There remains only one question—Cui bono? What useful purpose can be served by being able to get from Liverpool to Manchester in twenty minutes instead of over an hour? On an emergency, such as a sudden necessity for the services of a medical specialist, a matter of life or death perhaps, or on the occasion of any crisis in domestic or mercantile life when the instant presence of some one distant individual is imperative, it might be of immense service. But in the usual course of business, do not existing railways bring merchant and broker, importer and manufacturer, face to face quickly enough, and are not telephones and telegraphs and the post sufficient to carry through big transactions between the centre of the cotton trade and the great city on the banks of the Mersey? Public opinion, which demands increasing speed in every phase of life, especially in travelling, declares they are not sufficient; for we live in an impatient age when every hour of detention on a transatlantic passage is begrudged.
Therefore it is not to be wondered at that in 1900-1, after the most exhaustive inquiries and criticisms, the royal assent was given August 17th, 1901, to the Manchester and Liverpool Electric Express Railway, which was duly authorised by Act of Parliament. It must be premised that the line, like our London Tube, does not provide for goods traffic; that the time occupied by the journey being so short, neither luggage-van, lavatory, or refreshment buffet is required, and that all trains consist of a single car, couplings being a source of danger at so great a rate of speed. But as the trains run every ten minutes, and carry about forty persons each time, a large passenger traffic is provided for.
Well—a broker has been telephoned for by his client, a wealthy cotton-spinner in Manchester, anxious to consult with him personally; so he at once leaves the flags of the Exchange, and after an eight minutes’ walk arrives at the Express Railway Station, near the entrance gate of the Blue Coat Hospital in School Lane. He considers that in getting into and out of the lift he has lost two minutes, but he just catches his car and starts for a run of 34½ miles to Manchester, and since it is his first experience of lightning travelling, he notices everything connected with the new line. There are many curves, he finds, all necessary in order to avoid conflict with the vested interests of other railway companies; the gradients, he observes, at points about three-quarters of a mile from the Liverpool and Manchester stations, are steep—1 in 25, and 1 in 30—but of service in accelerating and breaking the trains.
Unlike the Listowel mono-rail line, the Manchester and Liverpool express is fenced from end to end with an unclimbable barrier, and as there are no level-crossings and no means of access, there is no possibility of trespassing. Also, for the security of the workmen employed in maintaining the track as on an ordinary railway—the system of “packing” the sleepers and inspecting the various parts being common to all railways—a clear space of three feet is left between the passing trains, and strong posts, ten feet apart, are fixed along the centre of the space for the labourers to hold on by when an express rushes by. Collisions, our broker quickly perceives, are impossible, there being no switches, and notwithstanding the multitude of passengers (some twenty thousand per day) there are never more than two cars on the line at a time, and there are no stoppages between the two termini.
For signalling purposes, the line is divided into four sections of about five miles each, and as the train passes by, its electric motor automatically operates the signal and immediately “blocks” the section behind it, so that the train following cannot advance until its leader has cleared the five-mile division.
The driver and conductor are both together in the front part of the train, so that the conductor has ample time to look out for the signals, to apply the brakes, and assist his mate. The brakes are of the Westinghouse pattern, and the two combined can stop the cars in about 800 yards, even at the speed of 110 miles an hour. These can be aided by Mr. Behr’s ingenious device, which Sir William H. Preece considers quite practicable, viz. louvres or shutters, which, when opened, materially increase the air resistance.
Past Toxteth Park, Garston, Halewood, Widnes (whose only rival in sheer ugliness is perhaps London’s Stratford-by-Bow), and exactly half-way, Warrington, conspicuous for the inkiness of its river Mersey, and noted for its glass, wire, and chemical industries; famed for its network of waterways, especially for the great but evil-smelling ship-canal; noted in history—when but a hamlet, with a clear trout-yielding stream—as the camping-ground of the young Pretender when on his march to Derby in 1745; and associated with Mrs. Gaskell (whose “Cranford” is identified with Knutsford, a neighbouring village), the two Bishops Claughton, Viscount Cross, Luke Fildes, R.A., and “Warrington” Wood, the sculptor.
Close by, in the parish of Great Sankey, is the power-generating station of the railway, the current obtained being 15,000 volts on the triphase alternating system, converted in five sub-stations placed along the line, into a continuous 650 volt current. Every car has four traction motors arranged in pairs, each with a full-speed capacity of 160 h.p., equal to 110 miles an hour. The cars are comfortably upholstered; the seats are separated and placed back to back in the middle, those along the sides facing inwards, as in the Twopenny Tube. The lighting is, of course, excellent, and the ventilation perfect, though to prevent accident the windows are fixed, and the doors, while the train is in motion, are automatically locked.
