STOKERS AND POKERS:

OR, THE

LONDON AND NORTH-WESTERN RAILWAY,

THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH,

AND

THE RAILWAY CLEARING-HOUSE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF
‘BUBBLES FROM THE BRUNNEN OF NASSAU.’

LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1849.

London: Printed by W. Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street.

TO
RAILWAY TRAVELLERS,
AND
TO THE PROPRIETORS
OF THE

• GREAT WESTERN,
• MIDLAND,
• LANCASHIRE AND YORKSHIRE,
• YORK, NEWCASTLE, AND BERWICK,
• EASTERN COUNTIES,
• LONDON AND SOUTH-WESTERN,
• YORK AND NORTH MIDLAND,
• CALEDONIAN,
• GREAT SOUTHERN AND WESTERN (IRISH),
• LONDON AND NORTH-WESTERN,

AND
OTHER BRITISH RAILWAYS,
THESE ROUGH SKETCHES, DELINEATING THE DIFFICULTIES ATTENDANT UPON THE CONSTRUCTION, MAINTENANCE, AND WORKING OF A RAILWAY, ARE INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

A good many years ago, one of the toughest and hardest riders that ever crossed Leicestershire undertook to perform a feat which, just for the moment, attracted the general attention not only of the country but of the sporting world. His bet was, that, if he might choose his own turf, and if he might select as many thorough-bred horses as he liked, he would undertake to ride 200 miles in ten hours!!!

The newspapers of the day described exactly how “the Squire” was dressed—what he had been living on—how he looked—how, at the word “Away!” he started like an arrow from a bow—how gallantly Tranby, his favourite racer, stretched himself in his gallop—how, on arriving at his second horse, he vaulted from one saddle to another—how he then flew over the surface of the earth, if possible, faster than before—and how, to the astonishment and amidst the acclamations of thousands of spectators, he at last came in … a winner!

Now, if at this moment of his victory, while with dust and perspiration on his brow—his exhausted arms dangling just above the panting flanks of his horse, which his friends at each side of the bridle were slowly leading in triumph—a decrepit old woman had hobbled forward, and in the name of Science had told the assembled multitude, that, before she became a skeleton, she and her husband would undertake, instead of 200 miles in ten hours, to go 500—that is to say, that, for every mile “the Squire” had just ridden, she and her old man would go two miles and a half—that she would moreover knit all the way, and that he should take his medicine every hour and read to her just as if they were at home; lastly, that they would undertake to perform their feat either in darkness or in daylight, in sunshine or in storm, “in thunder, lightning, or in rain;”—who, we ask, would have listened to the poor maniac?—and yet how wonderfully would her prediction have been now fulfilled! Nay, waggons of coals and heavy luggage now-a-days fly across Leicestershire faster and farther than Mr. Osbaldestone could go, notwithstanding his condition and that of all his horses.

When railways were first established, every living being gazed at a passing train with astonishment and fear: ploughmen held their breath; the loose horse galloped from it, and then, suddenly stopping, turned round, stared at it, and at last snorted aloud. But the “nine days’ wonder” soon came to an end. As the train now flies through our verdant fields, the cattle grazing on each side do not even raise their heads to look at it; the timid sheep fears it no more than the wind; indeed, the hen-partridge, running with her brood along the embankment of a deep cutting, does not now even crouch as it passes close by her. It is the same with mankind. On entering a railway station, we merely mutter to a clerk in a box where we want to go—say “How much?”—see him horizontally poke a card into a little machine that pinches it—receive our ticket—take our place—read our newspaper—on reaching our terminus drive away perfectly careless of all or of any one of the innumerable arrangements necessary for the astonishing luxury we have enjoyed.

On the practical working of a railway there is no book extant, nor any means open to the public of obtaining correct information on the subject.

Unwilling, therefore, to remain in this state of ignorance respecting the details of the greatest blessing which science has ever imparted to mankind, we determined to make a very short inspection of the practical machinery of one of our largest railways; and having, on application to the Secretary, as also to the Secretary of the Post-Office, been favoured with the slight authorities we required, without companion or attendant we effected our object; and although, under such circumstances, our unbiassed observations were necessarily superficial, we propose, first, to offer to our readers a faint outline of the difficulties attendant upon the construction and maintenance of a great railway, and then, by a few rough sketches, rapidly to pass in review some of the scenes illustrative of the practical working of the line, which we witnessed at the principal stations of the London and North-Western Railway—say Euston, Camden, Wolverton, and Crewe.

LONDON AND NORTH-WESTERN RAILWAY.

CHAPTER I.

On the Construction of a Railway.

At the grand inauguration dinner eaten in Paris on the 28th of December, 1848, for the express purpose of celebrating the installation of the new President of the French Republic, it has been recorded by the reporters present, that among the numerous guests assembled, there was no one whose presence engrossed such universal attention as that of an erect emaciated member of “La Vieille Garde.”

The old soldier, it is stated, as he sat at table, scarcely noticed the constellations of bright, black, and hazel-coloured eyes that from all directions were concentrated upon him, but, addressing himself first to his own black bottle, and then with the utmost good humour to those of his neighbours, he drank and ate—drank—swigged—reflected,—and then, as if to refresh himself, drank again, again, and again, until, according to pre-arrangement, he stood up on the tribune to re-propose the health of “Louis Napoleon,” to which—coupling the meteor now shining in its zenith with the “sun of Austerlitz,” which, though sunk for ever below the horizon, still beamed as resplendently as ever within his heart—he added, with great naïveté, “Mais sans oublier l’autre!”

The French people, or rather the representatives of the French nation who were assembled, had received the consecutive orations of several of the most illustrious of their fellow-citizens with considerable marks of approbation; but when the veteran in question, who was about seventy years of age, with hair white as snow, rose to address to them a short speech that would scarcely have filled his empty wine-glass, the sight of the uniform so dear to Frenchmen—the tall bear-skin cap, the crimson feather, blue coat, red facings, red worsted epaulettes, white breast, white breeches, long black gaiters reaching over the knee, and, above all, buttons with an eagle supporting the imperial crown—created a storm of applause which it would be utterly impossible to describe. For nearly a quarter of an hour shouts and clappings of hands prevented the old warrior from opening his lips, and the applause if possible increased when the veteran, with the palm of his hand turned outwards, stiffly saluted the company in correct martial style: and yet, strange to record, at the very moment of all this military enthusiasm, so characteristic of a nation of whom it was lately very eloquently stated “that it had been its ambition to be the world’s guide and its destiny to be the world’s warning,” the French Government was not only without funds to protect public or private property, but, in fact, had nothing but the plunder of both to conciliate and feed the multitude of misguided and misguiding people who, by the ruin of commerce and by the stagnation of trade, were literally all over France starving from cold and hunger. Of their enthusiasm, therefore, as of that of the veteran standing up before them, it may truly be said or sung—

“Happy’s the soldier that lives on his pay,

And spends half-a-crown out of sixpence a-day!”

Having related, or rather merely repeated, this curious little anecdote, we will now endeavour to explain in what manner it applies to the subject of our chapter, namely, “the construction of a railway.”

It has been justly observed that “England is bound over to keep the peace by a national debt, or penalty, of 800 millions.” During the glorious expenditure of all this money, the attention of the country was solely engrossed with the art, employment, occupation, and victories of war. Our great statesmen were war-ministers—our great men were naval and military warriors of all ranks, whose noble bearing and gallant feats were joyfully announced, and, by universal acclamation, as gratefully rewarded; and if every man who took a government contract, or who in any way came into contact with government, easily made a large fortune by war, he, generally speaking, as rapidly spent it; and thus an artificial circulation of wealth was kept up, which, like the schoolboy’s mode of warming himself, commonly called “beating the booby,” produced a temporary glow, estimated at the moment to be of as much value as if it had naturally proceeded from the heart.

The English people during the period in question drank hard. The rule had scarcely an exception. As regularly as four o’clock P.M. struck, our noblemen, magistrates, judges, hunting squires, and country gentlemen, began to look a little flushed—the colour gradually increasing, until in due time they all became, like their sun in a fog, red in the face. Before bedtime the semi-rulers of the nation were half inebriated—some of our leading statesmen being, alas! notoriously, very nearly in the same state.

No sooner, however, were the British people, by the results of 1815, suddenly weaned from war, than their extraordinary natural powers, moral as well as physical, invigorated by comparative temperance, were directed to investigations, occupations, and studies which rapidly produced their own rewards. Indeed, without entering into details, the wealth which has been created and amassed since the period in question, added to that with which we have not only irrigated, but almost without metaphor top-dressed the greater portion of the old as well as of the new world, and, lastly, the extraordinary improvements that have taken place in light, heat, locomotion—electrical as well as by steam-power—machinery, in short in everything that administers to human comfort, form altogether the golden harvest of our labours; and thus, although to our eminent civil engineers considerable credit is due, they are, in fact, but secondary causes; the engineer-in-chief—the primary inventor—the real constructor of our railways most indisputably being

The Goddess of Peace.

Send her victorious—happy and glorious—

Long to reign over us—God save that queen!

The Construction of the Line.

1. In considering the project of a railway, after fixing upon the two termini, it becomes necessary to select the towns through which it ought to pass.

2. When these have been determined, the chief engineer to whom the investigation of the proposed line has been confided, with the Ordnance map in his hand, walks and re-walks over the whole length (Mr. Robert Stephenson, in his investigation of the proposed line between London and Birmingham, walked upwards of twenty times over the country between each), until he feels that he carries in his mind the whole picture; and while he is thus imagining and making out various lines for consideration, his assistants are testing the eligibility of each by rapidly taking for him what are called “flying levels,” as also “cross levels,” along the principal ridges that at various angles intersect the proposed line, and yet, notwithstanding the accuracy of these mathematical precautions, it is almost invariably found that the eye of the chief engineer has intuitively selected the best line.

It is, however, as painful to reflect on, as it is humiliating to record, the prejudices, ignorance, passions, and artifice by which our principal engineers were opposed, or rather by which they were consecutively thwarted in the calm scientific investigations for the benefit of the public which we have just described.

Instead of a general desire on the part of the community to hail with gratitude, and to receive with open arms, an invention which was practically not only to enable them with double elbow-room, and at about half fares, to travel at four or five times the speed which by their utmost efforts they had previously been enabled to attain, but to afford similar facilities to millions of tons of manufactures and merchandize, much of which had either been impeded by delay, or altogether clogged by the heavy charges on their transit, our engineers, in tracing the lines for our great arterial railways, were but too often looked upon as magicians, evil genii, or unclean spirits, whose unearthly object was to fright the land from its propriety.

In many instances where it was proposed, by tapping the dull stagnant population of a country town, to give vigour and animation to its system, the inhabitants actually fancied that their interests and their happiness would, like their habits, expire under the operation.

For example, it is well known that one of the results of Mr. R. Stephenson’s deliberate investigations was, that the present London and North-Western Railway ought to pass through the healthy and handsome town of Northampton,—an arrangement which of course would instantaneously have given to it commercial importance of inestimable value. The inhabitants, however, urged and excited by men of influence and education, opposed the blessing with such barbarous force, that they succeeded, to their everlasting punishment, in distorting the line—viâ the Kilsby Tunnel, which, if the projected plan had been adopted, would not have been required—to a point five miles off! and if such ignorance could, in the nineteenth century, exist in a large and populous town, it cannot be a matter of surprise that our engineers should have had to encounter similar, or, if possible, still greater prejudices in rural districts.

It was there generally considered to be utterly incredible that a railway could ever possibly supersede our mail and stage coaches; at market meetings, and at market dinners, the invention was looked upon as, and declared to be, “a smoky substitute for canals;” and while men of property inveighed against its unsightly appearance, their tenants were equally opposed to the measure.

