THE SONG OF THE THIRD-CLASS 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 passers-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 class 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-à-vis may be any illustrious 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 Sèvres; 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 amusement, if not of actual interest.
“The last time I went down in this train it was in company with M. Thiers; and, I assure you, no one could be more agreeable and affable,” said one.
“Horace Vernet was my companion last week,” remarked another; “indeed I never guessed who it was, until a chance observation of mine about one of his own pictures, when he avowed his name.”
“I had a more singular travelling-companion still,” exclaimed a third; “no less a personage than Aboul Djerick, the Arab chief, whom the Marshal Bugeaud took prisoner.”