and comparatively level stretch of ground, on which there are
many fine farms, and a general appearance of prosperity. Approaching
the western face of the mountain, we overlooked the flourishing town
of North Adams, and a region of country spread out before us like a
beautiful panorama. I have looked from mountains in many countries,
but rarely have I gazed upon a landscape more beautiful and more
attractive than this. It is not grand—awfully grand—in its character,
like many other landscapes, but there is an air of beauty about it
which makes it charming in the extreme.
The road winds, in a sort of zigzag, down the side of the mountain,
and our horses went at a good speed. The coach swung from side to
side, and the baby of a feminine passenger screamed as if a dozen pins
were being driven an inch or so, into its arms and legs. Down, down,
down the mountain we went, and soon we were inside the busy town, and
were driven up in front of the Wilson House. There I concluded to
remain, and take my point of departure the next day for the tunnel.
On the following morning it was raining, not exactly cats and dogs,
but a drizzly, misty, damp—very damp—sort of rain. I did not care very
much for rain, though, especially as it made no difference, when once
in the tunnel, what the outside weather might be. When breakfast was
over, I started for the tunnel under the escort of the proprietor of
the hotel.
[Sidenote: VISITING THE TUNNEL.]
The western portal of the tunnel is two miles south of the village.
The road leading to it is among some small hills that appear trying
to hug the mountain. Mr. Haupt began his work on this side of the
mountain, in a limestone rock, from which he expected to pass directly
into the solid primary rock, forming the base of the mountain; but to
his surprise and mortification, his hopes were not realized.
[Sidenote: DEMORALIZED ROCK.]
Instead of reaching the solid rock, he entered into a mass that is
known as demoralized rock, a sort of combination of mica, quicksand,
water, and everything else that is disagreeable. It was perfectly
unmanageable. As fast as they dug it out it flowed in. Imagine a
mouse attempting to construct a tunnel through a barrel of swill,
and you can form a very good idea of the difficulty of working in
this rock. You might as well attempt to make a tunnel through a
thousand cart-loads of soft mud; in fact, you could get along easier
in the mud than in this demoralized rock, because you could take
precautions against the flowing in of the mud, which you could not
take against this disintegrated mica. It is a sort of soft stuff which
French miners denominate “moutarde,” and English miners allude to as
“porridge.”
In order to escape this porridge, the engineer tried to make a tunnel
farther up the hill-side; but it was of no use. There was the stuff
again, and somehow it must be met. Not only was it impossible to
prevent its caving in, but it was necessary to prevent its rising
upward. Consequently an arch must be made below, as well as above; in
fact, it was necessary to construct the brick-work in such a way that
it would form, when completed, a perfect cylinder, as the pressure of
the porridge would be exerted in all directions. As the work was put
forward and completed, a casing of timber was made, and inside this
casing of timber the brick arch of the tunnel was built.
[Illustration: EASTERN ENTRANCE.
Illustration: WESTERN ENTRANCE.
THE HOOSAC TUNNEL, MASSACHUSETTS.—LENGTH 24,500 FEET. COST ABOUT
$15,000,000. FIRST TRAIN OF CARS PASSED THROUGH APRIL 5, 1875.]
Our first visit was made to the western portal, into which we
penetrated several hundred feet. For about seven hundred feet, the
tunnel is laid in brick seven or eight courses thick, and forms a
complete arch. Beyond that the rock is quite soft, but sufficiently
hard to sustain itself long enough to permit the construction of an
arch. When this work is completed there will be some two thousand feet
of brick arching.
We thought that in entering this western part of the tunnel, we should
get out of the rain; but we found streams of water occasionally
coming through the brick-work, and especially through the stone at
the heading, where the work of arching was going on. Quite a stream
of water ran through the bottom of the tunnel, and I managed, in the
course of my walk, to get my feet pretty thoroughly soaked. However, I
had been wisely encased in a suit of old clothes, and when I emerged,
there was more mud than clothing visible about me.
