A Book of Railway Journeys

by Ludovic Kennedy

  W. M. ACWORTH

  from S. LEGG (ed.),

  The Railway Book (1952)

  FROM MARLBOROUGH TO WEST WALES

  ...Should we not pause

  An instant at regal Badminton? But you

  Know of no royal loyalties other than your own

  With a derisive whistle hurtle

  Past innocent Gloucestershire yeomen

  Standing agog on the platform, while the acrid smoke

  Of Sodbury’s stuffy tunnel almost chokes us…

  Before the climb out of that three mile slimy hell-hole

  To the smugglers marshes with the rude name (Undy)

  To glamorous Glamorgan, mile-long Margam, steel

  Tensile as your own force. But now (thank God) we turn

  And miss out odourous Llansamlet, stinking of sulphur

  ...

  ...Rattling through St. Clears

  Into that place where alien Celts welcome all tankdrivers

  Whatever race, provided they are Anglo Saxon, with plenty of cash.

  It’s raining now—it always is at Whitland, and the dark clouds

  Press on Prescelly, gather on Maencloghog. And now at last

  I know the line’s end, the right line, like a homing pigeon….

  H. SANDHAM

  Brimstone fumes and Irish Mary

  Wednesday, 18 May 1870

  Went down to the Bath Flower Show in Sydney College Gardens. Found the first train going down was an Excursion train and took a ticket for it. The carriage was nearly full. In the Box tunnel as there was no lamp, the people began to strike foul brimstone matches and hand them to each other all down the carriage. All the time we were in the tunnel these lighted matches were travelling from hand to hand in the darkness. Each match lasted the length of the carriage and the red ember was thrown out of the opposite window, by which time another lighted match was seen travelling down the carriage. The carriage was chock full of brimstone fumes, the windows both nearly shut, and by the time we got out of the tunnel I was almost suffocated. Then a gentleman tore a lady’s pocket handkerchief in two, seized one fragment, blew his nose with it, and put the rag in his pocket. She then seized his hat from his head, while another lady said that the dogs of Wootton Bassett were much more sociable than the people.

  Wednesday, 19 June 1872

  Left Bockleton Vicarage for Liverpool. At Wrexham two merry saucy Irish hawking girls got into our carriage. The younger had a handsome saucy daring face showing splendid white teeth when she laughed and beautiful Irish eyes of dark grey which looked sometimes black and sometimes blue, with long silky black lashes and finely pencilled black eyebrows. This girl kept her companion and the whole carriage laughing from Wrexham to Chester with her merriment, laughter and songs and her antics with a doll dressed like a boy, which she made dance in the air by pulling a string. She had a magnificent voice and sung to a comic popular air while the doll danced wildly,

  A-dressed in his Dolly Varden,

  A-dressed in his Dolly Varden,

  He looks so neat

  And he smells so sweet,

  A-dressed in his Dolly Varden.

  Then breaking down into merry laughter she hid her face and glanced roguishly at me from behind the doll. Suddenly she became quiet and pensive and her face grew grave and sad as she sang a love song.

