“It is quite idle and absurd,” said one, “to say the present scheme can ever be carried into execution, under any circumstances, or in any way.” “Whenever,” said another, with the authority of an oracle, “Providence in Lancashire is pleased to send rain or a little mizzling weather, expeditious it cannot be.” A third gave it as his opinion, that no engine could go in the night-time, “because,” he added, more Scripturally than soundly, “the night-time is a period when no man can work!”
It was said that no one would live near a spot passed by the engines, that no houses would let near a station; and that all property on the line would be frightfully deteriorated. Not content, however, with proving the impracticability of the plan, the most frivolous causes were adduced to show why this, the grandest national project ever brought forward, a project which has changed the face and features of the land, the commerce of the country, and the social habits of the rural population, should not be allowed to pass.
The public services of a railroad were put in competition with the annoyance which an individual would receive from the smoke of the engines coming within 250 yards of his house; and it was pathetically asked, “Can any thing compensate for this?” Gentlemen objected because it would injure their prospects, and land-owners because it would injure their pockets! Pictures of ancient family residences destroyed by the smoke were vividly drawn. The claims of unprotected females and reverend gentlemen were strongly urged; and pathetic representations were given of families, who had lived for centuries in their ancestral home, leaving the dwelling-place of their youth, and going to another part of the town.
“Mr. Stephenson,” it was boldly declared, “is totally devoid of common sense. He makes schemes without seeing the difficulties.” “Upon this shuffling evidence, we are called to pass the bill.” “It is impossible to hold this changing Proteus in any knot whatsoever.” “It is the greatest draught upon human credulity ever heard of.”
“There is nothing,” said one, “but long sedgy grass to prevent the train from sinking into the shades of eternal night.” “They cannot go so fast as the canal,” said another. A third appealed to the pocket. “If this bill succeeds, by the time railroads are set going, the poor, gulled subscribers will have lost all their money; and, instead of locomotive engines, they must have recourse to horses or asses, not meaning to say which.” Those whose interests would be affected decided that “locomotives could not succeed”; and numberless were the sneers at the idea of engines galloping as fast as five miles an hour. One sapient gentleman thought the trains might go at four miles and a half in fine weather, but not more than two and a half in wet.
“When we set out with the original prospectus,” was the remark of the counsel, “we were to gallop I know not at what rate. I believe it was twelve miles an hour, with the aid of a devil in the form of a locomotive sitting as postilion on the fore-horse, and an honorable member sitting behind him to stir up the fire, and keep it up at full speed. I will show they cannot go six. I may be able to show we shall keep up with him by the canal.” “Thus, Sir, I prove that locomotive engines cannot move at more than four miles and a quarter an hour; and I show the scheme is bottomed on deception and fallacy.”
Turnpike trusts were to be ruined, and therefore railroads were not to be forwarded; and it was deemed unanswerable to say that the canal interests would be hurt by the rail. Though it was proved by others that more money had been offered for land if the line passed through than if it did not, it was of no importance in the eyes of those who, blinded by selfishness, refused to be convinced. The war-cry on one side was the venerable “vested rights”; on the other, “progress.”
Men prosily and pathetically talked of tempting Providence by travelling at the rate of twelve miles an hour. The fine breed of English horses would be deteriorated, and our cavalry be worsted at the first onset. The prosperity of a great community was said to be involved in the contest; and the question whether a few miles of railway would peril the welfare of the kingdom, was openly discussed. Stable-boys joined in the contest, and urged the greatness of their claim; the porters proved how important a class would be sacrificed to so unimportant an end; and the clergy, alarmed lest the rustic should neglect the Sunday sermon to see the passing train, added to the number of petitions. A million horses were to be thrown out of service, and eight millions of oat-growing acres to be abandoned. Gentlemen with neither sense nor science wrote treatises to demonstrate the danger of travelling more than ten miles an hour, and, at the same time, left on record their want of sympathy with crack-brained speculators.
But if the opponents were thus bitter in their attack upon the new scheme, they were equally ingenious in their defence of the canal. It was described as never subject to drought; the frost never stopped it; the sun never lowered it; accidents never happened on it. Its friends were also hardy enough to contend, that a saving of nine miles an hour was not sufficient to justify the attempt; and “therefore,” added one who supported this argument, “I do protest against the despotism of the Exchange at Liverpool striding across the land of this country.” The reply to all these objections is in the fact that some thousands of miles are now open to the public.
The Manchester and Liverpool Railway succeeded; but no reward was conferred upon Thomas Gray. Other railways followed, and were successful; but no notice was taken of Thomas Gray. The great railway mania came; but Thomas Gray was nothing in the eyes of excited speculators, greedy of gain. An endeavour was made by some of the friends of Gray to win for him the public sympathy; and the poor, old, broken-hearted man, when he respectfully begged for a situation on one of those railways which he had so greatly forwarded, was refused.