For instance, among the reasons for preventing the present London and North-Western Railway coming to Northampton, it was seriously urged by many very wealthy and respectable graziers in the neighbourhood, that the smoke of the passing engines would seriously discolour the wool of their sheep; that the continual progress through their verdant meadows of a sort of rumbling, hissing, fiery serpent, would, by continually alarming, fretting, and distracting the attention of their cattle, prevent them, “poor things!” from fattening; in short, such was the opposition to the new system, that one of the engineers employed by the London and North-Western Railway to trace out a branch line (which, at a considerable expense to the Company, was to confer inestimable advantages upon its locality) was attacked by the proprietors of the soil, and a conflict or battle royal ensued, which ended in very serious legal results.

3. As soon as the chief engineer has, instead of the best line of railway that could have been determined on, decided on that which, for the reasons stated, it is advisable he should recommend—alas! what a pity it is that, in the construction of our great arterial railways, such a discreditable difference should have been allowed to exist!!—he employs his assistant engineers and surveyors to make for him accurate surveys, and to take correct sections, copies of which are to be deposited, according to Act of Parliament, with the various clerks of the peace of the several counties through which the line is to pass, with the Commissioners of Railways, &c. &c. &c.; besides which there is to be prepared for each parish its proportion, as also for every landholder a section, showing the greatest depth of cutting or embankment in any of his fields.

In addition to the collection and construction of all these data and drawings, notices are to be served upon every landowner, wherever he may be, in the United Kingdom; for which duty in 1845 almost everybody that could be picked up was engaged, the number of horses employed and killed in the operation having been utterly incalculable.

4. By the time these expenses have been incurred, the attention of the chief engineer is engrossed by a new struggle of vital importance, practically called “the fight for the Act,” in both houses of Parliament.

As the question before the reader is abstractedly one of science, we gladly refrain from staining it by the slightest political remark; we will therefore, on this branch of the subject, only state that, from returns which have officially been published, it appears that, in the years 1845, 1846, and 1847, more than ten millions were expended in parliamentary inquiries and parliamentary contests.

This money would, at the rate of 20,000l. per mile, have constructed a national railway 500 miles in length—say from London to Aberdeen!

Casting aside the bitter mortification which these expenses must create to the man of science, whose mind is enthusiastically engrossed with the vast importance of railway communication, the permanent tax which they inflict upon the public can very briefly be demonstrated.

Supposing 5 per cent. be deemed an adequate return to railway proprietors for the capital they have expended, the comparative charges to be levied by them on every passenger or ton of goods would be as follows:—

5. As soon as the Act of Parliament has been obtained, the chief engineer directs the immediate construction of a most accurate plan and section of the whole line, from which he ascertains and lays down its gradients. He then determines the sizes of the bridges required, as also the nature and amount of masonry for each; he calculates the quantities of embankments and cuttings, balancing the one against the other as nearly as circumstances will allow, and having, by first boring, and afterwards by the sinking of “trial shafts,” ascertained as accurately as possible the nature of the various strata to be excavated or tunnelled, he proceeds to estimate in detail the cost of the several works, which he then divides into lengths for construction, taking care that in each the amount of earth to be excavated and filled up shall as nearly as possible balance each other; in short, inasmuch as all contractors prudently, and indeed very properly, invariably lower their tenders in proportion as the work they are required to execute has been clearly laid open to their view, and, on the other hand, to secure themselves from unknown difficulties, as invariably raise their tenders for work which has not been sufficiently bored or examined, he is fully sensible that a considerable saving in the cost of the proposed railway will be effected by a clear preliminary development of its works.

6. This mass of information having been prepared, the chief engineer now advertises his work in its various lengths for execution by contract, and, on receiving tenders for the same, he selects, not always the lowest, but that which, for various reasons, is the most approved, taking security generally to the amount of 10 per cent. of the contract.

Previous, however, to the reception of the tenders the chief engineer appoints his staff of assistants. To each 40 or 50 miles there is usually appointed an experienced engineer, having under him “sub-assistants” who superintend from 10 to 15 miles each—these sub-assistants being again assisted by “inspectors” of masonry, of mining, of earth-work, and of permanent way, to each of whom a particular district is assigned.

7. The chief engineer now finds himself engaged in a new struggle with man in addition to nature. In many instances the contractors let out a portion of the work they have engaged to perform to sub-contractors, who again “set” the earth-work to a body of “navvies,” who again among themselves sub-divide it among the three branches of which their State is composed, namely, “excavators,” “trenchers,” and “runners,” each party of whom appoint their own “ganger.”

The duty of effectually overlooking all these details, of preventing collusion as well as collision, of enforcing the due execution of the contract, and yet, where necessary, occasionally to alleviate the strict letter of its law, constitute perhaps the most harassing of the various difficulties which the chief engineer has to overcome: for it must be evident that if, by means of bribery, or from inattention, or from sheer roguery, any important portion of the work be “scamped,” or insufficiently performed, results may ere long occur of the most serious description.

Tunnels.

8. The brief history of the construction of the Kilsby Tunnel of the London and North-Western Railway very strikingly demonstrates the latent difficulties which occasionally evade the investigations, baffle the calculations, and which, by chastening as well as by humbling, eventually elevate the mind of every man of science who has practically to contend with the hidden secrets of the crust of the earth which we inhabit.

The proposed tunnel was to be driven about 160 feet below the surface. It was to be, as indeed it is, 2399 yards 2 feet 6 inches in length, with two shafts of the extraordinary size of 60 feet in diameter, not only to give air and ventilation, but to admit light enough to enable the engine-driver in passing through it with a train to see the rails from end to end.

In order correctly to ascertain, and honestly to make known to the contractors, the nature of the ground through which this great work was to pass, the engineer in chief sank the usual number of what are termed “trial shafts,” and, it clearly appearing therefrom that the principal portion of the stratum was the shale of the lower oolite, the usual advertisements for tenders were issued, and the shafts, &c., having been minutely examined by the competing contractors, the work was let to one of them for the sum of 99,000l.

In order to drive the tunnel, it was deemed necessary to construct 18 working shafts, by which, like the heavings of a mole, the contents of the subterranean gallery were to be brought to the surface.

This interesting work was in busy progress, when all of a sudden it was ascertained, that at about 200 yards from the south end of the tunnel, there existed, overlaid by a bed of clay 40 feet thick, a hidden quicksand, which extended 400 yards into the proposed tunnel, and which the trial shafts on each side of it had almost miraculously just passed without touching.

The traveller in India could scarcely be more alarmed at the sudden sight of a crouching tiger before him, than the contractor was at the unexpected appearance of this invincible enemy. Overwhelmed at the discovery, he instantly took to his bed, and though he was liberally, or, to speak more correctly, justly relieved by the Company from his engagement, the reprieve came too late, for he actually died!

The question then arose whether, in the face of this tremendous difficulty, the execution of the Kilsby Tunnel should be continued or abandoned. The general opinion of the several eminent engineers who were consulted was against proceeding, and certainly the amount of the difficulties which were subsequently incurred, justified the verdict. But in science, as well as in war, the word “IMpossible” can occasionally, by cool and extraordinary exertions, be divested of its first syllable; and accordingly, Mr. Robert Stephenson offering, after mature reflection, to undertake the responsibility of proceeding, he was duly authorised to do so.

His first operation was of course to endeavour by the power of steam-engines—the comrades of his life—to lower the water with which he had to contend; and although, to a certain degree, this attempt succeeded, yet by the draining of remote springs, and by the sinking of the water in wells at considerable distances, it was soon ascertained that the quicksand in question covered several square miles.

The tunnel, 30 feet high by 30 feet broad, arched at the top as well as the bottom, was formed of bricks laid in cement, and the bricklayers were progressing in “lengths” averaging 12 feet, when those who were nearest the quicksand, on driving into the roof, were suddenly almost overwhelmed by a deluge of water which burst in upon them. As it was evident that no time was to be lost, a gang of workmen, protected by the extreme power of the engines, were with their materials placed on a raft; and while, with the utmost celerity, they were completing the walls of that short length, the water, in spite of every effort to keep it down, rose with such rapidity, that at the conclusion of the work the men were so near being jammed against the roof, that the assistant-engineer, Mr. Charles Lean, in charge of the party, jumped overboard, and then, swimming with a rope in his mouth, he towed the raft to the foot of the nearest working shaft, through which he and his men were safely lifted up into daylight, or, as it is termed by miners, “to grass.”

The water now rose in the shaft, and as it is called “drowned out” the works. For a considerable time all the pumping apparatus appeared to be insufficient. Indeed the effort threatened to be so hopeless that the Directors of the Company almost determined to abandon it, but the engineer-in-chief, relying on the power of his engines, prayed for one fortnight more; before that period expired Science triumphed over her subterranean foe, and—thanks to the inventors of the steam-engine—the water gradually lowered.

By the main strength of 1250 men, 200 horses, and 13 steam-engines, not only was the work gradually completed, but during night and day, for eight months, the astonishing and almost incredible quantity of 1800 gallons per minute from the quicksand alone was raised by Mr. Robert Stephenson and conducted away!!

Indeed such is the eagerness with which workmen in such cases proceed, that, on a comrade being one day killed at their side by falling down the shaft, they merely, like sailors in action, chucked his body out of the way and then instantly proceeded with their work. In the construction of the tunnel there were lost twenty-six men, two or three of whom were “navvies,” killed in trying, “for fun,”—as they termed it—to jump one after another across the summits of the shafts.

The time occupied from the laying of the first brick to the completion of the work was thirty months. The number of bricks used was 36,000,000, sufficient to make a good footpath from London to Aberdeen (missing the Forth) a yard broad!

On the completion of this great work the large populous village which had been constructed on its summit was of course suddenly deserted; it has since completely disappeared, and, instead of the busy scenes it once witnessed, there is now nothing heard on the dreary summit of the Kilsby Tunnel but the desolate moan of the rumbling train, or the occasional subterranean whistle of its engine; these noises being followed by the appearance of a slight smoke slowly meandering upwards from the two great shafts of the tunnel.

During the operations we have just described, an artificer who had been working in the tunnel was ascending one of the shafts when, the back of his coat happening to get into an angular crevice of the partition, called by miners a “brattice,” which separated the shaft from the pumps, it became so completely jammed therein that the man was obliged to let go the rope, and accordingly, while dangling over his head it rose to the surface, he remained, to the utter astonishment and dismay of his comrades, suspended about 100 feet from the bottom, until some of them descended and rescued him by cutting away the imprisoned piece of his coat, which, on being afterwards extricated, was long preserved in the engineer’s office as a trophy demonstrating the strength of good honest English broadcloth.

At the same shaft an accident of exactly a contrary nature subsequently occurred. In order to execute some trifling repair to the brattice, there was, during a desperate cold night, suspended, about half-way down the shaft, a temporary scaffolding on which several artificers were working by candle-light, when all of a sudden a well-known powerful “navvy,” named Jack Pierson, fell from the surface with such momentum, that, breaking through the frail scaffolding as if it had been tinder, he was in a few seconds heard to go souse into the water at a considerable depth beneath!

As soon as the men on the scaffold had recovered from their surprise they naturally all at once were animated with a desire to save their comrade. One lustily roared out for rope; another vociferously proposed something else; while several navvies, bawling from the surface, were each as eagerly and as loudly prescribing his own remedy. In the midst of this confusion the stentorian voice of Jack Pierson himself was heard, from the very bottom of the pit, calmly to exclaim,

“Darm your eyes, make less noise and pool me arout!!”

His rough command was instantly attended to, and he was moreover carried to his bed, where, poor fellow! he lay many weeks unable to move.

Besides the 1250 labourers employed in the construction of the tunnel, a proportionate number of suttlers and victuallers of all descriptions concentrated upon the village of Kilsby. In several houses there lodged in each room sixteen navvies, and as there were four beds in each apartment, two navvies were constantly in each; the two squads of eight men as alternately changing places with each other in their beds as in their work.

Such was the demand for lodging that it was, as we have stated, found necessary to construct a large village over the tunnel for the accommodation of the workmen, and, as they generally allowed themselves three meat meals a-day, it has been asserted that more beef was eaten at Kilsby during the construction of the tunnel than had previously been consumed there since the Deluge.

