Tales Of The Trains Part 8

"'So you consent to go that far,' cried I, in ecstasy.

"She seemed somewhat confused at her own confession, for she blushed and turned away; then said, in a voice of some hesitation,--

"'Will you compel me to relinquish the charm of your too agreeable society, or will you make me the promise I ask?'

"'Anything--everything,' exclaimed I; and from that hour, Mr. Tramp, I only _looked_ my love, at least, save when sighs and interjections contributed their insignificant aid.

I gave no expression to my consuming flame. Not the less progress, perhaps, did I make for that. You can educate a feature, sir, to do the work of four,--I could after a week or ten days look fifty different things, and she knew them,--ay, that she did, as though it were a book open before her.

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"I could have strained my eyes to see through the canvas of a tent, Mr.

Tramp, if she were inside of it. And she, had you but seen _her_ looks!

what archness and what softness,--how piquant, yet how playful,--what witchcraft and what simplicity! I must hasten on. We arrived within a day of our journey's end. The next morning showed us the tall outline of Fort William against the sky. The hour was approaching in which I might declare my love, and declare it with some hope of a return!"

"Mr. Tramp," said a waiter, hurriedly, interrupting Mr. Yellowley at this crisis of his tale, "Captain Smithet, of the 'Hornet,' says he has the steam up and will start in ten minutes."

"Bless my heart," cried I; "this is a hasty summons;" while s.n.a.t.c.hing up my light travelling portmanteau, I threw my cloak over my shoulders at once.

"You 'll not go before I conclude my story," cried Mr. Yellowley, with a voice of indignant displeasure.

"I regret it deeply, sir," said I, "from my very heart; but I am the bearer of government despatches for Vienna; they are of the greatest consequence,--delay would be a ruinous matter."

"I 'll go down with you to the quay," cried Yellowley, seizing my arm; and we turned into the street together. It was still blowing a gale of wind, and a heavy sleet was drifting in our faces, so that he was compelled to raise his voice to a shout, to become audible.

"'We are near Calcutta, dearest Lady Blanche,' said I; 'in a moment more we shall be no longer bound by your pledge'--do you hear me, Mr. Tramp?"

"Perfectly; but let us push along faster."

"She was in tears, sir,--weeping. She is mine, thought I. What a night, to be sure! We drove into the grand Ca.s.sawaddy; and the door of our conveyance was wrenched open by a handsome-looking fellow, all gold and moustaches.

"'Blanche--my dearest Blanche!' said he.

"'My own Charles!' exclaimed she."

"Her brother, I suppose, Mr. Yellowley?"

"No, sir," screamed he, "her husband!!!"

"The artful, deceitful, designing woman had a husband!" screamed Yellowley, above the storm and the hurricane. "They had been married privately, Mr. Tramp, the day he sailed for India, and she only waited for the next 'overland' to follow him out; and I, sir, the miserable dupe, stood there, the witness of their joys.

"'Don't forget this dear old creature, Charles,' said she: 'he was invaluable to me on the journey!' But I rushed from the spot, anguish-torn and almost desperate."

"Come quickly, sir; we must catch the ebb-tide," cried a sailor, pushing me along towards the jetty as he spoke.

"My misfortunes were rife," screamed Yellowley, in my ear. "The Rajah to whose court I was appointed had offended Lord Ellenborough, and it was only the week before I arrived that his territory bad been added to 'British India,' as they call it, and the late ruler accommodated with private apartments in Calcutta, and three hundred a year for life; so that I had nothing to do but come home again. Good-bye,--good-bye, sir."

"Go on," cried the captain from the paddle-box; and away we splashed, in a manner far more picturesque to those on land than pleasant to us on board, while high above the howling wind and rattling cordage came Yellowley voice,--"Don't forget it, Mr. Tramp, don't forget it! Asleep or awake, never trust them!"

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THE ROAD VERSUS THE RAILS

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Although the steam-engine itself is more naturalized amongst us than with any other nation of Europe, railroad travelling has unquestionably outraged more of the a.s.sociations we once cherished and were proud of, than it could possibly effect in countries of less rural and picturesque beauty than England. "La Belle France" is but a great cornfield,--in winter a dreary waste of yellow soil, in autumn a desert of dried stubble; Belgium is only a huge cabbage-garden,--flat and fetid; Prussia, a sandy plain, dotted with sentry-boxes. To traverse these, speed is the grand requisite; there is little to remark, less to admire.

The sole object is to push forward; and when one remembers the lumbering diligence and its eight buffaloes, the rail is a glorious alternative.

In England, however, rural scenery is eminently characterized. The cottage of the peasant enshrined in honeysuckle, the green glade, the rich and swelling champaign, the quaint old avenues leading to some ancient hall, the dark glen, the shining river, follow each other in endless succession, suggesting so many memories of our people, and teeming with such information of their habits, tastes, and feelings.

