A Book of Railway Journeys

by Ludovic Kennedy

  JOHN PENDLETON

  from S. LEGG (ed.),

  The Railway Book (1952)

  Uncertainty of place of birth

  Lord Frederic Hamilton records a story of the Indian Census of 1891, when a man gave his place of birth as “a first-class carriage on the London and North-Western Railway, somewhere between Bletchley and Euston; the precise spot being unnoticed either by myself or the other person principally concerned.”

  ANON

  from S. LEGG (ed.),

  The Railway Book (1952)

  TRAVELLING TO MY SECONDMARRIAGE ON THE DAY OF THE FIRST MOONSHOT

  We got into the carriage.

  It was hot. An old woman sat there, her white hair

  Stained at the temples, as if by smoke.

  Beside her the old man, her husband,

  Talking of rivers, salmon, yearling trout,

  Their dwindled waters.

  A windscreen wiper on another engine

  Flickered like an irritable, a mad eyelid,

  The woman’s mouth fell open. She complained.

  Her husband said, “I’d like

  A one-way ticket to the moon.

  Wouldn’t mind that.”

  “What for?” “Plant roses.” “Roses?” “Roses,

  Yes. I’d be the first rosegrower on the moon.

  Mozart, I’d call my rose. That’s it.

  A name for a new rose; Mozart.

  That’s what I’d call the first rose on the moon,

  If I got there to grow it.”

  Ten nine eight seven six five four three two one.

  The old woman, remember her, and the old man:

  Her black shoes tapping; his gold watch as he counted.

  They’d been to a funeral. We were going to a wedding.

  When the train started the wheels sang Figaro

  And there was a smell of roses.

  ROBERT NYE

  A lunatic at large

  In the month of August 18—, it was incumbent upon me to take a journey to a town at some distance from my own residence. Time being no object with me, and the country through which my route lay very beautiful, I resolved to take it in what was to me the most enjoyable way; but after diligent inquiry for anything in the shape of a stage-coach, I found that her Majesty’s mail had ceased running the week before; so that “the rail” was my only chance of getting to the place of my destination. Whereupon I made a virtue of necessity; submitting, though with the worst grace in the world; for my habitual dislike to this mode of travelling was increased by one of those unaccountable fits of reluctance to taking the journey, which sometimes seizes one, and which is usually set down to the score of nervousness. So I tried to explain mine; which, as the time drew near, rose to a complete dread of it, to my no small annoyance, for I had a contempt for omens and presentiments; and zealously, but vainly, I tried to pooh! pooh! myself out of it.

  The morning broke, dull, wet, oppressive, with apparently half a score thunder-storms in reserve for my especial use; and at six o’clock I jumped up from an uneasy dream, in which I was struggling with some nondescript wild beast, to find I had only half an hour left to make my toilet and get to the station. Of course, everything went wrong; strings slipped into knots, buttons flew; never was there such confusion. I could not be quick, I was in such a hurry. Hastily swallowing a cup of tea (part of which, to crown my mishaps, went the wrong way), I ran off; and must own that, important as was my business, I felt half sorry, as I entered the booking-office, to find myself in time: for a secret hope had possessed me that I might prove too late; a hope that had expanded into certainty as I heard the hour at which I expected the train to start announced from half a dozen steeples ere I was half way to the station. I reached it; found the time had been altered; so got my ticket; “snapped” at the clerk who furnished it (this relieved me a little), and sprang into a carriage, which tempted me as containing only one occupant; and the huge mass slowly took its noisy way from under, acres surely, of glazed roof, and speedily left it behind.

