There was a long toil to the summit of the hills,
and then began the booming ride down the slope.
There were many curves. Sometimes could be seen
two or three signal lights at one time, twisting off
in some new direction. Minus the lights and some
yards of glistening rails, Scotland was only a blend
of black and weird shapes. Forests which one could
hardly imagine as weltering in the dewy placidity of
evening sank to the rear as if the gods had bade them.
The dark loom of a house quickly dissolved before
the eyes. A station with its lamps became a broad
yellow band that, to a deficient sense, was only a
few yards in length. Below, in a deep valley,
a silver glare on the waters of a river made equal
time with the train. Signals appeared, grew, and
vanished. In the wind and the mystery of the
night, it was like sailing in an enchanted gloom.
The vague profiles of hills ran like snakes across
the somber sky. A strange shape boldly and formidably
confronted the train, and then melted to a long dash
of track as clean as sword-blades.
The vicinity of Glasgow is unmistakable. The
flames of pauseless industries are here and there
marked on the distance. Vast factories stand
close to the track, and reaching chimneys emit roseate
flames. At last one may see upon a wall the strong
reflection from furnaces, and against it the impish
and inky figures of workingmen. A long, prison-like
row of tenements, not at all resembling London, but
in one way resembling New York, appeared to the left,
and then sank out of sight like a phantom.
At last the driver stopped the brave effort of his
engine The 400 miles were come to the edge. The
average speed of forty-nine and one-third miles each
hour had been made, and it remained only to glide with
the hauteur of a great express through the yard and
into the station at Glasgow.
A wide and splendid collection of signal lamps flowed
toward the engine. With delicacy and care the
train clanked over some switches, passes the signals,
and then there shone a great blaze of arc-lamps, defining
the wide sweep of the station roof. Smoothly,
proudly, with all that vast dignity which had surrounded
its exit from London, the express moved along its
platform. It was the entrance into a gorgeous
drawing-room of a man that was sure of everything.
The porters and the people crowded forward. In
their minds there may have floated dim images of the
traditional music-halls, the bobbies, the ’buses,
the ’Arrys and ’Arriets, the swells of
London.
THE END
Copyrights
Men, Women, and Boats from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