As these navigators are now before us, we trust that our readers will not only be curious but desirous to know a little more of the habits of a set of men who have lately added so materially to the prosperity of the country as well as to our luxuries, by the numerous railways which, by the honest sweat of their brows, they have one after another executed.

We need hardly say that, as regards their physical strength, they are the finest Herculean specimens of the British race; and, as is generally the case, in proportion as they are powerful so are they devoid of all bluster or bravado.

Those who have commanded large numbers of them state that they are not only obedient to all above them, even to their own “gangers,” but that, although they have—we think very justly—occasionally required a permanent increase of pay, they have never meanly taken advantage of a press of business to strike for wages. Indeed the conduct of a “navvy,” like his countenance, is honest and open. If from illness or misfortune he is unable to work, he and his family are maintained by his comrades; in truth the same provision is made among them for what are called by navvies their “tally-wives,” a description of relationship exceedingly difficult correctly to describe.

As they earn high wages, it is a fashion among them to keep dogs; and as rather a noble trait, we may mention that there have been several instances where 10l. has been in vain offered to “a navvy” to induce him to sell his dumb favourite.

Generally speaking they are not addicted to poaching; but when not at work they usually amuse themselves by playing at skittles, at quoits, by drinking, and occasionally by fighting; and although the latter species of recreation is no doubt reprehensible, yet surely it is better for a man to walk homewards at night with a pair of black eyes and a bloody nose, than with an I O U cheque in his pocket for ten thousand pounds, gained by what the fashionable world terms “at play” from a companion whose wife he has made destitute, and whose children he has probably ruined!

At a navvy’s funeral 500 of his comrades in their clean short white smock-frocks, with thin black handkerchiefs tied loosely round their throats, are seen occasionally in procession walking in pairs hand in hand after the coffin of their mate. In short, there exists among them a friendly “esprit de corps,” which not only binds them together, but renders it rather dangerous for any stranger to cheat, or even to endeavour to overreach them.

During the construction of the present London and North-Western Railway, a landlady at Hillmorton, near Rugby, of very sharp practice, which she had imbibed in dealings for many years with canal boatmen, was constantly remarking aloud that no navvy should ever “do” her; and although the railway was in her immediate neighbourhood, and although the navvies were her principal customers, she took pleasure on every opportunity in repeating the invidious remark.

It had, however, one fine morning scarcely left her large, full-blown, rosy lips, when a fine-looking young fellow, walking up to her, carrying in both hands a huge stone bottle, commonly called “a grey-neck,” briefly asked her for “half a gallon of gin;” which was no sooner measured and poured in than the money was rudely demanded before it could be taken away.

On the navvy declining to pay the exorbitant price asked, the landlady, with a face like a peony, angrily told him he must either pay for the gin or instantly return it.

He silently chose the latter, and accordingly, while the eyes of his antagonist were wrathfully fixed upon his, he returned into her measure the half-gallon, and then quietly walked off; but having previously put into his grey-neck half a gallon of water, each party eventually found themselves in possession of half a gallon of gin and water; and, however either may have enjoyed the mixture, it is historically recorded at Hillmorton that the landlady was never again heard unnecessarily to boast “that no navvy could ‘do’ her.”

A navvy at Kilsby, being asked why he did not go to church? dully answered in geological language—“Why, Soonday hasn’t cropped out here yet!” By which he meant that the clergyman appointed to the new village had not yet arrived.

The contrast which exists between the character of the French and English navigator may be briefly exemplified by the following trifling anecdote:—

In excavating a portion of the first tunnel east of Rouen towards Paris, a French miner dressed in his blouse, and an English “navvy” in his white smock jacket, were suddenly buried alive together by the falling in of the earth behind them. Notwithstanding the violent commotion which the intelligence of the accident excited above ground, Mr. Meek, the English engineer who was constructing the work, after having quietly measured the distance from the shaft to the sunken ground, satisfied himself that if the men, at the moment of the accident, were at the head of “the drift” at which they were working, they would be safe.

Accordingly, getting together as many French and English labourers as he could collect, he instantly commenced sinking a shaft, which was accomplished to the depth of 50 feet in the extraordinary short space of eleven hours, and the men were thus brought up to the surface alive.

The Frenchman, on reaching the top, suddenly rushing forwards, hugged and embraced on both cheeks his friends and acquaintances, many of whom had assembled, and then, almost instantly overpowered by conflicting feelings,—by the recollection of the endless time he had been imprisoned—and by the joy of his release,—he sat down on a log of timber, and, putting both his hands before his face, he began to cry aloud most bitterly.

The English “navvy” sat himself down on the very same piece of timber—took his pit-cap off his head—slowly wiped with it the perspiration from his hair and face—and then, looking for some seconds into the hole or shaft close beside him through which he had been lifted, as if he were calculating the number of cubic yards that had been excavated, he quite coolly, in broad Lancashire dialect, said to the crowd of French and English who were staring at him as children and nursery-maids in our London Zoological Gardens stand gazing half terrified at the white bear,

“Yaw’ve bean a darmnation short toime abaaowt it!”

In the construction of the London and North-Western Railway, the contractor at Blisworth also failed and also died.

Besides the perpendicular cutting which he had undertaken to execute, there was, on the surface of the rock through which it now passes, a stratum of about twenty feet of clay of so slippery a nature, that for a considerable time, in spite of all efforts or precautions, it continued to flow over into the cutting like porridge. The only remedy which could be applied was, at vast labour and expense, to remove this stratum for a considerable distance, terminating it by a slope at a very flat angle, all of which extra labour, trouble, and expense, we may observe, is not only unseen but unknown to the traveller, who, as he flies through the tunnel, if he looks at the summit at all, naturally fancies that it forms the upper extremity of the work.

In the construction of the tunnel at Walford an accident occurred of rather a serious nature. A mass of loose gravel concealed in the chalk, slipping viâ the shaft into the tunnel, suddenly killed eleven men, besides letting down from the surface a horse and gin.

Cuttings.

9. In passing through the consecutive cuttings of a great railway, the traveller usually considers that those through rock must have been desperate undertakings, infinitely more expensive than those through clay. The cost of both, however, is nearly equal; for, not only does the perpendicular rock-cutting require infinitely less excavation than the wide yawning earth one of the same depth, but when once executed the former is not liable to the expensive slips which subsequently occasionally afflict the latter.

In determining whether the line should proceed by tunnelling or by cutting, the engineer’s rule usually is to prefer the latter for any depth less than sixty feet; after which it is generally cheaper to tunnel. If, however, earth be wanted for a neighbouring embankment, it becomes of course a matter of calculation whether it may not be cheaper to make a cutting instead of what abstractedly ought otherwise to have been a tunnel.

In the construction of the Tring cutting alone of the present London and North-Western Railway, there were excavated 1,297,763 cubic yards of chalk, of which about fifteen cubic feet weighed a ton.

Embankments.

10. Besides contending with water above ground as well as below, the constructor of a railway is occasionally assailed by an element of a very different nature. For instance, when the Wolverhampton embankment of the present London and North-Western Railway, at vast trouble and expense, was nearly finished, it was observed first to smoke, then get exceedingly hot, until a slow mouldering flame visible at night appeared. The bank began to consume away, and the heat continued until it actually burned the railway sleepers; at last, however, it exhausted itself. The combustion was caused by the quantity of sulphuret of iron or pyrites contained in the earth of the embankment, which, having been baked by the fire, will probably never slip.

11. It would be tedious, and indeed impossible, to detail the various works which a railway engineer has to superintend in the construction of the line, in the laying down of the rails or “permanent way,” and in the subsequent, or rather simultaneous, erection of the various station-houses, storehouses, workshops, &c. &c., the interior of which we shall soon have occasion to enter.

An idea, however, of the magnitude of his operations may be faintly imparted by the following brief abstract of a series of calculations made by Mr. Lecount, one of the engineers employed in the construction of the southern division of the present London and North-Western Railway, and the writer of the article ‘Railways’ in the ‘Encyclopædia Britannica.’ The great Pyramid of Egypt was, according to Diodorus Siculus, constructed by three hundred thousand—according to Herodotus by one hundred thousand—men; it required for its execution twenty years, and the labour expended on it has been estimated as equivalent to lifting 15,733,000,000 of cubic feet of stone one foot high. Now, if in the same manner the labour expended in constructing the Southern Division only of the present London and North-Western Railway be reduced to one common denomination, the result is 25,000,000,000 cubic feet of similar material lifted to the same height; being 9,267,000,000 of cubic feet more than was lifted for the pyramid; and yet the English work was performed by about 20,000 men only, in less than five years.

Again, it has been calculated by Mr. Lecount that the quantity of earth moved in the single division (112½ miles in length) of the railway in question would be sufficient to make a foot-path a foot high and a yard broad round the whole circumference of the earth! the cost of this division of the railway in penny-pieces being sufficient to form a copper kerb or edge to it. Supposing therefore the same proportionate quantity of earth to be moved in the 7150 miles of railway sanctioned by Parliament at the commencement of 1848 (Vide Parliamentary Returns), our engineers within about fifteen years would, in the construction of our railways alone, have removed earth sufficient to girdle the globe with a road one foot high and one hundred and ninety-one feet broad!

Abandoning, however, speculations of this nature, we will conclude our slight sketch of the principal works required for a railway by a few data, exemplifying the magnitude of the Britannia Bridge over the Menai Straits, the construction of which has been intrusted by its well-known inventor to the very able and experienced management of Mr. Frank Forster.

The dimensions of this straight wrought-iron aërial gallery, through which passengers and goods are to travel by rail, are—

It would, we conceive, be impertinent to dilute the above facts by a single comment.

The Chief Engineer.

As the selection of an engineer-in-chief, competent to determine the best line for a projected railway to take, the mode in which it should be constructed, and, lastly, to execute his own project—deviating from it with consummate judgment according to the difficulties, physical, moral, and political, which, sometimes separately and sometimes collectively, suddenly rise up to oppose him—is a point not only of vital importance to the success of the undertaking, but in the undertaking is the first important point to be decided, it would, we were aware, have apparently been the most regular to have commenced the present chapter with this subject. We conceived, however, that instead of there detailing the qualifications necessary for the duties required, it would save us very many words, and our readers as much time, if we were to defer the consideration of that subject until a brief outline of those duties should, without comment, practically explain the qualifications required.

If the United Kingdom had only projected the construction of one or two great arterial railways, we might naturally have expected that the few competent engineers necessary would readily have been obtained; but when we consider the number of railways that were simultaneously created, the surveys, plans, sections, and other preparations that were necessary, the magnitude of the works of various descriptions that were to be constructed in each, it must evidently to many be a subject of astonishment that there should have been found on the surface of our country not only the amount of engineering talent necessary for the execution of such vast works, but an amount which may truly be said to have exceeded the demand.

The curious historical fact, however, is, that the amount of engineering talent thus suddenly required existed not on the surface of our country, but, on the contrary, many hundred fathoms beneath it. The brilliant talents that were required were “black diamonds,” without metaphor embedded in the bowels of the earth. Science called her spirits from the vasty deep, and in obedience to her commands there arose out of the shafts of our coaleries, and from beneath the bottom of the Thames—

Old George Stephenson, who had served his articles of apprenticeship in a coal-mine, for many years working at the engines both above ground and below;

Isambard Brunel, whose principal experience had been acquired in the construction of the Thames Tunnel;

Joseph Locke, a colliery-viewer, who had served his apprenticeship below ground;

Robert Stephenson, brought up as a coal-miner, served his apprenticeship at Killingworth colliery;

Frank Forster had worked for seven years as an apprentice in a coal-mine;

Nicholas Wood, ditto;

Charles Lean, ditto;

And a crowd of similar genii, all slaves of the same lamp, or “Old Davy,” as they term it.

To such men the difficulties attendant upon the construction of a railway were trifling as compared with those against which all their lives they had been contending.