  The rain ceased as we got into the open country, a fine breeze sprang up, which blew away my fidgets, and I began internally to laugh at myself for having been such a fool; not forgetting to congratulate my better self on its having triumphed over the nervous fears that had beset me. It really became almost pleasant. A mail-train, so that I was secure from the plague of frequent stoppages, and their consequent fresh starts. An exhilarating atmosphere: the dark clouds that had spoken of thunder when I rose, now betraying no such obstreperous intentions, but quietly taking themselves off as fast as they could. The weight on my spirits removed;—yes, I began to be susceptible of a modified sort of enjoyment; and in the gaiety of my heart, I told my fellow-traveller that it was a fine day: a remark to which he vouchsafed me no answer, save such might be called the turning on me a pair of eyes that looked vastly like live coals. They almost made me start; but I considered it was no business of mine; the gentleman’s eyes were his own, and I doubted not that mine, owing to a short, sleepless night, were as much too dull as his were too bright: so I whisked my pocket-kerchief across them, by way of polishing them a little, took out a newspaper, sank into a cosy corner, and prepared to read, or sleep, as the case may be. In the very drowsiest part of a long speech, I was just going off into the most luxurious slumber imaginable, when I was roused by the restlessness of my companion; who, as I waked up thoroughly, seemed labouring under some strong and inexplicable excitement. He looked agitated, changed his seat frequently, moved his limbs impatiently, borrowed my paper, and in a trice returned it with some unintelligible observation; then peered anxiously out of the window, through which he thrust himself so far, as to induce me to volunteer a caution, which he received pleasantly, stared at the wheels, as though he were calculating their revolutions, and then resumed his seat.

  His perturbation was manifest. I could not imagine what possessed the man; but at length, noticing the agitated manner with which he often glanced through the window, as though to see whether we were followed, I determined that he must be some gentlemanly rogue, to whom speedy flight was indispensable; and that his anxiety and excessive disturbance arose from fear of pursuit: a fear that to me seemed one of those vain ones peculiar to the wicked, for we were then nearly at the ultimatum of railway speed, and did not expect to stop before reaching our destination, still at a considerable distance. His whole manner and appearance confirmed this view of the case; I presumed his evil conscience had conjured up a “special engine” at our heels; and after indulging in a few appropriate moral reflections (to myself, of course), I resumed my paper.

  The next minute he was opposite to me. I heard a light movement, raised my head—a strong knife, such as is used in pruning trees, was open in his hand; and, with eyes verily scintillating, his startling address, in a tone, the coolness of which strangely contrasted with its import, was—“I’m going to kill you!” The horrible truth flashed upon me at once: he was insane, and I alone with him, shut out from all possibility of human help! Terror gave me calmness: fixing my eye upon him, so as to command his movements, and perhaps control him, I answered quietly and firmly, “No, you are not.” It was well I was prepared. That moment he sprang on me, and the death-struggle began. I grappled with him, and attempted to secure his right arm; while again and again, as I strained every nerve to accomplish this purpose, did that accursed blade glitter before my eyes; for my antagonist was my superior in muscle and weight, and armed in addition with the demoniacal strength of madness, now expressed in every lineament of his inflamed and distorted countenance. What a sight was that, not superhuman face! Loudly and hoarsely I called for help:—but we were rushing along thirty miles in the hour, and my cries were drowned amid the roar of wheels and steam. How horrible were my sensations! Cooped up thus, to be mangled and murdered by a madman, with means of rescue within a few feet of me, and yet that help, that communication with my fellows that would have saved me, as utterly unattainable, as though we were in a deser
t. I quivered, as turning aside thrust after thrust, dealt with exhaustless and frenzied violence, I doubted not that the next must find its way to my heart. My strength was rapidly failing: not so that of my murderer. I struggled desperately, as alone the fear of such a death could enable a man to do; and, my hands gashed and bleeding, at last wrenched the knife from his hold, and flung it through the window. Then I first seemed to breathe! But not yet was I safe. With redoubled rage he threw himself at my throat, crushing it as with iron fingers; and as I felt his whole frame heave and labour with the violence of the attack, for one dreadful moment I gave up all for lost. But, surely then, some unseen Power strengthened me. Half strangled, I flung the whole weight of my body upon him, got him down, and planting my knee on his breast, by main strength held him, spite of his frantic efforts to writhe himself from under me. My hands were bitten, and torn in his convulsive rage, but I felt not—heeded it not—life was at stake, and hardly I fought for it. The bitterness of death was upon me, and awfully clear and distinct, in that mortal struggle, were the past and the future: the human, sinful past, and the dread, unknown, avenging, eternal future. How were the joys and sorrows of years compressed into that one backward glance and how utterly insignificant did they appear as the light of life seemed fading from them. Fearfully calm and collected was my mind, while my body felt as though dissolving with the terrible strain to which all its powers were subjected. And yet, consumed as I was with mental and physical agony, I well remember my sensation of bliss, for such it was, when the cool breeze for a single moment blew upon my flushed and streaming brow, which felt as though at the mouth of a furnace!

