CHAPTER III.
The Trains—Euston.
The Down Train.
On arriving in a cab at the Euston Station, the old-fashioned traveller is at first disposed to be exceedingly pleased at the newborn civility with which, the instant the vehicle stops, a porter, opening its door with surprising alacrity, most obligingly takes out every article of his luggage; but so soon as he suddenly finds out that the officious green straight-buttoned-up official’s object has been solely to get the cab off the premises, in order to allow the string of variegated carriages that are slowly following to advance—in short, that, while he has been paying to the driver, say only two shining shillings, his favourite great-coat, his umbrella, portmanteau, carpet-bag, Russia leather writing-case, secured by Chubb’s patent lock, have all vanished—he poignantly feels, like poor Johnson, that his “patron has encumbered him with help;” and it having been the golden maxim of his life never to lose sight of his luggage, it gravels and dyspepsias him beyond description to be civilly told that on no account can he be allowed to follow it, but that “he will find it on the platform;” and truly enough the prophecy is fulfilled; for there he does find it on a barrow in charge of the very harlequin who whipped away, and who, as its guardian angel, hastily muttering the words “Now then, Sir!” stands beckoning him to advance.
The picture of the departure of one of the large trains from the Station at Euston Square, however often it may have been witnessed, is worthy of a few moments’ contemplation.
On that great covered platform, which, with others adjoining it, is lighted from above by 8797 square yards (upwards of an acre and three-quarters) of plate-glass, are to be seen congregated and moving to and fro in all directions, in a sort of Babel confusion, persons of all countries, of all religions, and of all languages. People of high character, of low character, of no character at all. Infants just beginning life—old people just ending it. Many desirous to be noticed—many, from innumerable reasons, good, bad, and indifferent, anxious to escape notice. Some are looking for their friends—some, suddenly turning upon their heels, are evidently avoiding their acquaintance.
Contrasted with that variety of free and easy well-worn costumes in which quiet-minded people usually travel, are occasionally to be seen a young couple—each, like a new-born baby, dressed from head to foot in everything perfectly new—hurrying towards a coupé, on whose door there negligently hangs a black board—upon which there is printed, not unappropriately, in white bridal letters, the word “Engaged.”
Across this mass of human beings a number of porters are to be seen carrying and tortuously wheeling, in contrary directions, baggage and property of all shapes and sizes. One is carrying over his right shoulder a matted parcel, 12 or 15 feet long, of young trees, which the owner, who has just purchased them for his garden, is following with almost parental solicitude. Another porter, leaning as well as walking backwards, is attempting with his whole strength to drag towards the luggage-van a leash of pointer-dogs, whose tails, like certain other “tails” that we know of, are obstinately radiating from the couples that bind together their heads: while a number of newspaper-vendors, “fleet-footed Mercuries,” are worming their way through the crowd.
Within the long and apparently endless straight line of railway carriages which bound the platform, are soon seen the faces and caps of various travellers, especially old ones, who with due precaution have taken possession of their seats; and while most of these, each of them with their newspapers unfolded on their knees, are slowly wiping their spectacles, several of the younger inmates are either talking to other idlers leaning on their carriage-windows, or, half kissing and half waving their hands, are bidding “farewell” to the kind friends who had accompanied them to the station.
Some months ago, at a crisis similar to that just mentioned, we happened to be ensconced in the far corner of a railway carriage, when we heard a well-known clergyman from Brighton suddenly observe to his next neighbour who sat between us, “There must surely be something very remarkable in that scene!” His friend, who was busily cutting open his Record, made no reply, but, as we chanced to witness the trifling occurrence alluded to, we will very briefly describe it. A young man of about twenty-two, of very ordinary height, dress, and appearance, was standing opposite to a first-class carriage just as the driver’s whistle shrilly announced the immediate departure of the train. At this signal, without any theatrical movement, or affectation of any sort, he quietly reeled backwards upon a baggage-truck, which happened to be immediately behind him. Two elderly ladies beside him instantly set to work, first of all, most vigorously to rub with their lean fingers the palms of his hands—they might just as well have scrubbed the soles of his boots;—then they untied his neckcloth; but their affectionate kindness was of no avail. The train was probably separating him from something, or from some one. The movement however he had not witnessed, for the mere whistle of the engine had caused him to swoon! What corresponding effect of fainting or sobbing it may have produced on any inmate in that carriage before which he had long been standing, and which had just left him, we have no power to divine. It is impossible, however, to help reflecting what a variety of emotions must every day be excited within the train as well as on the platform at Euston Station by the scream or parting whistle which we have just described. From the murderer flying from the terrors of justice down to the poor brokenhearted creditor absconding from his misfortunes;—from our careworn Prime Minister down to the most indolent member of either House of Parliament—each simultaneously escaping after a long-protracted session;—from people of all classes going from or to laborious occupation, down to the schoolboy reluctantly returning to, or joyfully leaving, his school;—from our Governor-General proceeding to embark for India, down to the poor emigrant about to sail from the same port to Australia—the railway-whistle, however unheeded by the multitude, must oftentimes have excited a variety of feelings which it would be utterly impossible to describe.