Climbing out of the western portal, we took the open road again,
and went to what is known as the western shaft. The work through
the demoralized rock and porridge was so slow that the engineers
determined to sink a shaft farther up the mountain. It is about half a
mile from the portal, and is three hundred and eighteen feet deep.
As soon as the shaft was sunk, the miners turned and worked outwards
through the soft rock, cutting a small passage through to the western
portal, so as to allow the water to drain off, and thus save the use
of the pumps. In the other direction, that is, towards the east, the
miners had found the solid rock of the mountain. At the time of my
visit they were about half a mile from the bottom of the shaft.
[Sidenote: FLOODING A TUNNEL.]
Along our road forming the portal to the shaft, there was a small
stream of water. My guide explained to me that in the great flood a
year before, the water came down, tearing away the embankment which
separated the brook from the tunnel. In a few minutes the embankment
was all torn away, and the whole force of the stream was poured into
the tunnel. An alarm was given as quickly as possible, and by running
rapidly, the men who were working in the tunnel escaped, with the
exception of one who was doing his first day’s work there, and was
probably delayed by his unfamiliarity with the place. In a very short
time the water completely filled the tunnel, and it was some weeks
before the works were restored to their old condition.
Along this brook and around the west shaft there was quite a village
occupied by the miners and their families. The town of North Adams
provided a school-house and a school for the children, of whom nearly
one hundred received instruction there during the week. For a part
of the year the school-house was occupied at different hours, on
Sunday, by two Sunday schools, one conducted by some of the Protestant
churches, while the other is under the care of the Roman Catholics.
Around the shaft were the usual buildings and shops for the repair of
tools, and for the ordinary machinery used about the mine. After a
pleasant talk in the office of the superintendent, I was requested
to dress in an oil-skin suit and a lantern, preparatory to going
below. When all was ready, we went to the shaft, entered a cage, and
descended. From the bottom of the shaft we struck out along the tunnel
to make our way to the heading.
Our guide explained to us that there would be a blast in, about twenty
minutes, and that we must move forward at good speed in order to see
it. “Step right out without fear,” said he; “there is no danger of
falling through, as the bottom is perfectly solid. You need not mind
splashing those boots with water and mud, as they are used to it.”
[Sidenote: WALKING UNDER GROUND.]
I obeyed his directions and followed him, and I did some very rapid
walking. The lanterns gave out just about light enough to make
darkness visible. Away in the distance we could see the lights of the
miners, and hear the noise made by the machinery and the tools of the
workmen. An iron pipe six inches in diameter lay at one side of the
floor, and through this was forced the air which furnished the power
to the drilling machinery, and at the same time ventilated the tunnel.
A channel had been cut in the solid floor to carry off the water which
flowed in from various seams in the rock.
A short distance from the foot of the shaft were the stables,
containing several mules, which were used for hauling the cars. The
mules seemed to look at us with a desponding gaze, as if connecting us
in some way with the outside world, which they would never see again.
“Did these animals,” said I, “come down in the cage where we
descended?”
“Certainly,” said the assistant superintendent. “How else could they
come down? They were sent down in that box, not all together, but only
one at a time.”
I endeavored to ascertain how it was possible to pack a live animal
into that cage without killing him. The assistant said it was easy
enough if you only knew how, and could induce the animal to do as you
wanted him to. “They are good mules,” said he, “and with a strong
rope you can double them up any way, though they do not exactly like
it. If they live two years longer, they will get out alive, otherwise
they will die here. It does not pay to be hoisting live mules out, and
lowering other live mules in. When they get here, they stay till we
are through with them.”
About half way from the shaft to the heading we passed a couple of
surveyors, who were making an alignment of the tunnel, to see that
everything was correct. They had the ordinary instruments used for
levelling purposes in the open air, but it seemed rather odd to find
them using the same instruments by the light of lanterns, and laying
out the track far down in the interior of the mountain. Every foot of
the work of the tunnel had to be laid out with the utmost care, in
order that the ends, when they met, could be made to join perfectly.