For instance, he who along dark, intricate, subterranean passages, or “heavings,” as they are termed, often only three feet and a half high, and occasionally only two feet high, creeping and crawling through foul air, could with great speed, not only with unerring certainty find his way, but in such a secluded study could plan a variety of new cuttings, each forming part and parcel of a reticulated system of excavation which an unpractised mind would find it utterly impossible to comprehend, would, it may easily be conceived, experience but little difficulty, when walking erect in sunshine and in balmy air, to carry in his mind from, say Harrow to Watford, Watford to Tring, Tring to Wolverton, and Wolverton to Birmingham, those great leading features of the surrounding country which would enable him to exercise for the laying out of a railway the judgment and decision required.

Again, what, it may justly be asked, are embankments, deep cuttings, and occasionally here and there a straight tunnel thirty feet broad, twenty-seven feet high, usually forming by drainage its own adit, in comparison with the overwhelming and intricate difficulties attendant upon—

1st. The excavation of coal from strata of various characters, at various depths, each passage or “air-heaving” requiring perhaps a different system of support.

2nd. Encountering at various depths quicksands.

3rd. The great as well as minute arrangements necessary for wheeling carriages and raising the coals.

4th. The organization and management of a subterranean army of men and horses.

5th, and lastly. Lifting by steam-power from various depths, by night and by day, streams, floods, and occasionally almost rivers of water?

It has been beneath the surface of our country that these and many other difficulties of vast magnitude—unknown to and unthought of by the multitude—have for many generations been successfully encountered by science, capital, and by almost superhuman physical exertion; and it was accordingly, as we have stated, from beneath the surface of Great Britain that an organised corps of civil engineers, who, like those we have named, had regularly served as apprentices, arose, in the emergency of a moment, to assist their eminent brother engineers above ground, in constructing for the country the innumerable railways so suddenly required.

CHAPTER II.

On the Maintenance of the Permanent Way.

As soon as an infant railway can run alone—we mean as soon as its works are all constructed, its permanent way finished, its buildings executed, its locomotive engines as well as its carriages constructed, and its whole establishment of officers and men appointed and organised—the chief engineer, like a month-nurse, usually departs to new troubles, leaving the maintenance of the way to those of his assistants whom he considers, and who in the opinion of the Directors of the Company are deemed, the most competent to execute its various details.

The manner in which this important duty is performed on the London and North-Western Railway is very briefly as follows:—

The line is, according to the nature of its works, divided into distances of from 17 to 30 miles, to each of which there is appointed “an overlooker,” whose district is subdivided into “lengths” of one or two miles, to each of which is appointed “a foreman,” with his gang of two or three men.

Every morning before the first train passes, the foreman is required to walk over his length, not only generally to inspect it, but especially to ascertain that each of the wooden keys which secure the rails are firmly fixed; and in case of any deficiency, his first operation is to put up, 800 yards above the point, a signal flag, which flies until the necessary repair is executed.

The ambition of the superintendent of the division is, however, to execute all necessary repairs not only with the utmost promptitude and despatch, but, if possible, without impeding the passage of the public; and considering the number of up and down passenger, goods, and coal trains (vide ‘Bradshaw’s List’) that are continually passing along the line, the success with which this object can, in railway management, be practically attained is worthy of explanation. For instance—

1. In February, 1848, three miles of single rails were relaid by the Company’s engineer in Kilsby Tunnel; 125 men and one ballast-engine being employed in this work for four weeks, without stopping the public.

2. The Beech Wood Tunnel (situated about five miles north of Coventry, and about 300 yards in length) was entirely relined with bricks. Two hundred workmen were employed in this troublesome operation for about six weeks without a single accident, and without stopping the public, who, indeed, probably, during the whole period of the repair, passed through without being even aware of the execution of the job.

3. Between June, 1845, and October, 1848, the Company’s engineer of the Southern District relaid 57 miles of single line of railway without stopping a train and without accident.

At the Agricultural Meeting at Northampton in July, 1847, upwards of 11,000 persons were sent to Northampton, and 13,000 returned in the evening, the carriages they occupied forming one mass as far as the eye could reach. From the Company’s returns it appears that, of the above number, not a single person received any injury; and although, from some unaccountable reason, a good many of them on their return walked, it is whispered, zigzaggedly, only two out of the whole number were despatched to wrong destinations.

As the above facts require no comment, it is merely necessary to explain by what description of arrangements the works of a great railway can be repaired and renewed without stopping the public.

The two following specimens of the directions issued on such occasions by the Company’s superintendent will best give the information required:—

London and North-Western Railway.

Superintendent’s Office, Euston Station,
22nd January, 1848.

Relaying the Rails in the Kilsby Tunnel.

The Engineer Department have given notice that the workmen are ready to commence removing the stone blocks and relaying the rails in the Kilsby Tunnel.

The Electric Telegraph having been laid through the Tunnel, the work is to commence on the night of Wednesday the 2nd of February, and during its continuance the traffic is to be conveyed over one Line from the passing of the Up Lancashire Express Train (say 9 P.M.) until 8 o’clock the following morning, when the Up Line is to be clear for the passage of the 7 A.M. Train from Birmingham.

The passage of the Trains through the Tunnel during the night is to be under the following regulations:—

The Red Signal is to be kept on at each entrance to the Tunnel during the hours the traffic has to pass over the same Line; and every Train, whether Up or Down, is to stop short of the Cross Road laid down at the Tunnel mouth.

As a guide to the Drivers where to stop, a Post has been erected, upon which a Red Light will be shown, and beyond which the Engine is not to advance.

As a further precaution during the hours of relaying, the Green Signal is to be shown at Crick, and by the Policeman stationed at Hillmorton Ballast Pit, as notice to the Drivers in either direction to shut off the steam.

On the approach of a Train to either entrance, the Policeman on duty is to sound the Telegraph Bell, whereupon the Policeman at the other end will respond by sounding his Bell; and immediately after telegraph “Line clear,” or “Line blocked,” as the case may be.

If the answer be “Line clear,” the Train is to be allowed to enter the Tunnel, the Policeman at the entrance telegraphing back to the other end “Train in,” whereupon he will not again telegraph, or allow any Engine to enter the Tunnel, until he receives Telegraph Notice from the other end “Train out.”

The same process and precaution is to be observed with every Train that may arrive, and no Signal is to be considered received and understood until responded to.

Whichever end first rings the bell to announce the approach of a Train, that Train is to have the precedence, and a Train arriving at the other end is to be kept clear of the Crossing Points until the first announced Train has passed, when, after telegraphing “Train out,” and getting the response from the other end, the Policeman at that end will ring his bell as notice that he has a Train waiting to enter, which is to be allowed to proceed after passing the Signals as before described.

Three Policemen are also to be stationed in the Tunnel, with Fog Signals and Hand Lamps, to signal the Trains as they pass through; and one additional at each entrance, to assist in the Signals and crossing the Trains.

The Drivers are to be strictly enjoined to approach the Tunnel with caution, as a Train may be standing outside, and on passing through they are to be prepared to bring their Train to a stand, should it be necessary to stop unexpectedly.

H. P. Bruyeres.

London and North-Western Railway.

Superintendent’s Office, Euston Station,
30th August, 1848.

Relaying of the Up Line between Berkhampstead and Tring.

The Engineer Department have notified that they are prepared to relay a portion of the Up Line, between the 27¾ and 30 Mile Posts, north of Berkhampstead Station.

The plate-layers are to work at the undermentioned times, viz.:—

From 3.50 A.M. to 5.40 A.M.

That is, after the passing of the 12.15 Night Mail Passenger Train from Birmingham, until the 2.0 A.M. Goods Train from Rugby becomes due. Again—

From 7.50 A.M. to 8.55 A.M.

That is, after the passing of the 6.45 A.M. Wolverton Passenger Train, until the 7.15 A.M. Passenger Train from Northampton becomes due. Again—

From 9.55 A.M. to 10.50 A.M.

That is, after the passing of the 7.0 A.M. Passenger Train from Birmingham, until the 9.45 A.M. Passenger Train from Bedford becomes due. Again—

From 12.40 Noon to 1.50 P.M.

That is, after the passing of the 10.35 Goods Train from Wolverton, until the 10.30 A.M. Passenger Train from Birmingham becomes due, when the relaying will cease for the day.

The interval from 12.40 Noon to 1.50 P.M. for relaying will be allowed daily, except on Thursdays and Saturdays, on which days, in consequence of the Up Special Cattle Trains, the relaying is to cease after the third interval, viz. at 10.50 A.M.

Although all the Up Trains will travel on their own line, should any arrive out of course during the hours the Relaying Party are engaged, they are not to proceed forward on their journey until advised by the Policeman engaged with the Workmen that the Line is ready for their passage.

Until the relaying be reported complete, the Drivers and Guards of all Up Trains are to be instructed before leaving Wolverton that they are to be in readiness to stop on the instant the Policeman engaged with the Working Party signals them to do so.

A Policeman is to be specially appointed to attend the Working Party, and stop any Train should it be necessary.

The work to commence on Friday next, the 1st of September.

No Pilot Engine is to be allowed to leave Tring on its return to London during the time of the four intervals allotted to the Relaying Party.

(Signed) H. P. Bruyeres.

In cases of slips of embankments or other heavy accidents of any description, the Company’s engineer is prepared to collect and forward to the spot with the utmost possible despatch the amount of men and materials required.

Having concluded a very faint outline of the difficulties attendant upon the construction of a great railway, and upon the maintenance of its permanent way, we will now proceed very briefly to describe the practical working of the whole concern.

CHAPTER III.

The Trains—Euston.

The Down Train.

On arriving in a cab at the Euston Station, the old-fashioned traveller is at first disposed to be exceedingly pleased at the newborn civility with which, the instant the vehicle stops, a porter, opening its door with surprising alacrity, most obligingly takes out every article of his luggage; but so soon as he suddenly finds out that the officious green straight-buttoned-up official’s object has been solely to get the cab off the premises, in order to allow the string of variegated carriages that are slowly following to advance—in short, that, while he has been paying to the driver, say only two shining shillings, his favourite great-coat, his umbrella, portmanteau, carpet-bag, Russia leather writing-case, secured by Chubb’s patent lock, have all vanished—he poignantly feels, like poor Johnson, that his “patron has encumbered him with help;” and it having been the golden maxim of his life never to lose sight of his luggage, it gravels and dyspepsias him beyond description to be civilly told that on no account can he be allowed to follow it, but that “he will find it on the platform;” and truly enough the prophecy is fulfilled; for there he does find it on a barrow in charge of the very harlequin who whipped away, and who, as its guardian angel, hastily muttering the words “Now then, Sir!” stands beckoning him to advance.

The picture of the departure of one of the large trains from the Station at Euston Square, however often it may have been witnessed, is worthy of a few moments’ contemplation.

On that great covered platform, which, with others adjoining it, is lighted from above by 8797 square yards (upwards of an acre and three-quarters) of plate-glass, are to be seen congregated and moving to and fro in all directions, in a sort of Babel confusion, persons of all countries, of all religions, and of all languages. People of high character, of low character, of no character at all. Infants just beginning life—old people just ending it. Many desirous to be noticed—many, from innumerable reasons, good, bad, and indifferent, anxious to escape notice. Some are looking for their friends—some, suddenly turning upon their heels, are evidently avoiding their acquaintance.

Contrasted with that variety of free and easy well-worn costumes in which quiet-minded people usually travel, are occasionally to be seen a young couple—each, like a new-born baby, dressed from head to foot in everything perfectly new—hurrying towards a coupé, on whose door there negligently hangs a black board—upon which there is printed, not unappropriately, in white bridal letters, the word “Engaged.”

Across this mass of human beings a number of porters are to be seen carrying and tortuously wheeling, in contrary directions, baggage and property of all shapes and sizes. One is carrying over his right shoulder a matted parcel, 12 or 15 feet long, of young trees, which the owner, who has just purchased them for his garden, is following with almost parental solicitude. Another porter, leaning as well as walking backwards, is attempting with his whole strength to drag towards the luggage-van a leash of pointer-dogs, whose tails, like certain other “tails” that we know of, are obstinately radiating from the couples that bind together their heads: while a number of newspaper-vendors, “fleet-footed Mercuries,” are worming their way through the crowd.