  But this could not last long. My limbs shook, and were fast relaxing their grip, a mist swam before my eyes, my recollection wavered, when—thank heaven! I became sensible of a diminution of our speed. Fresh strength inspired me. I dashed my prisoner down as he again attempted to free himself. Then the welcome sound of letting off the steam—the engine stopped, the door opened—and I was saved!

  My companion was quickly secured, and presently identified as a lunatic who had escaped from confinement. To it he was again consigned; and I, from that day to this, have never entered a railway carriage with only one passenger in it!

  Such is a simple recital of my adventure, which I have not sought to heighten by any arts of narration. It is, indeed, utterly beyond my power to convey any adequate idea of that horrible encounter. Its most faithful transcript has been found in many a night-mare and fearful dream, with which it has furnished the drear hours of night.*1

  RICHARD BENTLEY,

  Bender’s Miscellany (1853)

  Cook’s first tour

  I was an enthusiastic temperance man, and the secretary of a district association, which embraced parts of the two counties of Leicester and Northampton. A great meeting was to be held at Leicester, over which Lawrence Heyworth, Esq., of Liverpool—a great railway as well as temperance man—was advertised to preside. From my residence at Market Harborough I walked to Leicester (fifteen miles) to attend that meeting. About midway between Harborough and Leicester—my mind’s eye has often reverted to the spot—a thought flashed through my brain, what a glorious thing it would be if the newly-developed powers of railways and locomotion could be made subservient to the promotion of temperance! That thought grew upon me as I travelled over the last six or eight miles. I carried it up to the platform, and, strong in the confidence of the sympathy of the chairman, I broached the idea of engaging a special train to carry the friends of temperance from Leicester to Loughborough and back to attend a quarterly delegate meeting appointed to be held there in the two or three weeks following. The chairman approved, the meeting roared with excitement, and early next day I proposed my grand scheme to John Fox Bell, the resident secretary of the Midland Counties Railway Company. Mr. Paget, of Loughborough, opened his park for a gala, and on the day appointed about five hundred passengers filled some twenty or twenty-five open carriages—they were called “tubs” in those days—and the party rode the enormous distance of eleven miles and back for a shilling, children half-price. We carried music with us, and music met us at the Loughborough station. The people crowded the streets, filled windows, covered the housetops, and cheered us all along the line, with the heartiest welcome. All went off in the best style and in perfect safety we returned to Leicester; and thus was struck the keynote of my excursions, and the social idea grew upon me.

  THOMAS COOK

  from S. LEGG (ed.),

  The Railway Book (1952)

  The perils of travelling third class: Impressions et Compressions de Voyage

  by Honoré Daumier

  IN MEMORY OF

  WILLIAM PICKERING,

  who died DecR 24. 1845

  AGED 30 YEARS

  ————————

  ALSO RICHARD EDGER

  who died DecR 24. 1845

  AGED 24 YEARS.

  ————————

  THE SPIRITUAL RAILWAY

  The Line to heaven by Christ was made With heavenly truth the Rails are laid.

