+A RAILWAY JOURNEY+
THE country homes of old England, standing amid their ancestral trees,
what visions of quiet happiness do they recall to my mind! Memory loves
to linger before thy hospitable portal, oh, Rookwood! and hear once more
the kindly greeting of the amiable and affectionate family, some of
whose members, alas! now sleep their last sleep—the others are dead, at
least to me; for
“The absent are the dead, for they are cold,
And ne’er can we what once we did behold;
And they are changed—”
Far more so, than the departed, who ever watch us with their loving
eyes, changeless, immortal.
A verdant spot in life’s desert was that dear home to me, whose halls
ever resounded with the cheerful laughter of its happy and beloved
inmates—the sisters all that women ought to be—the brothers, noble,
manly, and gallant as the knights of old—the venerable father,
indulgent, yet firm as a rock—the mother, whom I never knew, excepting
by her portrait, a lovely countenance, gentle and tender as a Madonna of
Raphael.
Each nook and dell of that fair Park is engraven on my heart of hearts.
On this grassy slope, I walked with Mary, as she bent her steps toward
the village, where the poor awaited her with blessings. In yonder
pleasant path, Anne, the wit of the family, almost killed me with
laughter. On that gently-rising eminence, the hounds threw off—and
there, after a hard day’s run, William, the eldest son, who was ever in
at the death, presented my delighted self with the brush. Under the
shade of those wavy beeches, which every moment strewed their leaves in
our path, did the graceful and chivalrous George teach the timid school
girl to ride, or rather, to manage her rein; he was a very Bayard on
horseback, and a kind horse-master to boot. He loved to see the noble
animals well and judiciously treated, whether on the road or in the
stable. I remember a saying he had, which amused us all immensely—it was
this:
“Never ’ammer your ’unter along a ’ard road—if you wish to ’ammer along
a ’ard road, ’ire a ’ack and ’ammer ’im.”
George was handsome, accomplished, and good—to my girlish fancy, a very
“_preux chevalier, sans peur et sans reproche_”—but he was a decided
lady’s man, and, of course, a passionate and rather general admirer of
beauty. I knew I was not handsome, so I never again accepted an
invitation to join that dear and happy circle; and thus ended the one
romance of my life.
But this is a digression. My readers will remember the very pressing
invitation I had received from Mrs. Edward Travers, to join her at
Woodlands; nevertheless, I judged it unadvisable, for the present, to
accede to her wishes, trusting that, thrown entirely on her husband for
society, the young wife might, in time, learn to consider him as her
first and best friend. It was, therefore, not until the first week in
October, that I started from Warenne Vicarage, at about 7 A. M., for the
railway station, in order to take the train, which met the express from
London, as this was the only one which would enable me to reach
Woodlands the same evening.
It was one of those lovely and soft, yet fresh mornings peculiar to our
climate, at this season of the year, when the sky, though serene, is not
cloudless, and the air is at the same time balmy and exhilarating, and,
as it were, charged with vitality. The white hoar frost clung like gems
to the blades of grass, and caused the varied tints of the Autumn leaves
to appear still more fresh and glowing.
I, for my part, confess to feeling great delight in railway
travelling—the commencement of a journey, especially if the end of it
promises pleasure, always raises my spirits in fine weather.
In England, this mode of locomotion is more than comfortable—it is
luxurious. The termini and the stations are so well ordered, that you
may obtain your ticket at your ease, without that rushing and pushing
incident to all other European countries. If you have to wait the train,
you do so in a clean and comfortable room in winter with a large fire;
or, if a lady, you can remain in an inner room, with dressing-room
attached, where you may command the services of a female attendant. The
first class waiting rooms are, of course, much better than those of the
second and third classes, though these also have every reasonable
convenience. Should the carriages be in waiting at the terminus, (which
is usually the case) the traveller, after securing his ticket, may
instantly take his place, and, arranging his dressing-case, wraps, &c.,
comfortably ensconce himself in his seat, before the arrival of the less
punctual passengers. If our traveller have taken a first-class ticket,
he will find, even if he has filled a second place with his necessary
encumbrances, he will rarely be disturbed; for those who in England can
afford to pay for the best accommodations, are usually of a class to
whom good manners are habitual—they will, therefore, rather seek another
seat than put a fellow-passenger to inconvenience. The railway companies
being most liberal with their carriages, the chances are, if you arrive
early and manage well, you will always secure room for your legs. Six
places are the usual complement of each first-class compartment; these
have elastic cushions, and are partitioned off with arms, like an
easy-chair, so as to allow the occupant of each seat to lean back. The
French arrangements are still more commodious—while the German second
class, “Wagen,” is equal in comfort to the English and French first
class carriages. These latter, in Germany, are literally small “salons,”
containing a sofa, arm-chairs, centre-table, and even large and handsome
mirrors on the walls.
What a contrast to the American cars! Surely, Madame de Staël must have
had prophetic vision of these odious vehicles, when she declared
travelling to be “_Le plus triste plaisir de la vie_”—for I can testify,
that the old _diligence_, with its numerous inconveniences, is as the
gates of Paradise, compared to the straight-backed benches of cotton
velvet, the stuffy atmosphere, and the miscellaneous and unsavory
company in a Yankee car! The _coupé_ of a diligence, at least, permits
of cleanliness and privacy; but where, Oh! ye Goths and Vandals, may we
take refuge, in this land of “liberty and equality”—but _not_
“fraternity”—from squalling babies, tobacco-juice, spittoons, and the
great unwashed?
My readers, even though Americans, must pardon these observations. There
are very many fine institutions in this splendid country; but there is
also much room for improvement.
The American steamboats can “whip all others out of creation;” but land
travelling leaves much to be desired. All these thoughts might possibly
have passed through the writer’s mind, had she been an American, as she
flew, with the speed of the wind, through the green and
highly-cultivated meadows of Merry England, seated in the luxurious
_fauteuil_ of a first-class carriage.
The journey was without incident or accident. On reaching the
Derby-junction station, the train for that Shire, was, in railway
phrase, “shunted” on to the midland-counties line. A sandwich and a cup
of coffee, hastily swallowed, and away flew the train, at the speed of
sixty miles an hour, through a rich country, diversified by hill, wood,
and water—all glowing in the beams of the now setting sun. One hour
more, and we stop. I catch a glimpse of the most coquettish little hat
in the world, shading a radiant and lovely young face. Springing out, I
am caught and kissed, and hurried into a carriage in waiting. One
moment, and John, the footman, touching his hat, says: “Please, ma’am,
the luggage is all right.” A pretty, silvery voice at my side, replies:
“Very well—home.” John mounts the box, and Evelyn and myself are once
more together and alone.
[Illustration]
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