Within the long and apparently endless straight line of railway carriages which bound the platform, are soon seen the faces and caps of various travellers, especially old ones, who with due precaution have taken possession of their seats; and while most of these, each of them with their newspapers unfolded on their knees, are slowly wiping their spectacles, several of the younger inmates are either talking to other idlers leaning on their carriage-windows, or, half kissing and half waving their hands, are bidding “farewell” to the kind friends who had accompanied them to the station.

Some months ago, at a crisis similar to that just mentioned, we happened to be ensconced in the far corner of a railway carriage, when we heard a well-known clergyman from Brighton suddenly observe to his next neighbour who sat between us, “There must surely be something very remarkable in that scene!” His friend, who was busily cutting open his Record, made no reply, but, as we chanced to witness the trifling occurrence alluded to, we will very briefly describe it. A young man of about twenty-two, of very ordinary height, dress, and appearance, was standing opposite to a first-class carriage just as the driver’s whistle shrilly announced the immediate departure of the train. At this signal, without any theatrical movement, or affectation of any sort, he quietly reeled backwards upon a baggage-truck, which happened to be immediately behind him. Two elderly ladies beside him instantly set to work, first of all, most vigorously to rub with their lean fingers the palms of his hands—they might just as well have scrubbed the soles of his boots;—then they untied his neckcloth; but their affectionate kindness was of no avail. The train was probably separating him from something, or from some one. The movement however he had not witnessed, for the mere whistle of the engine had caused him to swoon! What corresponding effect of fainting or sobbing it may have produced on any inmate in that carriage before which he had long been standing, and which had just left him, we have no power to divine. It is impossible, however, to help reflecting what a variety of emotions must every day be excited within the train as well as on the platform at Euston Station by the scream or parting whistle which we have just described. From the murderer flying from the terrors of justice down to the poor brokenhearted creditor absconding from his misfortunes;—from our careworn Prime Minister down to the most indolent member of either House of Parliament—each simultaneously escaping after a long-protracted session;—from people of all classes going from or to laborious occupation, down to the schoolboy reluctantly returning to, or joyfully leaving, his school;—from our Governor-General proceeding to embark for India, down to the poor emigrant about to sail from the same port to Australia—the railway-whistle, however unheeded by the multitude, must oftentimes have excited a variety of feelings which it would be utterly impossible to describe.

While the travellers of a train are peacefully taking their seats, artillery-men, horses, and cannon, on a contiguous set of rails, are occasionally as quietly embarking in carriages, horse-boxes, and trucks, which are subsequently hooked on to a mass of passengers perfectly unconscious of the elements of war which are accompanying them.

As a departing railway-train, like a vessel sailing out of harbour, proceeds on its course, its rate rapidly increases, until, in a very short time, it has attained its full speed, and men of business are then intently reading the “City news,” and men of pleasure the leading article of their respective newspapers, when this runaway street of passengers—men, women, and children—unexpectedly find themselves in sudden darkness, visible only by a feeble and hitherto unappreciated lamp, which, like the pale moon after a fiery sunset, modestly shines over their head. By this time the boarded platform at Euston Station, but a few minutes ago so densely thronged with passengers, is completely deserted. The lonely guard on duty, every footstep resounding as he walks, paces along it like a sentinel. The newspaper-vendors, sick unto death of the news they had been vaunting, are indolently reclining at their stalls; even the boy who sells ‘Punch’ is half asleep; and there is nothing to break the sober dulness of the scene but a few clerks and messengers, who, like rabbits popping from one hole of their warren into another, enter upon the platform from the door of one office to hurry into that of the next. In a few minutes, however, the loud puffing of an engine announces the approach towards the platform of a string of empty carriages, which are scarcely formed into the next departure train, when vehicles of all descriptions are again to be seen in our most public thoroughfares concentrating upon the focus of Euston Square; and thus, with a certain alleviation on Sundays, this strange feverish admixture of confusion and quietness, of society and solitude, continues intermittently from ¼ past 6 A.M. to 10 P.M. during every day in the week, every week in the month, and every month in the year.

The Up Train.

The out-train having been despatched, we must now beg our readers to be so good as to walk, or rather to scramble, with us from the scene of its departure across five sets of rails, on which are lying, like vessels at anchor in a harbour, crowds of railway-carriages preparing to depart, to the opposite platform, in order to witness the arrival of an incoming train. This platform, for reasons which will shortly appear, is infinitely longer than that for the departure trains. It is a curve 900 feet in length, lighted by day from above with plate-glass, and at night by 67 large gas-lamps suspended from above, or affixed to the iron pillars that support the metallic net-worked roof. Upon this extensive platform scarcely a human being is now to be seen; nevertheless along its whole length it is bounded on the off-side by an interminable line of cabs, intermixed with private carriages of all shapes, gigs, dog-carts, and omnibuses, the latter standing opposite to little ugly black-faced projecting boards, which by night as well as by day are always monotonously exclaiming, “Holborn—Fleet Street—and Cheapside!”—“Oxford Street—Regent Street—and Charing Cross!” &c.

In this motley range of vehicles, smart coachmen, tall pale powdered footmen, and splendid horses are strangely contrasted with the humble but infinitely faster conveyance—the common cab. Most of the drivers of these useful machines, strange to say, are absent; the remainder are either lolling on benches, or, in various attitudes, dozing on their boxes. Their horses, which are generally well-bred, and whose bent knees and fired hocks proclaim the good services they have performed, stand ruminating with a piece of sacking across their loins, or with nose-bags, often empty—until for some reason a carriage before them leaves their line: in which case, notwithstanding the absence of their drivers and regardless of all noises, they quietly advance along the edge of the little precipice which bounds the rails. They there know quite well what they are waiting for, and have no desire to move. Indeed, it is a Pickwickian fact, well known to cab-drivers, that their horses travel unwillingly from the station, but always pull hard coming back, simply because it is during the waiting-time at Euston Station that their nose-bags are put on—or, in other words, that they are fed.

We may here observe that there are sixty-five selected cabmen who have the entrée to the platform, and who, quamdiù se bene gesserint, are allowed exclusively to work for the Company, whose name is painted on their cabs. If more than these are required, a porter calls them from a line of supplicant cabs standing in the adjacent street. Close to each departure-gate there is stationed a person whose duty it is to write down in a book the number of each cabman carrying away a passenger, as well as the place to which he is conveying him, which two facts each driver is required to exclaim as he trots by; and thus any traveller desirous to complain of a cabman, or who may have left any property in a carriage from Euston Station, has only to state on what day and by what train he arrived, also whither he was conveyed, and from these data the driver’s name can at any lapse of time be readily ascertained.

But our attention is suddenly claimed by something of infinitely more importance than a passenger’s luggage: for that low unearthly whine within the small signal-office behind the line of cabs and carriages requires immediate explanation.

The variety of unforeseen accidents that might occur by the unwelcome arrival of an unexpected or even of an expected passenger-train at the great terminus of the London and North-Western Railway are so obvious that it has been deemed necessary to take the following precautions.

As soon as the reeking engine-funnel of an up-train is seen darting out of the tunnel at Primrose Hill, one of the Company’s servants stationed there, who deals solely in compressed air—or rather, who has an hydraulic machine for condensing it—allows a portion to rush through an inch iron pipe; and he thus instantaneously produces in the little signal-office on the up-platform of Euston Station, where there is always a signal-man watching by night as well as by day, that loud melancholy whine which has just arrested our attention, and which will continue to moan uninterruptedly for five minutes:—

“Hic vasto rex Æolus antro

Luctantes ventos tempestatesque sonoras

Imperio premit, ac vinclis et carcere frenat.

Illi indignantes magno cum murmure fremunt.”

The moment this doleful intimation arrives, the signal-man, emerging from his little office, touches the trigger of a bell outside his door, which immediately in two loud hurried notes announces to all whom it may concern the arrival at Camden Station of the expected up-train; and at this moment it is interesting to watch the poor cab-horses, who, by various small muscular movements, which any one acquainted with horses can readily interpret, clearly indicate that they are perfectly sensible of what has just occurred, and quite as clearly foresee what will very shortly happen to them.

As soon as the green signal-man has created this sensation among bipeds and quadrupeds, taking with him the three flags, of danger (red), caution (green), and security (white), he proceeds down the line a few yards to a point from which he can plainly see his brother signal-man stationed at the mouth of the Euston tunnel. If any obstruction exists in that direction, the waving of the red flag informs him of it; and it is not until the white one from the tunnel as well as that from the station-master on the platform have reported to him that “all is clear” that he returns to his important but humble office (12 feet in length by 9 in breadth) to announce, by means of his compressed-air apparatus, this intelligence to the ticket-collector at Camden Station, whose strict orders are, on no account whatever to allow a train to leave his platform until he has received through the air-pipes, from the signal-office at Euston Station, the Company’s lugubrious authority to do so.

In the latter office there are also the dial and wires of an electric telegraph, at present inoperative. The signal-man, however, mentioned to us the following trifling anecdote, as illustrative of the practical utility of that wonderful invention, which has so justly immortalized the names of Cooke and Wheatstone. An old general officer, who, from his residence some miles beyond Manchester, had come up to Euston Station on an invitation from the East-India Directors to be present at the dinner to be given by them to Lord Hardinge, found on his arrival that it would be necessary he should appear in regimentals: and the veteran, nothing daunted, was proposing to return to Manchester, when the signal-man at Euston advised him to apply for them by electric telegraph. He did so. The application, at the ordinary rate of 280,000 miles (about twelve times the circumference of the earth) per second, flew to Manchester; in obedience to its commands a porter was instantly despatched into the country for the clothes, which, being forwarded by the express train, arrived in abundant time for the dinner. The charge for telegraph and porter was 13s. 8d.

About four minutes after the up-train has been authorised by the air-pipe to leave Camden Station, the guard who stands listening for it at the Euston tunnel, just as a deaf man puts his ear to a trumpet, announces by his flag its immediate approach; on which the signal-man at the little office on Euston platform again touches his trigger, which violently convulsing his bell as before, the cab-horses begin to move their feet, raise their jaded heads, prick up their ears, and champ their bits; the servants in livery turn their powdered heads round; the Company’s porters, emerging from various points, quickly advance to their respective stations; and this suspense continues until in a second or two there is seen darting out of the tunnel, like a serpent from its hole, the long dark-coloured dusty train, which, by a tortuous movement, is apparently advancing at its full speed. But the bank-riders, by applying their breaks—without which the engineless train merely by its own gravity would have descended the incline from Camden Station at the rate of forty miles an hour—soon slacken its speed, until the Company’s porters at a brisk walk are preparing to unfasten one after another the doors of all the carriages.

While they are performing this popular duty, numerous salutations, and kissings of hands of all colours and sizes, are seen to pass between several of the inmates of the passing train and those seated in or on the motley line of conveyances standing stock still which have been awaiting their arrival. A wife suddenly recognises her husband, a mother her four children, a sister her two dear brothers; Lord A. B. politely bows to Lady C. D.; John, from his remote coach-box, grins with honest joy as faithful Susan glides by; while Sally bashfully smiles at “a gentleman” in plush breeches reclining in the rumble of the barouche behind it.

As soon as the train stops, a general “sauve qui peut” movement takes place, and our readers have now an opportunity of observing that, just as it is hard to make money, easy to spend it, so, although it consumes at least twenty minutes to fill and despatch a long train, it scarcely requires as many seconds to empty one. Indeed, in less than that short space of time the greater number of the railway carriages are often empty!