  From Earth to Heaven the Line extends

  To Life Eternal where it ends

  Repentance Is the Station then

  Where Passengers are taken in.

  No Fee for them is there to pay

  For Jesus is himself the way

  God’s Word is the first Engineer

  It points the way to Heaven so dear. Through tunnels dark and dreary here

  It does the way to Glory steer.

  God’s Love the Fire, his Truth the Steam, Which drives the Engine and the Train,

  All you who would to Glory ride,

  Must come to Christ, in him abide

  In First and Second, and Third Class. Repentance, Faith and Holiness.

  You must the way to Glory gain

  Or you with Christ will not remain

  Come then poor Sinners, now’s the time

  At any Station on the Line.

  If you’ll repent and turn from sin

  The Train will stop and take you in.

  Ely Cathedral,

  Tombstone in South Porch

  This poem commemorates the deaths of Thomas (not William) Pickering and Richard Hedges (not Edger), driver and fireman of a train which left Norwich on Christmas Eve 1845, and crashed, because of overspeeding, at the bottom of an incline near Thetford. No passengers were seriously hurt. Ed.

  PERSHORE STATION, or A LIVERISH JOURNEY FIRST CLASS

  The train at Pershore station was waiting that Sunday night

  Gas light on the platform, in my carriage electric light,

  Gas light on frosty evergreens, electric on Empire wood,

  The Victorian world and the present in a moment’s neighborhood.

  There was no one about but a conscript who was saying good-bye to his love

  On the windy weedy platform with the sprinkled stars above

  When sudden the waiting stillness shook with the ancient spells

  Of an older world than all our worlds in the sound of the Pershore bells.

  They were ringing them down for Evensong in the lighted abbey near,

  Sounds which had poured through apple boughs for seven centuries here.

  With Guilt, Remorse, Eternity the void within me fills

  And I thought of her left behind me in the Herefordshire hills.

  I remembered her defencelessness as I made my heart a stone

  Till she wove her self-protection round and left me on my own.

  And plunged in a deep self pity I dreamed of another wife

  And lusted for freckled faces and lived a separate life.

  One word would have made her love me, one word would have made her turn

  But the word I never murmured and now I am left to burn.

  Evesham, Oxford and London. The carriage is new and smart.

  I am cushioned and soft and heated with a deadweight in my heart.

  JOHN BETJEMAN

  A writer’s odyss
ey

  On May the 1st, 1912, I went to London Road Station, Manchester, and entered a third-class compartment in the afternoon train bound for Shrewsbury, a lazy county town then. My only luggage was an old black and dented tin box tied round and round for security’s sake with a rope. The lock, if I remember, would not lock. Inside this box were a few garments, a suit of cricket flannels, and a hundred books and more, mainly volumes of the new Everyman Library, or the Home University Library, which you could buy at a shilling each. Amongst these volumes was Grote’s History of Greece, and Walter Bagehot’s Literary Studies; also there was Descartes’ Discourse on Method (“Cogito ergo sum”). In this tin trunk, as it lay on the platform of London Road Station, waiting to be put into the luggage van by a porter, reposed all my goods and chattels except the clothes I had on my back, some odd shillings, a pocket comb and two pairs of spectacles, each six and a half diopters strong, for myopia; one pair of which I wore from the moment I opened my eyes in the morning until I closed them at night. The other pair I had procured in case of accidents on the field of play at Shrewsbury. I don’t believe that any youth has set forth on a career as a professional cricketer more curiously equipped than this.

  I remember opening the door of a third-class compartment after I had seen the tin box safely stowed away. The carriage was unoccupied, only recently out of a siding, where it had stood in the warmth of the day for hours with the windows closed. The compartment was overpowering with that odour of stuffed seats and padding which is peculiar to railways. I remember the refreshment of air when I pulled a leather strap and let down a pane on which was printed “Non-Smoker.”