There was something distinctive, too, in that well-appointed coach, with its four blood bays, tossing their heads with impatience, as they stood before the village inn, waiting for the pa.s.sengers to breakfast. I loved every jingle of the bra.s.s housings; the flap of the traces, and the bang of the swingle-bar, were music to my ears; and what a character was he who wrapped his great drab coat around his legs, and gathered up the reins with that careless indolence that seemed to say, "The beasts have no need of guidance,--they know what they are about!" The very leer of his merry eye to the buxom figure within the bar was a novel in three volumes; and mark how lazily he takes the whip from the fellow that stands on the wheel, proud of such a service; and hear him, as he cries, "All right, Bill, let 'em go!"--and then mark the graceful curls of the long lash, as it plays around the leaders' flanks, and makes the skittish devils bound ere they are touched. And now we go careering along the mountain-side, where the breeze is fresh and the air bracing, with a wide-spread country all beneath us, across which the shadows are moving like waves. Again, we move along some narrow road, overhung with trees, rich in perfumed blossoms, which fall in showers over us as we pa.s.s; the wheels are crushing the ripe apples as they lie uncared for; and now we are in a deep glen, dark and shady, where only a straggling sunbeam comes; and see, where the road opens, how the rabbits play, nor are scared at our approach! Ha, merry England! there are sights and sounds about you to warm a man's heart, and make him think of home.

It was but a few days since I was seated in one of the cheap carriages of a southern line, when this theme was brought forcibly to my mind by overhearing a dialogue between a wagoner and his wife. The man, in all the pride and worldliness of his nature, would see but the advantages of rapid transit, where the poor woman saw many a change for the worse,--all the little incidents and adventures of a pleasant journey being now superseded by the clock-work precision of the rail, the hissing engine, and the lumbering train.

Long after they had left the carriage, I continued to dwell upon the words they had spoken; and as I fell asleep, they fashioned themselves into rude measure, which I remembered on awaking, and have called it--

THE SONG OF THE THIRD-CLa.s.s TRAIN.

WAGONER.

Time was when with the dreary load We slowly journeyed on, And measured every mile of road Until the day was gone; Along the worn and rutted way, When morn was but a gleam, And with the last faint glimpse of day Still went the dreary team.

But no more now to earth we bow!

Our insect life is past; With furnace gleam, and hissing steam, Our speed is like the blast

WIFE.

I mind it well,--I loved it too, Full many a happy hour, When o'er our heads the blossoms grew That made the road a bower.

With song of birds, and pleasant sound Of voices o'er the lea, And perfume rising from the ground Fresh turned by labor free.

And when the night, star-lit and bright, Closed in on all around, Nestling to rest, upon my breast My boy was sleeping sonnd.

His mouth was moved, as tho' it provtd That even in his dream He grasped the whip--his tiny lip Would try to guide the team.

Oh, were not these the days to please!

Were we not happy so?

The woman said. He hung his head, And still he muttered low: But no more now to earth we bow, Our insect life is past; With furnace gleam, and hissing steam, Our speed is like the blast."

"I wish I had a hundred pounds to argue the question on either side," as Lord Plunkett said of a Chancery case; for if we have lost much of the romance of the road, as it once existed, we have certainly gained something in the strange and curious views of life presented by railroad travelling; and although there was more of poetry in the pastoral, the broad comedy of a journey is always amusing. The caliph who once sat on the bridge of Bagdad, to observe mankind, and choose his dinner-party from the pa.s.sers-by, would unquestionably have enjoyed a far wider scope for his investigation, had he lived in our day, and taken out a subscription ticket for the Great Western or the Grand Junction. A peep into the several carriages of a train is like obtaining a section of society; for, like the view of a house, when the front wall is removed, we can see the whole economy of the dwelling, from the kitchen to the garret; and while the grand leveller, steam, is tugging all the same road, at the same pace, subjecting the peer to every shock it gives the peasant, individual peculiarities and cla.s.s observances relieve the uniformity of the scene, and afford ample opportunity for him who would read while he runs. Short of royalty, there is no one nowadays may not be met with "on the rail;" and from the Duke to Daniel O'Connell--a pretty long interval--your _vis-a-vis_ may be any ill.u.s.trious character in politics, literature, or art. I intend, in some of these tales, to make mention of some of the most interesting characters it has been my fortune to encounter; meanwhile let me make a note of the most singular railroad traveller of whom I have ever heard, and to the knowledge of whom I accidentally came when travelling abroad. The sketch I shall call--

THE EARLY TRAIN TO VERSAILLES.

"Droll people one meets travelling,--strange characters!" was the exclamation of my next neighbor in the Versailles train, as an oddly attired figure, with an enormous beard, and a tall Polish cap, got out at Sevres; and this, of all the railroads in Europe, perhaps, presents the most motley array of travellers. The "militaire," the shopkeeper, the actor of a minor theatre, the economist Englishman residing at Versailles for cheapness, the "modiste," the newspaper writer, are all to be met with, hastening to and from this favorite resort of the Parisians; and among a people so communicative, and so well disposed to social intercourse, it is rare that even in this short journey the conversation does not take a character of amus.e.m.e.nt, if not of actual interest.

"The last time I went down in this train it was in company with M.

Thiers; and, I a.s.sure you, no one could be more agreeable and affable,"