When every person has succeeded in liberating himself or herself from the train, it is amusing to observe how cleverly, from long practice, the Company’s porters understood the apparent confusion which exists. To people wishing to embrace their friends—to gentlemen and servants darting in various directions straight across the platform to secure a cab or in search of private carriages—they offer no assistance whatever, well knowing that none is required. But to every passenger whom they perceive to be either restlessly moving backwards and forwards, or standing still, looking upwards in despair, they civilly say “This way, Sir!” “Here it is, Ma’am!”—and thus, knowing what they want before they ask, they conduct them either to the particular carriage on whose roof their baggage has been placed, or to the luggage-van in front of the train, from which it has already been unloaded on to the platform; and thus, in a very few minutes after the convulsive shaking of hands and the feverish distribution of baggage have subdivided, all the cabs and carriages have radiated away—the parti-coloured omnibuses have followed them—even the horses, which in different clothing have been disembarked, have been led or ridden away—and, the foot-passengers having also disappeared, the long platform of the incoming train of the Euston Station remains once more solely occupied by one or two servants of the Company, hemmed in by a new line of expectant cabs and omnibuses. Indeed, at various periods of the day, a very few minutes only elapse before, at the instigation of compressed air, the faithful signal-bell is again heard hysterically announcing the arrival of another train at Camden Station.

In a clear winter’s night the arrival of an up-train at the platform before us forms a very interesting picture.

No sound is heard in the cold air but the hissing of a pilot engine, which, like a restless spirit advancing and retrograding, is stealing along the intermediate rails, waiting to carry off the next down-train; its course being marked by white steam meandering above it and by red-hot coals of different sizes which are continually falling from beneath it. In this obscure scene the Company’s interminable lines of gaslights (there are 232 at the Euston Station), economically screwed down to the minimum of existence, are feebly illuminating the damp varnished panels of the line of carriages in waiting, the brass doorhandles of the cabs, the shining haims, brass browbands and other ornaments on the drooping heads and motionless backs of the cab-horses; and while the blood-red signal lamp is glaring near the tunnel to deter unauthorised intrusion, the stars of heaven cast a faint silvery light through the long strips of plate-glass in the roof above the platform. On a sudden is heard—the stranger hardly knows whence—the mysterious moan of compressed air, followed by the violent ringing of a bell. That instant every gaslight on and above a curve of 900 feet suddenly bursts into full power. The carriages, cabs, &c. appear, comparatively speaking, in broad daylight, and the beautiful iron reticulation which sustains the glazed roof appears like fairy work.

CHAPTER IV.

The Railway Carriages.

We will now proceed to detail a few circumstances respecting the railway carriages, about which our readers have probably never cared to inquire.—And, firstly, as soon as an up-train arrives at the commencement of the Euston platform, while it is still in motion, and before its guard—distinguished by a silver-buckled black shiny patent-leather belt, hanging diagonally across the white buttons of his green uniform-coat—has ventured with practised skill to spring from the sideboard of the train to the platform, two greasy-faced men in canvas jackets, with an oil-can in each of their right hands and with something like a mophead of dirty cotton hugged under each of their left arms, are to be seen running on each side of the rails below in pursuit of the train; and while the porters, holding the handles of the carriage doors, to prevent any traveller from escaping, are still advancing at a brisk walk, these two oilmen, who have now overtaken the train, diligently wipe as they proceed the dust and perspiration from the buffer-rods of the last carriage. As soon as these irons are perfectly clean and dry rubbed, they oil them from their can; and then—crawling beneath the open doors of the carriages and beneath the feet and ankles of a crowd of exuding travellers of all ages, who care no more for oilmen than the oilmen of this world care for them—they hurry to the buffer-rods of the next carriage—and so rapidly do they proceed, that before the last omnibus has driven off, the buffer-rods of the whole train are as bright as when new. But, secondly, these two men have been closely followed by two others in green jackets—one on each side of the carriage—who deal solely in a yellow composition of tallow and palm-oil. Carrying a wooden box full of this ointment in one hand and a sort of short flat salve-knife in the other, they open with the latter the small iron trap-doors which cover the receptacles for greasing the axles, restore whatever quantity has been exhausted, and then, closing with a dexterous snap the little unctuous chamber over which they preside, they proceed to the next tallow-box; and thus, while the buffer-rods of the whole train are being comfortably cleaned and greased, the glistening axles of the carriages are simultaneously fed with luxurious fat. Thirdly, while these two operations are proceeding in the lower region, at about the same rate two others are progressing, one inside the carriages and the other on their roofs; for on the arrival of every passenger-train, the carriage “searcher,” also “beginning at the end,” enters every carriage, lifts up first all the stuffed blue seats, next the carpet, which he drops in a heap in the middle of the carriage, and then, inquisitively peeping under the two seats, he leaves the carriage, laden with whatever article or articles may have been left in it, to continue his search throughout the train. The inconceivable number and variety of the articles which he collects we shall shortly have occasion to notice. Fourthly, above the searcher’s head, on the roof, and following him very closely in his course, there “sits up aloft” a man called a “strapper,” whose sole duty it is, on the arrival of every train, to inspect, clean, shampoo, and refresh with cold-drawn neat’s-foot oil the luggage-straps, which, in consequence of several serious accidents that have occurred from their breaking, are now lined inside with strong iron wire. It is the especial duty of this inquisitor to condemn any straps that may be faulty, in order that they may be immediately replaced.

As soon as these four simultaneous operations are concluded, directions are given by the station-master to remove the up-carriages from their position, that the rails may be clear for the arrival of the next train. At this word of command a pilot-engine, darting from its lurking place like a spider from its hole, occasionally hisses up to the rear of the train, and drags it off bodily into a siding. The usual mode, however, of getting an in-train out of the way is by the assistance of various unnoticed turn-tables, upon which portions of it are standing. By these simple contrivances the carriages, after being unhooked from each other, are rapidly carried off into the sidings, where they are arranged, according as they may afterwards be required, among the five sets of rails which lie between the opposite platforms of the arrival and departure trains. No sooner, however, do they reach this haven, than, fifthly, a large gang of strong he-housemaids, clattering towards them in wooden shoes and in leather leggings rising above their bony knees, are seen advancing; some with mops in their hands, others with large chamois leathers, while others are carrying on their shoulders a yoke, from which are suspended in equilibrio two pails. From pipes on each side of these five sets of rails water is immediately drawn off, and the busy operation of washing then begins. Half a dozen dusty, dirty-faced, or rather dirty-bodied, carriages are simultaneously assailed on each of their sides by wet mops flying up, down, and around in all directions. The wielders of these, be it noticed, are so skilful in their vocation, that, while they are talking to their “pailers,” they with great velocity continue to mop round the wood-work of the various-shaped plate-glass windows just as vigorously and as accurately as if they were looking at them; indeed, it is evident that they know the position of railway-carriage doors, windows of all forms, handles, steps, &c., so accurately, that they could mop a coach clean in the dark and probably they often go through these motions when they are asleep, just as King Richard III. in his dream called for his horse and for linen bandages—just as the sleeping orator ejaculates portions of his last speech—and just as an equally tired outstretched fox-hound during the night occasionally convulsively kicks with his uppermost hind leg and yelps aloud when he thinks of the view he got of Renard as he first gallantly broke away from —— gorse. It may possibly not be known to some of the most fashionable of our readers that among “moppers” there exist the same gradations which so distinctly separate other classes of society. A “first-class mopper” would on no account demean himself by mopping a second-class carriage, and in like manner a “second-class mopper” only attains that distinction after he has for a sufficient length of time been commissioned to mop horse-boxes and common luggage-trains.

After the passenger-carriages are all washed and dried, they are minutely examined, sixthly, by one or more of the foremen of the coach department, who order off to their adjoining establishment any that may require repair. Those that remain are then visited, lastly, by “the duster,” who enters each carriage with a cloth, a leather, a brush, and a dust-pan, with which apparatus he cleans the windows, wipes the wood-work, brushes the blue cloth seats, sides, and backs—and when this operation is concluded, the carriages are reported fit to depart, and accordingly are then marshalled into trains for that purpose.

Coach Department.

The new carriages for the southern division of the London and North-Western Railway are principally built by contract in the City by Mr. Wright, who also supplies carriages for other English railways, as well as a great number for Germany. The Company’s establishment at Euston Station, which is therefore principally for the maintenance of carriages of various descriptions running between London and Birmingham, consists of a large area termed “the Field,” where, under a covering almost entirely of plate-glass, are no less than fourteen sets of rails, upon which wounded or spare carriages lie until doctored or required. Immediately adjoining are various workshops, the largest of which is 260 feet in length by 132 in breadth, roofed with plate-glass, lighted by gas, and warmed by hot air. In this edifice, in which there is a strong smell of varnish, and in the corner of which we found men busily employed in grinding beautiful colours, while others were emblazoning arms on panels, are to be seen carriages highly finished as well as in different stages of repair. Among the latter there stood a severely wounded second-class carriage. Both its sides were in ruins, and its front had been so effectively smashed that not a vestige of it remained. The iron-work of the guard’s step was bent completely upwards, and a tender behind was nearly filled with the confused débris of its splintered wood-work—and yet, strange to say, a man, his wife, and their little child, who had been in this carriage during its accident, had providentially sustained no injury! Close to this immense warehouse we found a blacksmith’s shop seventy-five feet square, lighted from the roof with plate-glass, containing in the centre a large chimney, around which there were simultaneously at work fourteen forges, blown by a steam-engine of seventeen-horse power, which works machinery in two other shops. As, however, we shall have occasion to describe the Company’s coaching establishment at Crewe, we will abruptly take leave of the details before us.

CHAPTER V.

Lost Luggage Office.

At a short distance from the terminus of the up-trains there is a foundling-office, termed the Lost Luggage Office, in which are received all articles which the passengers leave behind them, and which on the arrival of every train are brought by the Company’s “searcher” to this office. The superintendent on receiving them records in a book a description of each article, stating on what day, by what train, in what carriage it arrived, and by whom found. All luggage bearing an address is kept about forty-eight hours, and, if during that time no one calls for it, it is then forwarded by rail or other conveyance to its owner. In case it bears no address, if not inquired after, it is after a month opened; and if any clue to the owner can be found within, a letter is addressed to him. If no clue be found, the property is kept about two years, and has hitherto been then sold by auction in the large coach-factory to the Company’s servants—a portion of the proceeds being handed over to the sick-fund for persons who have been hurt in the service, and the remainder to “the Friendly Society” among the men. It having, however, been ascertained that a few of the Railway men who had spare cash purchased the greater portion of these articles, it has, we understand, very lately been determined henceforward to sell the whole of this property by auction exclusively to the public; and as the Company’s servants are not allowed to be purchasers, they can no longer derive any benefit whatever from lost property, which must often be of inestimable value to its owner, and which they therefore should have no interest, direct or indirect, in concealing from him.

A second ledger, entitled “Luggage Inquiry Book,” is kept in this office, and, if the articles therein inquired after have not been brought in by the searcher, copies of the description are forwarded to each of the offices where lost luggage is kept; for, by the Company’s orders, all luggage found between Wolverton and London is without delay forwarded to the latter station, all between Wolverton and Birmingham to Birmingham, and so on.

It is possible, however, that the above orders may not have been attended to, and therefore, as a last resource, the superintendent of the Lost Luggage Office at Euston Station applies to the manager of the Railway Clearing House, who writes to 310 stations on forty-seven lines of rails to inquire after a lost article, be it ever so small, and if it be at none of these stations a letter is then addressed to the owner, informing him that his lost property is not on the railway.

In the office in which these ledgers and letter-books are made up are to be seen on shelves and in compartments the innumerable articles which have been left in the trains during the last two months, each being ticketed and numbered with a figure corresponding with the entry-book in which the article is defined. Without, however, describing in detail this property we will at once proceed to a large pitch-dark subterranean vaulted chamber, warmed by hot-air iron pipes, in which are deposited the flock of lost sheep, or, without metaphor, the lost luggage of the last two years.

