see none. But, as I am sure that I betray nothing
to them, I reason that they, like myself, may
be suffering without showing it.

Exhilarating and refreshing as I find railway
travelling to be in its result upon my health and
spirits, there are variations in sound and motion
attending an express train at full speed that
cause me, for the time being, much uneasiness.
How does it happen that after travelling smoothly
and steadily for a certain distance, the carriage
suddenly begins to oscillate, that the wheels
begin to "bump, bump," as if the axles had
given way, that every now and then a "birring"
noise occurs, that the carriage sinks first on one
side and then on the other for a short distance,
as if it were going to roll over? These may
not be indications of danger, but I shrewdly
suspect that the travelling public think they
are; and I am sure it would be conferring a
great favour upon the travelling public, and
tend greatly to relieve their minds and make
them more comfortable during their journeys,
if some person who has a railway engineer's
experience of all such disturbing symptoms, would
tell us precisely what they mean. Are they
danger signals, or not? As a timid railway
traveller—though, I suspect, no more timid than
thousands of my neighbours—I want to know
what circumstance will, and what circumstance
will not, justify me in breaking that circular
piece of glass, turning the handle, and signalling
to the driver to stop. Shall I be warranted
when that unaccountable bumping goes on for a
full hour? when I am being flung about in my
seat as if I were being rolled down hill in a
barrel? when the carriage is filled with the
smoke and the smell of burning wood? when
red-hot sparks are fairly raining on the heap of
tarpaulin-covered luggage on the roof? If
there is no danger whatever indicated by these
alarming signs and wonders of railway travelling,
only let us know and be assured of it on
the best authority.

I have a suspicion that these questions would
have been frequently asked before now but for
the unwillingness of railway travellers to confess
fears which might prove to be groundless.
When travellers get safely to their destination,
they forget the alarms of the journey, and
neglect the resolution which they made on the
way to write to the Times. It is only when an
accident occurs that passengers have courage
enough to declare, after the fact, that they felt
something was going wrong.

I wonder if there is any one railway functionary
who has a full knowledge of all the ways
and habits of a train? I am certain that the
engine-driver knows very little of what occurs
behind him. The engine is subject to little
variation of motion. Its oscillation is a
continuance of short sharp jerks, as regular as
the ticking of a watch. If the road be clear,
and the metals sound, nothing can happen to
the engine except a collision. But the long trains
that swing behind it are, as we know, apt to run
off the line, tear up the rails, and force the points
from their proper position. Would it be too
much to ask the railway authorities to draw up
a code of railway engineering, which should not
only be a guide to those who drive engines and
manage railway traffic, but also afford every
necessary information to travellers? Very few
know what degree of safety is ensured by the
principle of running upon rails. There may be
none at all. We take the railway upon blind
trust. People have travelled upon railways
without being killed or maimed: others may
do the same. I should not wonder if, on
investigating the subject, it were found that it is not
safe at all to travel at the rate of forty miles
an hour, and that it is quite as foolhardy to enter
an express train as it is to trust oneself to the
shoulders of Blondin when he walks across the
high rope. Let me recommend the subject to
the consideration of the Social Science Congress.

The perils which I imagine on the journey
between Euston, London, and Lime-street, Liverpool,
present themselves so uniformly, that I think
they may be accounted for. My experience is
this: That the long run at express speed from
Euston to Rugby is invariably easy and pleasant.
No swinging or jolting, nor any unpleasant motion
whatever. But towards the end of the journey
the engine appears to get fiercely impatient,
and tears along at an alarming rate. I never
pass the points at Huyton, three miles from the
Lime-street tunnel, without feeling that there
is going to be a smash—that we shall swing off
the line. Again, on returning, all goes smoothly
and steadily until the train leaves Rugby for
its final run to Euston. Here the engine goes
mad again, and in the neighbourhood of Tring
I sit breathlessly expecting destruction. I have
heard engine-drivers talk about "up hill" and
"down hill," in reference to this part of the
line. Is it down hill from Tring, and is it safe to
go down hill at such a fearful rate? I could
name many "bits of road," as the drivers have
it, where the engines invariably go mad. On
the Great Northern, between Doncaster and
Peterborough: two hours of breathless holding
on by arm-strap and cushion. Between Watford
and King's Cross—ditto. The madness of
the Midland trains, as the public know, has
driven passengers to break their journey to
escape the risks of breaking their necks. I have
often felt inclined to do this, but did not like
to confess my alarm.

The engine-driver of Mugby Junction, who, I
am in a position to state, bears his fame with
that quiet modesty which is ever characteristic
of real worth, said that there was an art in
driving; that though starting an engine was as
simple and easy a matter as drawing a drop of
gin, driving well and steadily was quite another
affair. I have taken some pains to ascertain
the correctness of this dictum, and I find that
there is at least a great difference in the
performance of engines. Whether this is owing
to the engines themselves, or to the drivers
of them, I am unable to say; but I have
noticed frequently that a change of engine,
without any other change in the train, such as