[Sidenote: SUGGESTION OF A VISITOR.]
There was a narrow track along the bottom of the tunnel, where cars
drawn by mules, for the removal of the rock to the foot of the shaft,
where it could be hoisted out. My guide told me that a recent visitor
to the tunnel asked, with apparent innocence, why they hoisted out all
that rock, and suggested that it would be much easier to dig a hole in
the bottom of the tunnel, and bury it there; but he did not suggest
what should be done with the rock which they removed to make the hole.
We encountered several of these cars, and at one place were crowded
rather closely against the walls.
Originally gunpowder was used for blasting purposes in the tunnel, but
later in the work nitro-glycerine was adopted.
Several accidents with explosive materials occurred during the
construction of the tunnel, one of the most serious being in 1869.
The magazine where the nitro-glycerine was stored for operations
on the eastern part of the tunnel, was about a quarter of a mile
from the portal. Three of the miners went one morning to prepare
the nitro-glycerine for the day’s use, and an explosion occurred,
killing them all. Two of them were inside the building at the time,
and nothing but a few pieces of them were found; the other, who was
outside the building, was so badly disfigured that it was almost
impossible to identify him, and the force of the explosion was so
great that not a plank or a timber of the building remained.
[Sidenote: THE GREAT EXPLOSION.]
On the 19th of October, 1867, a terrible accident occurred at this
shaft. A depth of nearly six hundred feet had been reached, and
thirteen men were at work below. The gasoline apparatus used for
lighting the works exploded, and set fire to the buildings. The
engineer was badly burned, and driven from his post, and the men
perished by suffocation. The shaft was soon filled with water, but
it was not until next day that the fire was extinguished so that
anybody could descend. A workman named Mallory was lowered, with three
lanterns attached to him. Near the bottom two of his lanterns went
out, and at a signal he was drawn up nearly insensible from breathing
the foul air. He said there were fifteen feet of water in the shaft,
and no signs of the men. It was necessary to erect buildings and
machinery to clear the shaft, and it was not until a year after
that the water was pumped out, and the bodies of the victims were
recovered. They were all in a good state of preservation, but crumbled
to pieces soon after exposure to the air.
[Illustration: WORK AT THE HEADING IN HOOSAC TUNNEL.]
As we neared the heading the noise increased. The shouts of the miners
and the sound of the drilling machines overpowered any ordinary tones
of the voice. The drilling machine was an iron frame, resting upon
trucks, and was pushed as near as possible to the face of the rock.
The drills were fastened to it in such a way that they could be turned
upon any designated point. They were operated by compressed air, and
worked with great rapidity, striking as many as three hundred blows
to the minute. The quality of the rock was generally so hard that
the drills became dull and blunt in a short time, and required to be
sharpened; but they worked much more expeditiously than hand drills.
Under the ordinary process of hand drilling it would take six weeks to
accomplish the distance made in a single week by them.
When the drill-holes had been sunk to the required depth, the machine
was moved back, and some plank doors were closed in front of it to
prevent injury by the flying fragments of rock. Just as we reached
the end of the heading the noise ceased, and the machine was drawn
back, preparatory to blasting. The holes were cleared, and then three
men came forward with the charges of nitro-glycerine in long tin
tubes. These were put in the holes, the wires were fastened in their
places, and then the men moved back; it is hardly necessary to say
that I moved back at the same time, and quite as far as the workmen.
Everything being ready, the signal was given.
“Look out that you are not blown down!” said my guide.
I did look out. There came a sound and a quick explosion, followed
by the rumbling and crashing of the rock, and then a rush of air and
smoke that almost threw me over.