Suspended from the roof there hangs horizontally in this chamber a gas-pipe about eight feet along, and as soon as the brilliant burners at each end were lighted the scene was really astounding. It would be infinitely easier to say what there is not, than what there is, in the forty compartments like great wine-bins in which all this lost property is arranged. One is choke-full of men’s hats, another of parasols, umbrellas, and sticks of every possible description. One would think that all the ladies’ reticules on earth were deposited in a third. How many little smelling-bottles—how many little embroidered pocket-handkerchiefs—how many little musty eatables and comfortable drinkables—how many little bills, important little notes, and other very small secrets each may have contained, we felt that we would not for the world have ascertained; but when we gazed at the enormous quantity of red cloaks, red shawls, red tartan-plaids, and red scarfs piled up in one corner, it was, we own, impossible to help reflecting that surely English ladies of all ages who wear red cloaks, &c., must in some mysterious way or other be powerfully affected by the whine of compressed air, by the sudden ringing of a bell, by the sight of their friends—in short, by the various conflicting emotions that disturb the human heart on arriving at the up-terminus of the Euston Station; for else how, we gravely asked ourselves, could we possibly account for the extraordinary red heap before us?

Of course, in this Rolando-looking cave there were plenty of carpet-bags, gun-cases, portmanteaus, writing-desks, books, bibles, cigar-cases, &c.; but there were a few articles that certainly we were not prepared to meet with, and which but too clearly proved that the extraordinary terminus-excitement which had suddenly caused so many virtuous ladies to elope from their red shawls—in short, to be all of a sudden not only in “a bustle” behind, but all over—had equally affected men of all sorts and conditions.

One gentleman had left behind him a pair of leather hunting-breeches! another his boot-jack! A soldier of the 22nd regiment had left his knapsack containing his kit! Another soldier of the 10th, poor fellow, had left his scarlet regimental coat! Some cripple, probably overjoyed at the sight of his family, had left behind him his crutches!! But what astonished us above all was, that some honest Scotchman, probably in the extasy of suddenly seeing among the crowd the face of his faithful Jeanie, had actually left behind him the best portion of his bagpipes!!!

Some little time ago the superintendent, on breaking open, previous to a general sale, a locked leather hat-box, which had lain in this dungeon two years, found in it, under the hat, 65l. in Bank of England notes, with one or two private letters, which enabled him to restore the money to the owner, who, it turned out, had been so positive that he had left his hat-box at an hotel at Birmingham that he had made no inquiry for it at the railway-office.

CHAPTER VI.

Parcel Delivery Office.

Besides what is termed “the goods traffic,” or the conveyance of heavy goods in luggage-trains, the London and North-Western Railway Company have for some time undertaken to forward by their passenger-trains, to the various stations on as well as beyond their lines, light parcels, for the conveyance and delivery of which, charges, of which the following are a sample, are made:—

The above charges include porterage and delivery of the parcels. In London, however, the delivery is limited to within three miles of the General Post-office, or say six miles from Euston Square.

The mode in which the business of this department is conducted at Euston Station is briefly as follows:—

The superintendent of the department sits in an elevated room, the sides of which being glazed enable him to look down on his right and left into two offices, both of which communicate on the south with the street by which parcels arrive from or depart to various parts of the metropolis, and on the north side with a branch railway leading into the main line. The floor of one of these two offices is generally covered with baskets, brown-paper parcels of all sizes, game, triangular boxes of wedding-cake, and other articles, which have just arrived by rail from all parts of England, Ireland, and Scotland; that of the other with a multitude of parcels to be forwarded by rail to similar destinations. In the daytime the down parcels are despatched from the office in the break-waggons of various passenger-trains, and the following locked-up vans laden with small parcels are also forwarded every night:—

The number of parcels thus conveyed to and from London and the North amounted, in the year 1847, to 787,969, and in the year 1848 to 774,464; of the latter number it appears that only two were lost. The manner in which all these little parcels are circulated throughout the country is as follows:—

As soon as the empty railway vans arrive by the branch-rail close to the north side of the parcels-office, a porter, who, assisted by his comrades, has for some time previously been arranging the parcels into heaps according to their respective destinations, commencing with one set of them and rapidly taking up parcel after parcel, exclaims in a loud monotonous tone, easily enough set to music, inasmuch as it is exactly the middle note of a stout porter’s voice, and which never varies for a moment during the whole operation—

“Now Leighton.

“A paper for Hancock, of ——, light.

“A basket for Wagstaff, of ——, out 8d., light.

“A box for Tomkins, of ——, weighs (he puts it into an index-scale at his right hand, and in about three seconds adds) 26 pounds.

“A paper for Jones, of ——, out 4d.

“Now Leamington.

“A paper for S. on Avon (the porter never says Stratford) for ——, light,” &c. &c.

As fast as this chanting porter drawls out his facts the chief clerk indelibly records them, convulsively snatching up at each change of station the particular book of entry which belongs to it. Another clerk at each exclamation hands over to a porter a bill for the cost of conveyance, which he pastes to every parcel. For all articles declared by the first porter to be “light,” by which he means that they do not exceed twelve pounds weight—(by far the greater number are of this description)—the charge on the paper to be affixed is ready printed, which effectually prevents fraud; but where the weight exceeds twelve pounds, or where any sum has been paid out, the charges are unavoidably inserted in ink. The velocity with which all these little parcels are booked, weigh-billed, placed into hand-trucks, wheeled off to their respective vans, packed, locked up, and then despatched down the little branch-rail to the main line, on which is the train ready to convey them, is very surprising. While witnessing the operation, however, we could not help observing that the Company’s porters took about as much notice of the words “Keep this side uppermost,” “With care,” “Glass,” “To be kept very dry,” &c., as the Admiralty would to an intimation from some dowager-duchess that her nephew, who is about to join the Thunderer as a midshipman, “has rather a peculiar constitution, and will therefore require for some years very particular CARE.”

During Christmas week the number of railway parcels that flow into and ebb out of London is so enormous, that extra accommodation, as well as preparations, are necessary for their reception and despatch; and as we chanced to arrive from the country at Euston Station on Saturday the 23rd of December last, we will endeavour briefly to describe the scenes which for a very few minutes we stopped to witness.

A considerable portion of the space usually allowed for the disembarkation of the passengers arriving by the up-trains had been cut off by a lofty partition, or, as it is now-a-days termed, a barricade, behind which, instead of red republicans armed with loaded muskets, we were exceedingly happy to find nothing but phalanxes, solid squares, columns, and pyramids of small parcels, the destinations of which in large letters were chalked on consecutive compartments of the north wall of the Euston territory, as follows:—

“Over the Water.”   “Finsbury.”

“Strand.” “Squares.” “Clerkenwell.”

“Islington.”   “Kingsland.”

“Camden Town.”

“City.”   “West End.”

“Westminster.”

“Pimlico.”

As soon as we had rapidly glanced over the tarpaulin-covered-in arrangements above described, which had been made for the reception of parcels for London, we hurried across the five sets of rails that separate the platforms of the in and out trains to the “Parcels Delivery Office,” both departments of which we found had been exclusively devoted for the week to the reception and despatch of parcels from London to the country. On the floor of each of the offices we have already described we saw piled to a considerable height masses of parcels, which it was evident could scarcely be despatched as rapidly as they were arriving. The clerks, the assistants, as well as the extra persons who had been engaged, all appeared more or less exhausted. The accountant—the recording angel of the establishment—looked deadly pale, while the voices of the chanting porters were, to a pitiable degree, weaker and fainter than when we had last heard them; indeed, the whole establishment had evidently been overwhelmed with parcels which the Company’s servants were still collecting, receiving, lifting, driving, wheeling, turning, twisting, weighing, pasting, labelling, and hallooing at, and yet, notwithstanding the rapidity with which they were despatched by rails, vans, waggons, carts, and busses, they were arriving, if possible, faster than ever!

Now, after this afflicting description of the plague of parcels which during Christmas week annually infests and infects the Euston Station, our readers will, no doubt, feel somewhat alarmed when we state that we propose to inform them in detail of the contents of each!

The job, however, is easily performed, for in these parcels there are neither gold, silver, jewels, pictures, nor books—they contain neither covering for the body nor consolation for the mind—they belong neither to the vegetable nor to the mineral kingdom—in short, they are simply composed of good, plain, honest eatables, bequeathed by British hearts, addressed by British hands to British stomachs of all classes of society.

But as our arterial blood is of one colour, while that which returns through our veins is of another, so is there a most remarkable difference in the character of these flowing and ebbing parcels: all those which have come into London being either deceased turkeys or game, while the outgoing or outward-bound parcels are, with scarcely an exception, composed of barrels of live oysters, several of which are accompanied by a good heavy basket of fish. The number of barrels thus despatched from Euston Station within twenty-four hours amounted to 5009, and, as a hundred oysters are usually packed in each barrel, it is strange to think of half a million of “natives” leaving London in one day for the express purpose of wishing “a merry Christmas and a happy new year” to those whose hares, pheasants, partridges, rabbits, turkeys, and chickens have inanimately come to the metropolis on the very same day on the very same errand! To the above “bills of fare” we may add, that during last Christmas week no less than 450 waggons of live cattle arrived at Camden Station within the space of twenty-four hours.

CHAPTER VII.

The Locomotive Engine.—Camden.

Considering how many fine feelings and good feelings adorn the interior of the human heart, it is curious to observe with what facility we can put them all to sleep, or, if they won’t sleep, stupify ourselves, at any moment when it becomes inconvenient to us to listen to their friendly admonitions. All the while mailing, coaching, and posting were in fashion, every man’s countenance beamed—every person’s tongue gabbled freely as it described not only “the splendid rate” (say ten miles an hour) at which he had travelled, but the celerity with which no sooner had the words “First turn-out!” been exclaimed by the scout, who vanished as soon as he had uttered them, than four horses in shining harness had appeared half hobbling half trotting from under the archway of the Red Lion, the Crown, or the Three Bells, before which the traveller had from a canter been almost suddenly pulled up, to receive various bows, scrapes, and curtsies from the landlord and his rosy-faced cap-beribboned wife. But, although we could all accurately describe our own enjoyments, and, like Johnson, expatiate on “the delightful sensations” we experienced in what we called fast travelling, who among us ever cared to ascertain, or even for a single moment to think of, the various arrangements necessary for watering, feeding, cleaning, and shoulder-healing all the poor horses whose “brilliant” performances we had so much admired? Whether they slept on straw or on stones—indeed, whether they slept at all—what was their diet—what, if any, were their enjoyments—what were their sufferings—and, lastly, how and where they eventually died—it would have been deemed exceedingly vulgar to inquire; and so, after with palpitating flanks and panting nostrils they had once been unhooked from our splinter-bars,

“Where they went, and how they fared,

No man knew, and no man cared!”

In a similar way we now chloroform all kindly feelings of inquiry respecting the treatment of the poor engine-drivers, firemen, and even of the engine that has safely conveyed us through tunnels and through storms at the rate of thirty, forty, and occasionally even fifty miles an hour—

“Oh no! we never mention them!”

and in fact scarcely do we deign to look at them. Indeed even while in the train, and most especially after we had left it, we should feel bored to death by being asked to reflect for a moment on any point or any person connected with it. We have therefore, we feel, to apologise at least to some of our readers for intruding upon them, in bringing “betwixt the wind and their nobility” the following uninteresting details.

As soon as an engine has safely dragged a passenger-train to the top of the incline at Camden Station, at which point the coupling-chains which connect it with its load are instantly unhooked, it is enabled by the switchman to get from the main line upon a pair of almost parallel side rails, along which, while the tickets are being collected, it may be seen and heard retrograding and hissing past its train. After a difficult and intricate passage from one set of rails to another, advancing or “shunting” backwards as occasion may require, it proceeds to the fire-pit, over which it stops. The fireman here opens the door of his furnace, which by a very curious process is made to void the red-hot contents of its stomach into the pit purposely constructed to receive them, where the fire is instantly extinguished by cold water ready laid on by the side. Before, however, dropping their fire, the drivers are directed occasionally to blow off their steam to clean; and we may further add that once a-week the boiler of every engine is washed out to get rid of sediment or scale, the operation being registered in a book kept in the office. After dropping his fire, the driver, carefully taking his fire-bars with him, conducts his engine into an immense shed or engine-stable 400 feet in length by 90 in breadth, generally half full of locomotives, where he examines it all over, reporting in a book what repairs are wanting, or, if none (which is not often the case), he reports it “correct.” He then takes his lamps to the lamp-house to be cleaned and trimmed by workmen solely employed to do so, after which he fetches them away himself. Being now off duty, he and his satellite fireman go either to their homes or to a sort of club-room containing a fire to keep them warm, a series of cupboards to hold their clothes, and wooden benches on which they may sit, sleep, or ruminate until their services are again required; and here it is pleasing to see these fine fellows in various attitudes enjoying rest and stillness after the incessant noise, excitement, and occasional tempests of wind and rain, to which—we will say nothing of greater dangers—they have been exposed.

