Rambles on Railways

by Sir Cusack P. Roney

These reservoirs are now found so useful that there is a pair of them on the London side of Watford, another between Warrington and Newton Junction, and a third on the London side of Conway, as near as can be half-way between Holyhead and Chester.

Four miles from Blisworth, on the right, stands Northampton, famed for its production of shoes, unequalled, as regards numbers, in any other part of the kingdom, and for its obstinate persistence (in the blind and unenlightened period of railway history) in refusing to allow the London and Birmingham Line to come within a less distance than 25,000 yards between it and its shoddy-shoebility. Independently of the injury which this obstinacy has ever since inflicted upon the town, it cost the railway company a loss in money of more than a million sterling, a lengthened and inferior section of railway, a tunnel 2,423 yards long (only 217 less than a mile and a-half), which, during its construction, ruined four contractors and caused the deaths of upwards of a hundred working men. Finally, the obstinacy of Northampton delayed the opening through of the railway from London to Birmingham for fully two years. No wonder, then, that its present generation of men is ashamed of the deed. Some go so far as to deny it altogether; others are more scrupulous, and only palliate it with excuses of which quibbling and petty ingenuity are the joint parents. “There is nothing like leather;” the only question is—its application.

In the centre of circulate movement there is one mathematical point which, although not absolutely still, approaches a state more akin to quiescence than to motion. Such is Weedon, not absolutely dead, but next door to it—“deadly lively”—sixty-nine miles from London. It is considered the centre spot of England, and it was, apparently for this reason, seriously suggested in the time of the great war, “when George III. was king,” that His Majesty should take up his residence at this tranquil spot, to be out of harm’s way, in case of invasion. The intention, however, was not carried out, and Weedon has ever since been lost to a fame and importance which even the passage of the London and North-Western line has failed to give it. It is almost the only town in the civilised world which the presence of the railway has failed to render even lively. No need then, for our engine and train to stop there, so they proceed on with undiminished speed through the rich pastures and glowing corn-fields of Northamptonshire and Warwickshire.

Arrived at Crick, seventy-five miles from London, they are within a mile of the great Kilsby Tunnel just referred to; and its northern extremity has not been left behind more than a mile and a-half, when the elaborate system of signals necessary for the protection of the next station comes in sight. The first of them is passed at speed; but gradually, as the engine and train approach the second, the driver slightly lowers his regulator, and the guards, both at the fore and hinder parts of the train, take their breaks in hand; so does the fireman, at his powerful break on the engine. The second signal is passed; white takes the place of green at the third, if all be right; but if not, and there be any sudden obstruction at or near the station, vivid red lamps by night, bright red arms by day, appear from half a dozen places almost with the electric flash and speed of lightning. Two sharp, shrill, and sudden whistles from the engine tell the guards that danger is a-head—that is, should they not themselves have seen it; an unlikely circumstance, for they are as keenly alert in their break-vans as driver and fireman are on their engine. In a moment three powerful men are applying, with utmost energy, the immense break-power at their command—so powerful that the passengers often feel a concussion that awakes the dormant, and almost hurls them against their opposite neighbours, and the train is pulled up within a space varying from 200 to 400 yards.

But if “red upon green” be not the order, steam is gradually shut off before the third signal is passed, the breaks are applied gradually and steadily, the train comes to walking pace, and, as the engine glides into the station, the driver looks at his watch, and sees by it that it is exactly two hours, less one minute, since he quitted London. He is correct to time to the moment; but if he were not so, he would, even if he were blameless, hear of it from two sources certainly—his own foreman and the railway guard; and if it were a postal train, through the inspector of that department. To the first-named official, at all events, he would have to give ample explanations.

At Rugby, driver and fireman are allowed four minutes to “water the engine,” which means, giving her a fresh supply of that most precious aliment, going carefully round and under her to see and to feel that no part is unusually heated, and to supply with oil, from cans with the stork-like necks we see in the hands of all drivers and firemen, those parts of the engine and machinery which cannot be supplied during transit. In the course of these four minutes, if the train carry the mails, a postal operation is manifested which suddenly converts the platform, previously comparatively tranquil, into a scene of intense animation. Piles of mail-bags are hurled out from the vans and travelling post offices with indescribable celerity. The guards and porters of the department perform this part of the business, but from the moment the bags are on the platform post office drudgery in respect of them ceases, and it then becomes the duty of the railway porters to attend to their further manipulation. This duty, however, is deferred until the bags awaiting on the platform the arrival of the train are lodged, by post office mandate, in van or sorting office; a sharp “All right” is heard to issue from the inside of the latter, the railway passengers who have left their carriages have returned to them, the porters have ceased crying, “Take your seats for north,” and have replaced it by, “Any more passengers for the Scotch express?” all doors are closed—banged,—“Are you all right behind?” The wave of a white flag by day, a white lamp by night, is railway language for “Yes,”—a sharp decisive whistle from the foremost guard,—whether the sound be heard above the hissing of the escaping steam or the motion only be perceived it matters not, the engine driver understands it,—up goes his regulator, on goes his steam, the fireman (who has freed his break as soon as the engine is ready for starting) looks to the rear of the train as it begins to move from the station. If the engine don’t “slip,” the regulator, further raised, admits more steam to the cylinder; should it slip, steam is altogether shut off for a moment, and then let on again. The engine has got over the slippery point on the rails,—slippery either from the ordinary foulness of the atmosphere, or more probably, from some of the oil which has fallen from the engine to the rails. She is now getting to her speed; the guards, who have not jumped from the platform until after the train is in motion, shut themselves within their vans, they see that their breaks are all right and begin arranging their parcels; the sisyphi of the sorting post fall to again at their always-beginning and never-ending labours; such passengers as can sleep, sleep, such as can’t don’t. And so the engine and her train, leaving the railway to Coventry, Birmingham, and the “Black Country” to the left, and that to Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, and all the east coast cities of northern England, to the right, pass onwards towards and through Nuneaton, a junction station which sends a branch to the left towards Coventry, and thence to Leamington, and one to the right to Leicester, where it connects with the system of the Midland Railway Company; a halt at Tamworth (necessary because it is a great postal centre, although of comparative insignificance as regards the railway) takes place thirty-three minutes after departure from Rugby, the intervening distance being twenty-four miles,—thence to Stafford, 133½ miles from London, accomplished in three hours fifteen minutes, entitles not only the engine, but those who are placed to control her, to rest and repose for a certain period.

