opossumsal1
In the Train
I am in a long train gliding through England,
Gliding past green fields and gentle grey willows,
Past huge dark elms and meadows full of buttercups,
And old farms dreaming among mossy apple trees.
Now we are in a dingy town of small ugly houses
And tin advertisements of cocoa and Sunlight Soap,
Now we are in dreary station built of coffee-coloured wood,
Where barmaids in black stand in empty Refreshment Rooms,
And shabby old women sit on benches with suitcases.
Now we are by sidings where coaltrucks lurk disconsolate
Bright skies overarch us with shining cloud palaces,
Sunshine flashes on canals, and then the rain comes,
Silver rain from grey skies lashing our window panes;
Then it is bright again and white smoke is blowing
Gaily over a pale blue sky among the telegraph wires.
Northward we rush under bridges, up gradients,
Through black, smoky tunnels, over iron viaducts,
Past platelayers and signal boxes, factories and warehouses;
Afternoon is fading among the tall brick chimney-stacks
In the murky Midlands where meadows grow more colourless.
Northward, O train, you rush, resolute, invincible,
Northward to the night where your banner of flying smoke
Will glow in the darkness with burning spark and ruddy flame.
Be the train, my life, see the shining meadows,
Glance at the quiet farms, the gardens and shady lanes,
But do not linger by them, look at the dingy misery
Of all those silly towns, see it, hate it and remember it,
But never accept it. You must only accept you own road:
The strong unchanging steel rails of necessity,
The ardent power that drives you towards night and the unknown terminus.
V. DE SOLA PINTO
opossumsal1
From a Railway Carriage
Faster than fairies, faster than witches,
Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches,
And charging along like troops in a battle,
All through the meadows the horses and cattle:
All of the sights of the hill and the plain
Fly as thick as driving rain;
And ever again in the wink of an eye,
Painted stations whistle by.
Here is a child who clambers and scrambles,
All by himself and gathering brambles;
Here is a tramp who stands and grazes;
And there is a green for stringing daisies!
Here is a cart run away in the road
Lumping along with man and load;
And here is a mill and there is a river:
Each a glimpse and gone for ever!
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
opossumsal1
The time will come when people will travel in stages moved by steam engines from one city to another, almost as fast as birds can fly, 15 or 20 miles an hour.... A carriage will start from Washington in the morning, the passengers will breakfast at Baltimore, dine at Philadelphia, and sup in New York the same day.... Engines will drive boats 10 or 12 miles an hour, and there will be hundreds of steamers running on the Mississippi, as predicted years ago.
-- Oliver Evans, 1800.
The same year Evans made this statement, he created the earliest successful non-condensing high pressure stationary steam-engine. Four years later, in 1804, he built the first steam-powered boat.
opossumsal1
A private railroad car is not an acquired taste. One takes to it immediately.
-- Eleanor Robson Belmont (1879-1979)
opossumsal1
Rail travel at high speeds is not possible because passengers, unable to breathe, would die of asphyxia.
-- Dionysius Lardner (1842 - 1914) US journalist, short-story writer