The duties which the engine-driver has to perform are not only of vital importance, but of a nature which peculiarly illustrates the calm, unpretending, bull-dog courage, indigenous to the moist healthy climate of the British Isles. Even in bright sunshine, to stand—like the figure-head of a ship—foremost on a train of enormous weight, which, with fearful momentum, is rushing forward faster than any race-horse can gallop, requires a cool head and a calm heart; but to proceed at this pace in dark or foggy weather into tunnels, along embankments, and through deep cuttings, where it is impossible to foresee any obstruction, is an amount of responsibility which scarcely any other situation in life can exceed; for not only is a driver severely, and occasionally without mercy, punished for any negligence he himself may commit, but he is invariably sentenced personally to suffer on the spot for any accident that from the negligence of others may suddenly befall the road along which he travels, but over which he has not the smallest control. The greatest hardship he has to endure, however, is from cold, especially that produced in winter by evaporation from his drenched clothes passing rapidly through the air. Indeed, when a gale of wind and rain from the north-west, triumphantly sweeping over the surface of the earth at its ordinary rate of say sixty miles an hour, suddenly meets the driver of the London and North-Western, who has not only to withstand such an antagonist, but to dash through him, and in spite of him to proceed in an opposite direction at the rate of say forty miles an hour—the conflict between the wet Englishman and Æolus, tilting by each other at the combined speed of a hundred miles an hour, forms a tournament of extraordinary interest.

As the engine is proceeding, the driver, who has not very many inches of standing-room, remains upon its narrow platform, while his fireman, on about the same space, stands close beside him on the tender. We tried the position. Everything, however, proved to be so hard, excepting the engine, which was both hard and hot, that we found it necessary to travel with one foot on the tender and the other on the engine, and, as the motion of each was very different, we felt as if each leg were galloping at a different stride. Nevertheless the Company’s drivers and firemen usually travel from 100 to 120 miles per day, performing six of these trips per week; nay, a few run 166 miles per day—for which they are paid eight days’ wages for six trips.

But to return to the engine which we just left in the engine-house. As soon as the driver has carefully examined it, and has recorded in a book the report we have described, the “foreman of the fitters” comes to it, and examines it all over again; and if anything is found out of order which, on reference to the book, the driver has not reported, the latter is reported by the former for his negligence. A third examination is made by Mr. Walker, the chief superintending engineer of the station, a highly intelligent and valuable servant of the Company, who has charge of the repairs of the locomotive department between Camden and Tring. If HE detects any defect that has escaped the notice not only of the driver, but of the foreman of the fitters, woe betide them both!

While the engine, with several workmen screwing and hammering at it, is undergoing the necessary repairs, we will consider for a moment a subject to which Englishmen always attach considerable importance, namely, its victuals and drink, or, in other words, its coke and water. There is at Camden Station a coke-factory composed of eighteen ovens, nine on each side, in which coal after being burnt for about fifty hours gives nearly two-thirds of its quantity of coke. These ovens produce about 20 tons of coke per day; but, as 50 tons per day are required for the Camden Station alone, the remaining 30 tons are brought by rail all the way from Newcastle. Indeed, with the exception of fifty ovens at Peterborough, the whole of the coke required annually for the London and North-Western Railway, amounting to 112,500 tons, of an average value of 1l. per ton, comes from the Northern Coal-fields. For some time there were continual quarrels between the coke suppliers and receivers, the former declaring that the Company’s waggons had been despatched from the North as soon as loaded, and the latter complaining that they had been unnecessarily delayed. A robin-redbreast settled the dispute, for, on unloading one of the waggons immediately on its arrival at Camden Station, her tiny nest with three eggs in it minutely explained that the waggon had not been despatched as soon as loaded.

In order to obtain an ample supply of water for their engines, the Company at considerable expense sank at Camden an Artesian well 10 feet in diameter and 140 feet deep. The produce of this well, pumped by a high-pressure steam-engine of 27-horsepower into two immense cisterns 110 feet above the rails at Euston Square, supplies all the Camden Station, all the Company’s houses adjoining, the whole of the Euston Station, as well as the Victoria and Euston Hotels, with most beautiful clear water; and yet—though every man who drinks it or who shaves with it admires it, and though every lady who makes tea with it certifies that it is particularly well adapted for that purpose—strange to say, it disagrees so dreadfully with the stomachs of the locomotive engines—(who would ever suspect them to be more delicate than our own?)—that the Company have been obliged, at great inconvenience and cost, to obtain water for them elsewhere. The boilers of the locomotives were not only chemically liable to be incrusted with a deposition of the unusual quantity of soda contained in the Artesian-well water at Camden Station; but, not even waiting for this inconvenience, the engine without metaphor spit it out—ejecting it from the boiler with the steam through the funnel-pipe, a well-known misfortune termed by engineers “priming.”

As much time would be required for each travelling engine to get up its steam ab initio, a coke-furnace has been constructed at Camden Station to hasten the operation. Here nine men during the day, and the same number throughout the night, are continually employed to heat coke, which by means of iron shovels is to be delivered red-hot into the engines’ furnaces.

These preparations having been made, the driver’s duties are as follows:—

On leaving the shed in the morning the engine, after having been heated at the coke-furnace, is conducted on to a great turn-table 40 feet in diameter, which twists it towards a set of rails leading to the water-crane, where it imbibes at one draught about a thousand gallons of cold water, which, under ordinary circumstances, will enable it to draw its train about 40 miles; although in slippery weather, when the wheels revolve on, instead of along, the rails, it of course would not carry it so far. It then proceeds to the coke-shed, an enclosure 210 feet by 45 feet, capable of holding 1500 tons, for its proper supply of coke, namely, 1 ton—a goods-engine usually devouring 2½ tons.

The driver, leaving his engine in charge of his fireman, now proceeds to the office, where he signs his name in a book, the object being that it may be observed whether or not he is perfectly sober. From the chief clerk he receives his coke and time ticket, upon which, at every station, he has to record whatever time he may have lost up to that point; and when his chronometer is wound up, and set to the proper time, he is then considered to be ready for his journey.

The gigantic power of the locomotive engines hourly committed to the charge of these drivers was lately strangely exemplified in the large engine-stable at the Camden Station. A passenger-engine, whose furnace-fire had but shortly been lighted, was standing in this huge building surrounded by a number of artificers, who, in presence of the chief superintendent, were working in various directions around it. While they were all busily occupied, the fire in the furnace, by burning up faster than was expected, suddenly imparted to the engine the breath of life; and no sooner had the minimum of steam necessary to move it been thus created, than this infant Hercules not only walked off, but without the smallest embarrassment walked through the 14-inch brick wall of the great building which contained it, to the terror of the superintendent and workmen, who expected every instant that the roof above their heads would fall in and extinguish them! In consequence of the spindle of the regulator having got out of its socket, the very same accident occurred shortly afterwards with another engine, which, in like manner, walked through another portion of this 14-inch wall of the stable that contained it, just as a thorough-bred horse would have walked out of the door. And if such be the irresistible power of the locomotive engine when feebly walking in its newborn state, unattended or unassisted even by its tender, is it not appalling to reflect what must be its momentum when, in the full vigour of its life, it is flying down a steep gradient at the rate of 50 miles an hour, backed up by say 30 passenger-carriages, each weighing on an average 5½ tons? If ordinary houses could suddenly be placed on its path, it would, passengers and all, run through them as a musket-ball goes through a keg of butter; but what would be the result if, at this full speed, the engine by any accident were to be diverted against a mass of solid rock, such as sometimes is to be seen at the entrance of a tunnel, it is almost impossible to calculate, or even to conjecture. It is stated by the Company’s superintendent, who witnessed the occurrence, that some time ago, an ordinary accident happening to a luggage-train near Loughborough, the waggons overrode each other until the uppermost one was found piled 40 feet above the rails!

At Camden Station there are every day five spare or pilot engines, with their steam up, ready for assisting a train up the incline, or for any special purposes that may be required.

The average cost of the locomotive engines and tenders, which, for the rails between London and Birmingham, are usually purchased by the Company from makers at Manchester, Warrington, and Liverpool, is—

The tenders cost 500l. each.

CHAPTER VIII.

Goods Department.

The duties of this department, which forms one of the most important establishments at Camden Station, may very briefly be elucidated. It appears from returns lying before us, that during the six months ending the 26th of August last there entered and departed from Camden Station alone 73,732 railway waggon-loads of goods! Now in the annals of political economy there can perhaps scarcely exist a more striking exemplification of the extraordinary extent to which the latent resources of a great country may be developed by diminishing the friction, or, without metaphor, by lowering the tolls of its goods-traffic, than the fact that, notwithstanding the enormous amount thus conveyed along the London and North Western rails, the quantity carried along the Grand Junction Canal, which meanders alongside its powerful antagonist, instead of having been drained, as might have been expected, to zero, has, from the opening of the railway in 1836 up to the present period, actually increased as follows:—

Besides the innumerable arrangements necessary for the conveyance along their rails of the number of waggon-loads of goods we have stated, the Company undertake the vexatious and intricate business of collecting and delivering these goods from and to all parts of London, as also throughout the various towns on their line, excepting Liverpool, where the collection and delivery of goods is otherwise arranged. The number of letters on business received by the branch of this department at Camden Station only, averages 300 per day.

For the collection, loading, unloading, and delivery of a certain portion of the merchandise conveyed by the Company on their rails, the Board of Directors have, we think with great prudence, availed themselves of the practical knowledge and experience of Messrs. Pickford and of Messrs. Chaplin and Horne, whom they have engaged as their agents at Camden Station—the Company’s superintendent there marshalling and despatching all luggage-trains, arranging the signals, and making out the weigh-bills, &c. The undertaking is one of enormous magnitude; for besides immense cargoes of goods in large packages, an inconceivable number of small parcels are sent from Birmingham, Wolverhampton, Sheffield, &c. to numberless little retail shopkeepers in London, who are constantly requiring, say a few saucepans, kettles, cutlery, &c.; and when it is considered that for the collection, conveyance, and delivery of most of these light parcels 1s. only is charged, and, moreover, that for the conveyance of a small parcel by the Company’s goods-trains from say Watford to Camden Station, to be there unloaded into store, thence reloaded into and transported by a spring waggon to almost any street and house in London, or to the terminus of any railway-station to which it may be addressed, the charge is only 6d., it is evident that a great deal of attention and skill are necessary to squeeze a profit from charges which competition has reduced to so low a figure.

At, and for some time after, the commencement of railway traffic, it was considered dangerous to convey goods by night. They are now, however, despatched from Birmingham at 8·45 P.M., to arrive at Camden Station at 3½ in the morning. Goods from London are despatched at 9 in the evening, at midnight, at 12½, at ¼ before 1, at 3, and at 5 in the morning. In the day they are despatched at 12·40, at 1·15, at 2·6, and at 6½; and such regularity is attained, that packs of cotton, linen, and woollen goods from Manchester are usually delivered in London almost with the regularity of letters. An immense quantity of fish from Billingsgate, and occasionally as much as 20 tons of fruit from Covent Garden market, are injected into the country by the midday train: indeed the London wholesale dealers in these articles do not now fear receiving too great a supply, as, whatever may be their surplus, the railway is ready to carry it off to the manufacturing districts—Manchester alone swallowing almost any quantity; besides which, large quantities of fruit are conveyed by rail as far as Glasgow. Many tons of meat in hampers, and oftentimes a flock of a hundred dead sheep, wrapped up only in cloths, are also despatched from the country to the London market.