In December, 1890, I left the County Down to enter upon my duties as manager of the Midland Great Western. The County Down Directors, at their Board meeting on the 16th of that month, passed a minute recording their “high appreciation of the ability with which he” (my humble self) “has discharged his duties as general manager,” adding that “his uniform courtesy, tact and judgment, added to his strict sense of honour, secured him the confidence of the Board.” Need I say that I was proud of this testimonial, and as pleased as proud, because it went on to wish me success in my new duties, where I would “have a wider field for the exercise of my talents,” and begged my “acceptance of a cheque as a mark of regard.” This was better than the walking stick with which a certain railway officer, who was not too popular with his staff, was, it is said, presented by them, when he left for a bigger post on another line.
CHAPTER XX.
THE MIDLAND GREAT WESTERN RAILWAY OF IRELAND
I had now completed one half of my active railway life; reached the age of 39; and, no longer a rolling stone, was settled in the service of a company with which I was destined to remain for the rest of my railway career. That my aspirations were satisfied I do not pretend, for ambition forbade any settled feeling of rest or content. Happily, my nature inclined to the sunny side and disappointments never spoiled my enjoyment of life or marred the pleasure I found in my daily work. My friend, Edward John Cotton, who, like myself, was an imported Englishman, had, like me, indulged in dreams of going back to England to fill some great railway post, but he had reached his sixties and his dreams were over. Often, when we talked familiarly together, he would say: “Joseph, if you aspire to be a general manager in England you ought never to have come to Ireland. They don’t think much on the other side of Irish railways or Irish railway men.” This, I daresay, was true, though he, well known, liked and admired as he was, ought to have been considered an exception, and why no British railway company, when posts were going, ever snapped him up is hard to say. Later on, even I, once or twice narrowly escaped obtaining a good thing on the English side of the Channel, but it never quite came off, and so I was left to make myself as happy as I could in Ireland.
Perhaps it was as well. Railway life in Ireland, though not highly remunerated, had its compensations as most situations in life have. There
the pressure of work was less constant and severe than in England. A railway manager was not confined to crowded cities, and enjoyed more breathing space. When he travelled on his line he came in contact with bucolic interests instead of the whirring wheels of trade. Time moved more slowly, greater leisure prevailed, the climate was softer, the country greener, manners easier, and more wit and humour abounded. Yes, on the whole, I was more fortunate than had my ambitious hopes been realised to the full. At least I think so now; and, as Hamlet says, “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
One immediate advantage I gained by entering the Midland Great Western service. Until then I had no chance of joining a superannuation fund. The Glasgow and South-Western had none, neither had the County Down; but the Midland Great Western was a party to the Clearing House Superannuation Corporation, and of it I became a member.
The Midland Great Western, as I have said, is the third largest railway in Ireland. It stretches from the Liffey to the Atlantic, serves the plains of Meath, the wilds of Connaught, and traverses large expanses of bog. Galway, Sligo, Westport, Athlone and Mullingar are the principal towns on its system.
When I became its manager, Sir Ralph Cusack had been chairman of the railway for nearly a quarter of a century and was in his sixty-ninth year. He attended daily in his office, devoting much time to the company’s affairs. Although my position was not all I could have wished in the matter of that wide authority I coveted, and which, in my humble opinion, every railway manager should possess, it was in many respects very satisfactory, and every lot in life has its crumpled rose leaf. Sir Ralph regarded me as an expert, which, notwithstanding all his long experience as chairman, he did not himself pretend to be, and railway experts he held in high esteem. He supported me consistently, permitting no one but himself to interfere with anything I thought it right to do. I did not, to be sure, always get my own way, but I accomplished much, and, what I cared for most, was able to do good work for the company. Enthusiasm for one’s work is a splendid thing, and so is loyalty to one’s employers. I make no boast of possessing these, for they were common property; they permeated
the railway service and inspired the youngest clerk as well as his chief. Sometimes in these latter days I imagine such things are changed, though I would like to think it is only an old man’s fancy, as it was in the case of the dear old Dubliner, who in his time had been a beaux and had reached his eightieth year. One sunny forenoon when airing himself in a fashionable street of the city, he was met by another old crony, who accosted him with:—
“Well, old friend, how are you this morning?”
“Oh, very well, thanks, quite well, only—” he responded.
“Only what?” asked his friend.
“Only the pavements are harder and the girls are not so pretty as they used to be,” he replied with a whimsical look of regret in his face and a twinkle in his still bright eye.