It is a somewhat unpromising morning--the river is dark with fog and the
huge arch of the station nearly hidden by mist and steam. A cold, damp
wind makes the passengers hurry into the carriages, and strikes us
sharply as we step on to the foot-plate of the engine, which has just
joined the train. But as we get behind the shelter of the screen, we feel
a generous and slightly unctuous sensation of warmth very comforting to a
chilly man. The brasswork of the engine shines brilliantly, the footboard
has been newly scrubbed, and the driver and stoker stand waiting for the
signal. The needle shows that the steam is just below the pressure at
which it would begin to blow off; the water in the gauge glass is just
where it ought to be; in fact, the engine is in perfect condition and
ready for a start. The line is clear, the guard's whistle is answered by
our own, and we glide almost imperceptibly past the last few yards of the
platform. The driver opens the regulator till he is answered by a few
sounding puffs from the funnel, and then stands on the lookout for
signals so numerous that one wonders how he can tell which of the many
waving arms is raised or lowered for his guidance.
So he goes on, with hand on regulator and lever, gradually admitting more
steam as signal after signal comes nearer and then flies past us, till at
last we are clear of the suburbs and find ourselves on a gentle incline
and a straight road, with the open fields on either side. It is now that
the real business of the journey begins. Locomotives are as sensitive and
have as many peculiarities as horses, and have to be as carefully studied
if you would ride them fast and far. The lever is put into the most
suitable notch for working the steam expansively; the driver's hand is on
the regulator, not to be removed for the rest of the trip; the furnace
door is thrown wide open, and firing begins in earnest. Here it may not
be amiss to state, for the benefit of the uninitiated, that the regulator
controls the supply of steam from the boiler, while the lever enables the
driver to reverse the engine, or, as we have already stated, to expand
the steam by cutting it off before the end of the stroke. The engine
answers to the appeal like a living thing, and seems, with its steady
beat and sonorous blast, to settle down to its work. It is pleasant from
our seat in the corner of the screen to see this preparation for the work
ahead--the absolute calm of driver and stoker, who exchange no word, but
go steadfastly and quietly about their business; to feel the vibrations
from the rails beneath throb through one with slowly increasing rapidity,
or watch the trees and houses go past as gulls flap past a boat. For
there is a certain apparent swagging movement of the objects past which
one travels which can only be likened to the peculiar flight of a large
sea-bird. But now there are signs of increased activity on the
foot-plate; the stoker is busy controlling the feed of water to the
boiler, and fires at more frequent intervals; the driver's hand moves
oftener as he coaxes and encourages the engine along the road, his
slightest gesture betraying the utmost tension of eye and ear; the
stations, instead of echoing a long sullen roar as we go through them,
flash past us with a sudden rattle, and the engine surges down the line,
the train following with hot haste in its wake. We are in a cutting, and
the noise is deafening. Looking ahead, we see an apparently impenetrable
wall before us. Suddenly the whistle is opened, and we are in one of the
longest tunnels in England. The effect produced is the opposite of that
with which we are familiar in a railway carriage, for the change is one
from darkness to light rather than from light to darkness. The front of
the fire-box, foot-plate, and the tender, which had been rather hazily
perceived in the whirl of surrounding objects, now strike sharply on the
eye, lit up by the blaze from the fire, while overhead we see a glorious
canopy of ruddy-glowing steam. The speed is great, and the flames in the
fire-box boil up and form eddies like water at the doors of an opening
lock. Far ahead we see a white speck, which increases in size till the
fierce light from the fire pales, and we are once more in open day. The
weather has lifted, the sky is gray, but there is no longer any
appearance of mist. The hills on the horizon stand out sharply, and seem
to keep pace with us as the miles slip past. The line is clear; but there
is an important junction not far distant, and we slacken speed, to insure
a prompt pull-up should we find an adverse signal. The junction signals
are soon sighted; neither caution nor danger is indicated, and, once
clear of the station, we steam ahead as fast as ever. One peculiarity of
the view of the line ahead strikes us. Looking at a railroad line from a
field or neighboring highway, even where the rails are laid on a steep
incline, the rise and fall of the road is not very strikingly apparent.