A sister engine, which has been all ready-coaled and watered fully half an hour before the time appointed for the train’s arrival, is attached thereto, and she proceeds onwards, reaching (if it be the Limited Mail) Crewe, 25 miles distant, in 30 minutes; Carlisle, 299 miles from London, in 9 hours; Edinburgh, 401 miles, in 10½ hours; Perth, 449 miles, in 12 hours 20 minutes. Here begins the beautiful and picturesque Highland railway[82], the most northern of all our railways at the present time. Of it a few words. Its main line, extending from Perth through Inverness to Bonar Bridge, is of the total length of 204 miles. Thus London and the northern extremity of the Highland Railway are 653 miles apart, and the whole distance is accomplished by the Limited Mail in 22 hours and 20 minutes. Including branches, the Highland Railway is 250 miles in extent. Between Inverness and Perth it passes over several summits of considerable height, the highest, 1,500 feet above the level of the sea, being on the borders of Inverness and Perthshire. The next highest is at Dana, where the level is 1,000 above that of the sea, and about 40 miles to the south of this, and again at Dunkeld, the elevations are 400 feet each. The summits are gained by the line winding in and out amongst the hills, and by gradients of 1 in 70 (75 feet to the mile) and 1 in 80 (66 feet in the mile). At Speyside, near Keith, there is a rise for three miles of 1 in 60 (88 feet in the mile). The cuttings and embankments are, of course, on a large scale, and owing to the great elevation and exposed position of the line, the strong winds in the winter time sweep the snow from the hills and deposit it in the cuttings, thus making very heavy drifts. The snow ploughs invented by Mr. William Strandley, the Locomotive Superintendent of the company, are said to be very successful in removing these drifts from off the railway.

But, although the Highland Railway is now the most northern[83] in the United Kingdom, it will probably cease to be entitled to be so called before the end of the present year, for it is expected that by that time the “Sutherland Railway” will be opened for traffic. This line is to extend from Bonar Bridge to Golspie, a distance of twenty-seven miles; not all northwards, for, for the first three miles, it goes westward, and enters the county of Sutherland by crossing the river Oykel, which is spanned by an elegant iron-girder viaduct. It then turns northward to Lairg, where it inclines to the east, and continues in that direction until it reaches Golspie. The whole of the land occupied by the line from the river Oykel to Golspie is owned by His Grace the Duke of Sutherland, whose magnificent Highland residence, Dunrobin Castle, stands on the sea-shore, within a short distance of the latter place. The gradients are somewhat severe. From the Oykel there is an ascent of 1 in 72 to 75 for about eight miles to the summit, which is upwards of 500 feet above the sea-level. There are several heavy rock-cuttings. The scenery at some parts of the line is almost equal to the finest of the many picturesque views on the Highland Railway, by which company its traffic is to be worked. When completed, a passenger landing at Dover can go a distance of 768 miles to Golspie without even leaving the railway; or if he come upon English land, close to its end in Cornwall, he can go by rail from Penzance to within fifty of John of Groat’s land. If he will insist upon coming through London, his distance will be 1,007 miles; but if he leave the line towards the Metropolis, at Bristol, and go from there through Birmingham, he will shorten the journey by 130 miles. He will save some money, but not much time, by changing.

M. Vandal, the Directeur Général des Postes Françaises, says, in his Annuaire for the current year, that there is not a railway run from Dover to any part of the United Kingdom equal to the railway run from Calais to Nice, 863 miles. That is true at the present time to the extent of 122 miles. In a couple of months—that is when the Sutherland line is opened—it will be true to the extent of ninety-five miles; and, even if, as is expected, a railway be constructed which is to extend both to Wick and to sleepy[84] Thurso[85], the tables will not be turned. The route from Calais to Nice will still be sixty-five miles longer than from Dover to John o’ Groat’s Land.