The pressure of the air in the iron pipe for working the drills and
ventilating the tunnel was about six atmospheres, or ninety pounds to
the square inch. As soon as the blast was made, the air was turned
on; the smoke from the blast was driven back, and the miners found
themselves in a clear atmosphere.
After this blast it was intimated that there was nothing more to see,
and we made our way out of the tunnel into the open air again, and
back to the Wilson House.
On December 12th, 1872, the east heading was connected with the one
driven east from the central shaft. The west heading was connected
with the one driven west from the shaft on the 27th of November, 1873.
This proved a splendid engineering feat.
The road bed was finished and the track laid early in 1875, and the
first freight train passed through on the 5th of April of that year.
The first passenger train was run through, July 8th, 1875.
[Sidenote: ACCIDENT AT THE CENTRAL SHAFT.]
Owing to the explosive action of nitro-glycerine the rock was broken
for some distance beyond the limits planned in constructing the sides
and arch of the tunnel, and there was constant danger of pieces of
rock falling upon the track. The plan of arching it with brick was
conceived of, and a contract was made in 1874, to do the arching and
also to enlarge a portion of the tunnel at the eastern terminus. This
work was completed, and the road is now in complete running order.
The cost of the work in the aggregate is nearly $15,000,000. The
construction of the tunnel opens direct communication between Boston
and Troy, and is of inestimable advantage to Massachusetts from a
commercial point of view.
XXXIV.
THE MONT CENIS TUNNEL.
MOUNTAIN CHAINS BETWEEN NATIONS.—MONT CENIS.—CROSSING THE
ALPS.—THE GREAT ALPINE TUNNEL.—LAYING OUT THE WORK.—THE
ARC AND DORA.—DIFFICULTIES.—THE SURVEYS.—PENETRATING THE
MOUNTAIN.—COMPLETION OF THE WORK.—THE CHANNEL TUNNEL.—ITS
COST.—COST OF TUNNELS IN VARIOUS COUNTRIES.
It has been said with truth that “mountains interposed make enemies of
nations.” In various parts of the world we find that mountain chains
stand as barriers between different nations, and in many instances the
boundaries thus formed by nature have remained unchanged for hundreds
of years. On the map of Europe the most prominent mountain chain
is that of the Alps, and it has stood as a separating line between
nations for a long time. It is true that occasionally wars have been
carried beyond these mountain chains, and conquests have been made in
spite of them; but for practical purposes the chain of the Alps has
been for centuries the separating line between France and Austria on
the north, and Italy on the south. Sometimes the French possessions
have extended to the south of the Alps, and sometimes Italy has
extended her possessions to the north of that chain. Such possessions
have never been held for a great length of time, and in one way or
another they have fallen to the nation to whom they belonged by
natural position.
Carriage roads were long since made across the Alps. In later years
the railway has traversed these mountains, but the ascent is tedious
and laborious, so that rapid communication was impossible. It remained
for the science of the present day to overcome the obstacles which the
mountains afforded, not by cutting away the Alps, but by piercing a
passage through them.
More than twenty years ago the attention of the French and Italian
governments was called to the necessity of a tunnel through the
Alps by which France and Italy should be connected. The project was
discussed for some time, and finally a convention was formed between
France and Italy for the purpose of undertaking the work. Four or five
years were consumed in surveys and in the contemplation of plans. All
sorts of objections were made, and a list of these objections forms a
humorous page. One man contended that the heat would be so great in
the centre of the mountain that the men would be roasted alive while
working in the tunnel. Another was positive that the noxious gases
and vapors arising in the tunnel would suffocate everybody. Another
contended that rivers of water would be found in the mountain so great
that they would overwhelm the workmen, and convert the tunnel into an
enormous spring. And so on, one after another, the objections were
heaped up, and there was at one time a prospect that the work would
not be undertaken.
[Sidenote: COMMENCEMENT OF THE WORK.]