  The two girls left the carriage at Chester and as she passed, the younger put out her hand and shook hands with me. They stood by the carriage door on the platform for a few moments and Irish Mary, the younger girl, asked me to buy some nuts. I gave her sixpence and took a dozen nuts out of a full measure she was going to pour into my hands. She seemed surprised and looked up with a smile. “You’ll come and see me,” she said coaxingly. “You are not Welsh, are you?” “No, we are a mixture of Irish and English.” “Born in Ireland?” “No, I was born at Huddersfield in Yorkshire.” “You look Irish—you have the Irish eye.” She laughed and blushed and hid her face. “What do you think I am?” asked the elder girl, “do you think I am Spanish?” “No,” interrupted the other laughing, “you have too much Irish between your eyes.” “My eyes are blue,” said the elder girl, “your eyes are grey, the gentleman’s eyes are black.” “Where did you get in?” I asked Irish Mary. “At Wrexham,” she said. “We were caught in the rain, walked a long way in it and got wet through,” said the poor girl pointing to a bundle of wet clothes they were carrying and which they had changed for dry ones. “What do you do?” “We go out hawking,” said the girl in a low voice. “You have a beautiful voice.” “Hasn’t she?” interrupted the elder girl eagerly and delightedly. “Where did you learn to sing?” She smiled and blushed and hid her face. A porter and some other people were looking wonderingly on, so I thought it best to end the conversation. But there was an attractive power about this poor Irish girl that fascinated me strangely. I felt irresistibly drawn to her. The singular beauty of her eyes, a beauty of deep sadness, a wistful sorrowful imploring look, her swift rich humour, her sudden gravity and sadness, her brilliant laughter, a certain intensity and power and richness of life and the extraordinary sweetness, softness and beauty of her voice in singing and talking gave her a power over me which I could not understand nor describe, but the power of a stronger over a weaker will and nature. She lingered about the carriage door. Her look grew more wistful, beautiful, imploring. Our eyes met again and again. Her eyes grew more and more beautiful. My eyes were fixed and riveted on hers. A few minutes more and I know not what might have happened. A wild reckless feeling came over me. Shall I leave all and follow her? No—Yes—No. At that moment the train moved on. She was left behind. Goodbye, sweet Irish Mary. So we parted. Shall we meet again? Yes—No—Yes.

  THE REV. FRANCIS KILVERT,

  Diary

  Lord Gormanston’s Nanny

  A singular accident brought me into communication with Lord Gormanston. Early in November His Lordship, his family, and household were passengers by the up Holyhead express. When nearing Bletchley, while the train was travelling at fifty miles an hour, a young woman, having His Lordship’s little boy in charge, by some means fell out of the train. It was surprising that she was not killed on the spot, but such was not the case. She fell so close to the adjoining set of rails that the down newspaper train cut off a lock of her hair. The young woman was not missed at first, but owing to the open door being noticed the train was signalled to be stopped at Leighton, and thence Lord Gormanston returned to enquire after the unfortunate maid. Notwithstanding the scalp wounds and the shock the young woman recovered.

  ANON

  THE RAILWAY JUNCTION

  From here through tunnelled gloom the track

  Forks into two; and one of these

  Wheels onward into darkening hills,

  And one toward distant seas.

  How still it is; the signal light

  At set of sun shines paley green;

  A thrush sings; other sound there’s none,

  Nor traveller to be seen—

  Where late there was a throng. And now,

  In peace awhile, I sit alone;

  Though soon, at the appointed hour,

  I shall myself be gone.

  But not their way: the bow-legged groom,

  The parson in black, the widow and son,

  The sailor with his cage, the gaunt

  Gamekeeper with his gun,

  That fair one, too, discreetly veiled—

  All, who so mutely came, and went,

  Will reach those far nocturnal hills,

  Or shores, ere night is spent.

  I nothing know why thus we met—

  Their thoughts, their longings, hopes, their fate:

  And what shall I remember, except—

  The evening growing late—

  That here through tunnelled gloom the track

  Forks into two; of these

  One into darkening hills leads on,

  And one toward distant seas?

  WALTER DE LA MARE
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  An English hobo

  Some passengers, we may add, are eccentric in their ideas of locomotion. Not long ago, on the arrival of the 3.15 Irish mail at Chester platform, a man was found lying underneath a carriage. He was grasping the brake-rod with his legs and hands, and in order to hold the rod securely, he had some flannel in his hands. He had ridden in this way from Holyhead to Chester, nearly ninety miles. How he escaped death was a marvel. He was sentenced to pay twenty shillings, or to have twenty-one days’ hard labour.

