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Although the steam-engine itself is more naturalized amongst us than
with any other nation of Europe, railroad travelling has unquestionably
outraged more of the associations we once cherished and were proud of,
than it could possibly effect in countries of less rural and picturesque
beauty than England. “La Belle France” is but a great cornfield,--in
winter a dreary waste of yellow soil, in autumn a desert of dried
stubble; Belgium is only a huge cabbage-garden,--flat and fetid;
Prussia, a sandy plain, dotted with sentry-boxes. To traverse these,
speed is the grand requisite; there is little to remark, less to admire.
The sole object is to push forward; and when one remembers the lumbering
diligence and its eight buffaloes, the rail is a glorious alternative.
In England, however, rural scenery is eminently characterized. The
cottage of the peasant enshrined in honeysuckle, the green glade, the
rich and swelling champaign, the quaint old avenues leading to some
ancient hall, the dark glen, the shining river, follow each other in
endless succession, suggesting so many memories of our people, and
teeming with such information of their habits, tastes, and feelings.
There was something distinctive, too, in that well-appointed coach, with
its four blood bays, tossing their heads with impatience, as they stood
before the village inn, waiting for the passengers to breakfast. I loved
every jingle of the brass housings; the flap of the traces, and the bang
of the swingle-bar, were music to my ears; and what a character was he
who wrapped his great drab coat around his legs, and gathered up the
reins with that careless indolence that seemed to say, “The beasts have
no need of guidance,--they know what they are about!” The very leer of
his merry eye to the buxom figure within the bar was a novel in three
volumes; and mark how lazily he takes the whip from the fellow that
stands on the wheel, proud of such a service; and hear him, as he cries,
“All right, Bill, let ‘em go!”--and then mark the graceful curls of
the long lash, as it plays around the leaders’ flanks, and makes the
skittish devils bound ere they are touched. And now we go careering
along the mountain-side, where the breeze is fresh and the air bracing,
with a wide-spread country all beneath us, across which the shadows are
moving like waves. Again, we move along some narrow road, overhung with
trees, rich in perfumed blossoms, which fall in showers over us as we
pass; the wheels are crushing the ripe apples as they lie uncared for;
and now we are in a deep glen, dark and shady, where only a straggling
sunbeam comes; and see, where the road opens, how the rabbits play,
nor are scared at our approach! Ha, merry England! there are sights and
sounds about you to warm a man’s heart, and make him think of home.
It was but a few days since I was seated in one of the cheap carriages
of a southern line, when this theme was brought forcibly to my mind by
overhearing a dialogue between a wagoner and his wife. The man, in all
the pride and worldliness of his nature, would see but the advantages
of rapid transit, where the poor woman saw many a change for the
worse,--all the little incidents and adventures of a pleasant journey
being now superseded by the clock-work precision of the rail, the
hissing engine, and the lumbering train.
Long after they had left the carriage, I continued to dwell upon the
words they had spoken; and as I fell asleep, they fashioned themselves
into rude measure, which I remembered on awaking, and have called it--