The actual work on the tunnel was begun on the Italian side in 1857,
and a little afterwards work on the French side also commenced. A
great deal of labor had been performed in locating the tunnel. A
mountain chain is not a single line of mountains, like a row of potato
hills; but it consists of a central back-bone of mountains, with other
and smaller mountains on either side, so that a chain may often be
a hundred or more miles in width. Now, in piercing a chain like the
Alps, it is necessary to find a way among the outlying hills on each
side through the valleys of the rivers that flow from the central
chain. In this way the open-air railway is brought to the foot of one
of the mountains forming the great central back-bone.
But a difficulty arises in finding two of these valleys directly
opposite each other. You may follow a valley until you get to the very
base of one of the highest mountains of the range, but on looking to
the other side you may find no corresponding valley.
It was this peculiarity of all mountain chains that greatly hindered
the location of the Mont Cenis Tunnel. After much search, the best
location was found to be by following the valley of the River Arc, on
the northern side, and the River Dora, on the southern. A great many
surveys were made, and it was finally discovered that the Arc and
Dora, in their windings, were, at a certain point, less than eight
miles apart. At this point, it was evident, Nature designed—if she had
any design about it—that the great work should be constructed.
[Sidenote: VISITING THE MONT CENIS TUNNEL.]
In 1867, while travelling north from Italy to France, I determined
to pay a visit to the Mont Cenis Tunnel. It was said to be quite
difficult to obtain a permit to enter the workings; but perseverance
and letters of introduction will accomplish a great deal, and after a
little delay I obtained what I asked for. I found it more convenient
to visit the northern end of the tunnel for the reason that on the
Italian side the workings were sixteen miles away from the regular
line of travel, while those on the northern side were directly on the
route of tourists.
A railway over Mont Cenis was then under construction, and nearly
completed; but as it was not open for travelling, I made the transit
in a carriage, just as many thousands of people had made it before me.
The railway over the Alps is of itself a curiosity. In some places the
ascent equals one foot in ten, so that great power was required for
the locomotives to enable them to drag their burdens upward. The track
was narrow, and it was peculiar in having three rails instead of two.
The wheels of the carriages run on two rails only, just like wheels of
carriages on other railways. The central rail was intended for the use
of the locomotives, to assist their power of traction. The wheels were
arranged on these locomotives in such a way as to grip the central
rail with tremendous force, and the brakes were also so arranged that
by pressing this central rail they could bring the carriages to a
sudden stop in case of accident.
The line of the railway over Mont Cenis follows very nearly the
carriage road, and occasionally crosses it. In some places it passes
through short tunnels, and in others it is roofed in to avoid injury
by snow. In crossing the mountain by this railway very little time
is saved over the ordinary carriage route, while the latter is very
much to be preferred on account of its comfort and the advantage it
gives for observing the scenery. We were a party of four, and after
an unhappy night in a dirty hotel at Susa, an old town founded by the
Romans, and containing some ruins dating from the time of the Romans,
we started on our journey.
[Sidenote: A ROW WITH A LANDLORD.]
Our night had been unhappy. Our breakfast was still more unhappy, and
our bill for what the landlord facetiously termed our “entertainment”
was the worst feature of all. The discomfiture of his establishment
was greater than the comfort of the best hotel in Paris, and he
charged us about twice the rate that any Parisian landlord would dare
to ask. We consoled ourselves and settled our breakfast by getting up
a magnificent row with him, threatening to break his head, and talked
at least fifteen minutes in mingled _patois_ of English, French,
Italian, Russian, and Chinese. We did not succeed in having our bill
reduced, but I am confident if what we said to that landlord remained
ringing in his ears for twenty-four hours, it must have driven him to
hopeless insanity.
We wound slowly up the mountain, with the top of our carriage thrown
back, so that we could enjoy the view.
The Mont Cenis Pass is the least interesting of all the great passes
of the Alps. Tourists complain of its tameness, but there are points
where it is picturesque.