Seen through the weather-glass, the track appears to be laid up hill and
down dale, like a path on the downs above high cliffs. Over it all we
advance, the engine laboring and puffing on one or two heavy gradients,
in spite of a full supply of steam, or tearing down the inclines with
hardly any, or none at all and the brake on. And here it may be noted
that, like modern men, modern engines have been put upon diet, and are
not allowed to indulge in so much victual as their forefathers. The
engine-driver, like the doctor of the new school, is determined not to
ruin his patient by over-indulgence, and will tell you severely enough
that "he will never be guilty of choking his engine with an over-supply
of steam." In the mean time, the character of the country we travel
through has changed. It has become more open, and there is a stiff
sea-breeze, which makes itself distinctly felt through the rush of air
produced by the speed at which we are going. We fly past idle streams and
ponds, and as the steam swirls over them are disappointed at producing
so little effect; but the ducks, their inhabitants, are well used to such
visitations, and hardly deign to move a feather. Suddenly we plunge into
a series of small chalk cuttings, and on emerging from them find
ourselves parallel with a grand line of downs. We speed by a curve or
two, and find ourselves on the sea-shore; one more tunnel, and with steam
off we go soberly into the last station. But there is one step more. The
breeze blows about our ears. Before us the rails are wet, for the sea
swept over them not many hours since, and to accomplish the last few
yards of our journey the lever controlling the sand-box must be used
liberally, to prevent slipping; the signal is given, and at a walking
pace we make our way to where the steamer is awaiting us. A gentle
application of the brake pulls us up, and the journey is over. It is
difficult to realize, as the engine stands quietly under the lee of the
pier while the driver examines the machinery, and the fire, burned low,
throws out a gentle warmth as we stand before it, that half an hour ago
we were tearing along the line at full speed, while the foot-plate that
is now so pleasant to lounge on throbbed beneath us. Nothing now remains
but to kill time as best we may till the return trip many hours hence. It
scarcely promises to be as comfortable as our morning ride, for the
weather has changed--it is blowing half a gale, and the rain comes down
in sheets. Our train is timed to start in the small hours, and the night
seems dirty and depressing enough as we make our way for a cup of coffee
to the refreshment room, where a melancholy Italian sits in sad state
eating Bath buns and drinking brandy. We walk past the train, laden with
miserable sea-sick humanity, and step on the engine, which stands in the
dark at the end of the platform. Time is up, and we pass from the dim
half-light of the station into outer darkness. A blacker night there
could hardly be; looking ahead there is nothing to be seen but one's own
reflection in the weather-glass. We are in the midst of obscurity, which
suddenly changes to a rich light as the whistle is opened and we enter a
tunnel. The effect is far more striking than in the daytime. The light is
more concentrated, and the mouth of the tunnel we have just entered might
be the entrance to Hades--for there is no telltale spot of light to prove
to our senses the existence of any opening at the other end. The sound
echoed from the walls and roof has a tremendous quality, and resolves
itself into a grand sort of Wagnerian rhythm, making a vast crescendo,
till with a rush we clear the tunnel, and are once more under the open
sky. The pace is increasing, the steady beat of the engine tells more
distinctly on the ear than in the daytime; the foot-plate is lit up by
the glare from the fire-door; but still there is nothing to be seen ahead
but the impenetrable night. Looking back, however, the scene is very
different. The tender and guard's van glow in the light thrown by the
fire, trees and houses by the side of the track stand out sharply for a
moment and are then lost to sight, the light from the carriage windows
produces the effect of the wake of a ship seen from the stern. Gradually
the clouds have rolled away, leaving the sky clear. The moon is seen
fitfully through the whirling steam; the surrounding country is visible
for miles round. The effect produced is unspeakably beautiful. In the
mean time let us turn our attention to the working of the engine. In the
first place, let us take note that, although the engine we are now on,
and that which took us from London, belong to the same type, their
performances are somewhat different. No two engines ever resemble each
other, no matter how carefully they may have been built from the same
plan, neither do any two drivers manage their engines precisely in the
same way. We have in this instance an excellent opportunity of comparing
two different methods of driving. It is the driver's principal object to
get the required amount of work out of his engine with the smallest
possible expenditure of coal and water. To obtain this result the steam
must be worked expansively, which is done by placing the valve gear in
such a position by means of the lever that the supply of steam to the
cylinders is cut off, as we have stated at the beginning of this article,
before the piston has accomplished its full stroke. There are two ways of
controlling the speed of an engine worked, as all locomotives are worked
now, expansively. You may keep the regulator wide open, so that there is
always a full supply of steam on its way to the cylinders, in which case
you increase or diminish the speed by using the steam more or less
expansively through the agency of the lever. Or you may work with the
same amount of expansion throughout the journey, and have command of the
engine by constantly changing the position of the regulator. There is no
doubt that the men who employ the latter method save something by it,
although this would hardly seem to be the opinion of the driver who is
bringing us rapidly nearer to London, for unlike the driver whom we
accompanied on the daylight journey, his hand is not often on the
regulator. As we rush on past countless signals, punctual to the minute,
yet always having ample time to slacken speed before we come to the
places where the different colored lights cluster thickest, we are
reminded once more how much is required of an express engine-man besides
a thorough acquaintance with the machinery he has to control. Traveling
at night at a great speed, he must know every inch of the road by
heart--where an incline begins and where it ends, and the exact spot at
which every signal along the line may be first sighted. He must have
completely mastered the working of the traffic on both the up and down
lines, and, above all, must be ready to act with the utmost promptitude
should anything go wrong. Mr. Michael Reynolds' publications have done
much toward enlightening the public on these points, but we doubt if
there are many who really know the amount of toil and danger cheerfully
faced by the men on the engine, who hold their lives in their hands day
after day for many years. These thoughts occur to us as we recross the
Thames and pull up at the platform after a thoroughly enjoyable
run.--_Saturday Review_.
* * * * *
The mucilage on postage stamps may not be unhealthy, but persons having a
good many to affix to letter envelopes, circulars, newspapers, or other
wrappers every day, will consume considerable gum during a year. A less
objectionable mode of affixing stamps than the one usually employed is to
wet the upper right hand corner of the envelope, and press the stamp upon
it. It will be found to adhere quite as well as if the stamp went through
the moistening process.
* * * * *