  Another passenger, of an adventurous order of mind, desired a similarly cheap and airy ride from Euston to Liverpool. His name was John Smith, and he was described as “a seafaring man respectably attired.” It appeared from the evidence, and indeed from Mr. Smith’s own admission, that on the previous night he left the Euston station by an express train at nine p.m., which, travelling at a high rate of speed, does not stop until it reaches Rugby at eleven p.m., a distance of 82½ miles. “Mr. Smith did not take his seat like an ordinary passenger inside any of the carriages, but he travelled underneath one of them, and would, no doubt, have concluded his journey to Liverpool in safety, but that on the arrival of the train at Rugby the wheel-examiner, seeing a man’s legs protruding from under one of the carriages, had the curiosity to make further search, and discovered Mr. Smith coiled round the brake-rod, a piece of iron not above three inches broad, in a fantastic position. Mr. Smith was immediately uncoiled, and being technically in error was detained in custody. The bottom of the carriage was only eighteen inches from the ground, and where the engine takes up water as it travels, Mr. Smith was not more than six inches from the trough; he therefore had not far to fall in case of a casualty; but the bench, surprised at a railway passenger under any circumstances having survived a journey of eighty-two miles, said ‘it was a miracle he was not killed,’ and let him off with a fine of 2s. 6d. and costs, or fourteen days’ imprisonment. Mr. Smith stated that his journey ‘was not a very comfortable one,’”—a remark the accuracy of which—however on other matters we may differ from him—may be conceded.

  ANON

  MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERN

  In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,

  And the roof-lamp’s oily flame

  Played down on his listless form and face,

  Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,

  Or whence he came.

  In the band of his hat the journeying boy

  Had a ticket stuck; and a string

  Around his neck bore the key of his box,

  That twinkled gleams of the lamp’s sad beam

  Like a living thing.

  What past can be yours, O journeying boy

  Towards a world unknown,

  Who calmly, as if incurious quite

  On all at stake, can undertake

  This plunge alone?

  Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,

  Our rude realms far above,

  Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete

  This region of sin that you find you are in,

  But are not of?

  THOMAS HARDY

  A botanical specimen found on the Great Western

  Dr. M’Nab, Professor of Botany in the Royal College of Science, Dublin, says that in a railway carriage on the express between Paddington and Milford, he noticed in the window two tufts of moss, one near each corner of the glass. “There was a little black soil kept moist by the condensation of vapour on the window, and two little bright green patches, consisting of about forty or fifty plants, about one-eighth of an inch in height, and apparently very healthy. The other window had the same moist deposit of soil, but no mosses. I put a small quantity of the soil and moss into my pocket-book, and after my return to the college placed two or three of the little plants under the microscope. The plants have only a few leaves, and probably belong to the genus tortula; but along with the moss I could detect an abundance of two species of oscillatoria in a very healthy condition, with abundance of phycochroma in their cells. On examining the slide with a higher power, I detected a number of diatoms, all belonging to a small species of navicula. The soil in which the mosses were growing was very peculiar. It consisted almost exclusively of exceedingly minute black particles, appearing as mere specks with a sixth-inch object glass, and all exhibiting the most active Brownian movements. The moving soil seems a fitting accompaniment to the locomotive habitat of the specimens. I suppose it will be necessary to say the distribution of the plants is remarkable, extending, as it does, from Paddington to Milford and back. You may, therefore, accept this as a small contribution towards the ‘Botany of the South Wales Express.’”

  ANON

  THE WASP

  Once as I went by rail to Epping Street,

  Both windows being open, a wasp flew in;

  Through the compartment swung and almost out

  Scarce seen, scarce heard; but dead against the pane

  Entitled “Smoking,” did the train’s career

  Arrest her passage. Such a wonderful

  Impervious transparency, before

  That palpitating moment, had never yet

  Her airy voyage thwarted. Undismayed,

  With diligence incomparable, she sought

  An exit, till the letters like a snare

  Entangled her; or else the frosted glass

  And signature indelible appeared

  The key to all the mystery: there she groped,

  And flirted petulant wings, and fiercely sang

  A counter-spell against the sorcery,

  The sheer enchantment that inhibited

  Her access to the world—her birthright, there!

