THE LORD MAYOR’S SHOW—ON THE THAMES.
CHAPTER XII.
PORTSMOUTH.
WAY down upon the Southern coast of England is an old town of more than ordinary interest. Everybody is familiar with that great depot for England’s naval and military forces—Portsmouth.
The run down from London is one of delight, that is it would be were it not for the fact that the stolid Briton will not keep pace with the times, and introduce upon his railroads modern carriages, in which a traveler may ride with some degree of comfort. He refuses to abandon the ancient compartment carriage, which is the most abominable arrangement conceivable. The cars, as we would call them, are about half the size of the ordinary American passenger coaches, but instead of being large, roomy and convenient, they are exactly the reverse. They are divided into compartments, each one of which will hold ten persons, five on each side, facing each other.
After booking your place, instead of buying your ticket—although really you do buy a ticket—you take your seat in one of these compartments, in which are nine other persons. Thereupon the guard, about like our brakeman, locks the door, and you are a prisoner until the next station is reached.
There are absolutely no conveniences. You are simply compelled to sit bolt upright, in a close, stuffy room, in company with nine other persons whom you don’t know, and don’t care to know. You can’t walk from one end of the car to the other, because there is no aisle, as in our cars. You can do nothing but sit there and think what reforms you would inaugurate were you only a Board of Directors on one of the roads.
THE BEAUTIES OF ENGLISH RAILWAYS.