LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

had been travelling most of the day by railway through this delightful country, not by an express that rushed you through the scenery with breathless haste, but by an easy-going mixed train which called at every station. Sometimes its speed reached twenty-five miles an hour, but never more, and because of numerous curves and gradients—for it was a narrow gauge and more or less a surface line—the rate of progress was much less during the greater part of the journey.

      The work of the day was over. My companion and I had dined at the Gweedore Hotel, where we were staying for the night. With the setting sun the breeze had died away. Perfect stillness and a silence deep, profound and all-pervading reigned. I had been talking, as an old pensioner will talk, of byegone times, of my experiences in a long railway career, and my companion, himself a rising railway man, seemed greatly interested. As we sauntered along, the conversation now and again lapsing into a companionable silence, he suddenly said: “Why don’t you write your reminiscences? They would be very interesting, not only to us younger railway men, but to men of your own time too.” Until that moment I had never seriously thought of putting my reminiscences on record, but my friend’s words fell on favourable ground, and now, less than a month since that night in Donegal, I am sitting at my desk penning these opening lines.

      That my undertaking will not be an easy one I know. My memory is well stored, but unfortunately I have never kept a diary or commonplace book of any kind. On the contrary a love of order and neatness, carried to absurd excess, has always led me to destroy accumulated letters or documents, and much that would be useful now has in the past, from time to time, been destroyed and “cast as rubbish to the void.”

      Most autobiographies, I suppose, are undertaken to please the writers. That this is the case with me I frankly confess; but I hope that what I find much pleasure in writing my readers may, at least, find some satisfaction in reading. Vanity, perhaps, plays some part in this hope, for, “He that is pleased with himself easily imagines that he shall please others.”

      Carlyle says, “A true delineation of the smallest man, and his scene of pilgrimage through life, is capable of interesting the greatest man; that all men are to an unspeakable degree brothers, each man’s life a strange emblem of every man’s; and that human portraits, faithfully drawn, are of all pictures the welcomest on human walls.”

      I am not sure that portraits of the artist by himself, though there are notable and noble instances to the contrary, are often successful. We rarely “see oursels as ithers see us,” and are inclined to regard our virtues and our vices with equal equanimity, and to paint ourselves in too alluring colours; but I will do my best to tell my tale with strict veracity, and with all the modesty I can muster.

      An autobiographer, too, exposes himself to the charge of egotism, but I must run the risk of that, endeavouring to avoid the scathing criticism of him who wrote:—

      “The egotist … . …

       Whose I’s and Me’s are scattered in his talk,

       Thick as the pebbles on a gravel walk.”

      Fifty years of railway life, passed in the service of various companies, large and small, in England, Scotland and Ireland, in divers’ capacities, from junior clerk to general manager, and ultimately to the ease and dignity of director, if faithfully presented, may perhaps, in spite of all drawbacks, be not entirely devoid of interest.

CHAPTER II.

       BOYHOOD

       Table of Contents

      I was born at Sheffield, on Good Friday, in the year 1851, and my only sister was born on a Christmas Day.

      My father was in the service of the Midland Railway, as also were two of his brothers, one of whom was the father of the present General Manager of the Midland. When I was but ten months old my father was promoted to the position of accountants’ inspector at headquarters and removed from Sheffield to Derby. Afterwards, whilst I was still very young, he became Goods Agent at Birmingham, and lived there for a few years. He then returned to Derby, where he became head of the Mineral Office. He remained with the Midland until 1897, when he retired on superannuation at the age of seventy-six. Except, therefore, for an interval of about three years my childhood and youth were spent at Derby.

      My earliest recollection in connection with railways is my first railway journey, which took place when I was four years of age. I recollect it well. It was from Derby to Birmingham. How the wonder of it all impressed me! The huge engine, the wonderful carriages, the imposing guard, the busy porters and the bustling station. The engine, no doubt, was a pigmy, compared with the giants of to-day; the carriages were small, modest four-wheelers, with low roofs, and diminutive windows after the manner of old stage coaches, but to me they were palatial. I travelled first-class on a pass with my father, and great was my juvenile pride. Our luggage, I remember, was carried on the roof of the carriage in the good old-fashioned coaching style. Four-wheeled railway carriages are, I was going to say, a thing of the past; but that is not so. Though gradually disappearing, many are running still, mainly on branch lines—in England nearly five thousand; in Scotland over four hundred; and in poor backward Ireland (where, by the way, railways are undeservedly abused) how many? Will it be believed—practically none, not more than twenty in the whole island! All but those twenty have been scrapped long ago. Well done Ireland!

      From the earliest time I can remember, and until well-advanced in manhood, I was delicate in health, troubled with a constant cough, thin and pale. In consequence I was often absent from school; and prevented also from sharing, as I should, and as every child should, in out-door games and exercises, to my great disadvantage then and since, for proficiency is only gained by early training, and unfortunate is he whose circumstances have deprived him of that advantage. How often, since those early days, have I looked with envious eyes on pastimes in which I could not engage, or only engage with the consciousness of inferiority.

      I have known men who, handicapped in this way, have in after life, by strong will and great application, overcome their disabilities and become good cricketers, great at tennis, proficient at golf, strong swimmers, skilful shots; but they have been exceptional men with a strong natural inclination to athletics.

      The only active physical recreations in which I have engaged with any degree of pleasure are walking, riding, bicycling and skating. Riding I took to readily enough as soon as I was able to afford it; and, if my means had ever allowed indulgence in the splendid pastime of hunting, I would have followed the hounds, not, I believe, without some spirit and boldness. My natural disposition I know inclined me to sedentary pursuits: reading, writing, drawing, painting, though, happily, the tendency was corrected to some extent by a healthy love of Nature’s fair features, and a great liking for country walks.

      In drawing and painting, though I had a certain natural aptitude for both, I never attained much proficiency in either, partly for lack of instruction, partly from want of application, but more especially, I believe, because another, more alluring, more mentally exciting occupation beguiled me. It was not music, though to music close allied. This new-found joy I long pursued in secret, afraid lest it should be discovered and despised as a folly. It was not until I lived in Scotland, where poetical taste and business talent thrive side by side, and where, as Mr. Spurgeon said, “no country in the world produced so many poets,” that I became courageous, and ventured to avow my dear delight. It was there that I sought, with some success, publication in various papers and magazines of my attempts at versification, for versification it was that so possessed my fancy. Of the spacious times of great Elizabeth it has been written, “the power of action and the gift of song did not exclude each other,” but in England, in mid-Victorian days, it was looked upon differently, or so at least I believed.

      After a time I had the distinction of being included in a new edition of Recent and Living Scottish Poets, by Alexander Murdoch, published in 1883. My inclusion was explained on the ground that, “His muse first awoke to conscious effort on Scottish soil,” which, though not quite in accordance with fact, was not so wide of the mark that I felt in the least concerned to criticise the statement.

Скачать книгу