  So visible, and so beyond her reach!

  Baffled and raging like a tragic queen,

  She left at last the stencilled tablet; roamed

  The pane a while to cool her regal ire,

  Then tentatively touched the window-frame:

  Sure footing still, though rougher than the glass;

  Dissimilar in texture, and so obscure!

  Perplexed now by opacity with foot and wing

  She coasted up and down the wood, and worked

  Her wrath to passion-point again. Then from the frame

  She slipped by chance into the open space

  Left by the lowered sash—the world once more

  In sight! She paused; she closed her wings, and felt

  The air with learned antennae for the smooth

  Resistance that she knew now must belong

  To such mysterious transparences.

  No foothold? Down she fell—six inches down!—

  Hovered a second, dazed and dubious still;

  Then soared away a captive queen set free.

  JOHN DAVIDSON

  Escape of a murderer

  The murderer and burglar, who was one of the most startling products of modern society, was taken, on January 22, 1879—after his capture by Sergeant Robinson on the lawn in St. John’s Park, Blackheath—by train on his way to Sheffield, where he was to undergo examination before the magistrates for the murder of Arthur Dyson, civil engineer, at Banner Cross.

  The notoriety of the criminal had become almost the country’s talk. His resource and daring were on everybody’s tongue. “It would be a funny thing if he escaped,” said a spectator, chatting to an official in the Sheffield Police Court, which was crammed with a crowd waiting in eager expectation for the prisoner’s arrival. Scarcely were the words uttered than there was an indescribable flutter in the Court, much whispering, and many serious faces. Charles Peace had escaped! All the way down from Pentonville the man, who was restless, savage, and snarling, just like a wild beast, gave the warders continual trouble. When the Great Northern express was speeding through the pastoral country a little north of Workshop, Peace, jibing and sneering at his gaolers, sprang to the carriage window and took a flying leap out of the express. But his panther-like action availed him little. The under-warder seized him by the left foot a
s he leapt from the compartment, and held on with desperate grasp. The other warder tugged at the communication-cord, but it would not act.

  On went the express by field and homestead, the driver unaware of the fierce struggle behind. Peace, suspended head downward, with his face banging now and then against the oscillating carriage, tried with his right leg to kick himself free from the warder’s grip. The struggling attracted the attention of the passengers, but they could do nothing to assist the warder, who, with every muscle quivering, was straining with his writhing prisoner. Shout after shout passed from carriage to carriage, only to be carried miles away by the wind; the noise of the clamouring travellers simply made strange echoes in the driver’s ears. For two miles the struggle went on; then Peace, determined to end it, whatever the result to himself, wriggled his left foot out of his shoe, which was left in the warder’s grasp, and at last he was free. He fell wildly, his head struck the carriage footboard with tremendous force, and he bounded into the six-foot, where he rolled over and over, a curious bundle half enveloped in a cloud of dust.

  Still onward sped the train, the warder, helpless to secure his prey, craning his neck as far as he could out of the carriage window, his face a study of rage and concern because he had been outwitted. Nearly another mile was covered before the express pulled up. No time was then lost in chasing the fugitive. The warders, accompanied by several passengers eager for adventure, ran back along the line and found Peace in the six-foot, not far from the place at which he had made his reckless descent from the train. The man was lying near the down track, a huddled heap, unconscious, with a serious wound in his head. He was not merely a person of amazing unscrupulousness but of wondrous vitality, and he soon recovered sensibility, murmuring, as he was lifted into the guard’s van of a goods train for removal to Sheffield, “I am cold; cover me up.” The warders were only too pleased to cover him up; they took every care of him. When he was conveyed to Armley in readiness for his trial they were armed with revolvers; but the “small, elderly-looking, feeble man, in brown convict-dress,” made no further attempt to escape. He was sentenced to death at Leeds assizes and hanged, no one regretting the hardened criminal’s doom.