Part 6
Miss Kemble was mistaken in stating Mr. Huskisson after his accident was removed to Manchester. He was conveyed to the vicarage, at Eccles, near Manchester. Of the vicar’s wife, Dean Stanley’s mother thus writes, (January 17, 1832,):—“There is one person who interests me very much, Mrs. Tom Blackburne, the Vicaress of Eccles, who received poor Mr. Huskisson, and immortalised herself by her activity, sense, and conduct throughout.” A writer in the _Cornhill Magazine_, for March, 1884, referring to the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, remarks:—“In celebration of this experiment, for even then most people only looked upon it as a doubtful thing, the houses of the adjacent parts of Lancashire were filled with guests. Mr. John Blackburne, M.P., asked his brother and sister-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Blackburne, to stay at Hale Hall, near Liverpool, (which his ancestors in the direct line had possessed since 1199,) and to go with his party to the ceremony and fetes of the day.
The invitation was accepted, and Mr. and Mrs. Blackburne went to Hale. Now, however, occurred one of those strange circumstances utterly condemned by critics of fiction as ‘unreal,’ ‘unnatural,’ or ‘impossible;’ only in this case it happened to be true, in spite of all these epithets. Mrs. Blackburne, rather strong-minded than otherwise, at all events one of the last women in the world to be affected by imagination, became possessed by an unmistakable presentiment, which made her feel quite sure _that her presence was required at home_; _and she went home at once_. There were difficulties in her way; every carriage was required, but she would go. She drove to Warrington, and from thence ‘took boat’ up the Irwell to Eccles. Canal boats were then regular conveyances, divided into first and second classes. There were no mobs or excitement anywhere on the 14th, and Mrs. Blackburne got quickly to Eccles without any adventures. When there, except that one of her children was unwell, she could find nothing wrong, or in the least likely to account for the presentiment which had driven her home in spite of all the natural enough, ridicule of her husband and friends at Hale.
Early on the morning of the 15th, an incident occurred, the narration of which may throw some light on the temper of the times. Mr. Barton, of Swinton, came to say that a mob was expected to come from Oldham to attack the Duke of Wellington, then at the height of his unpopularity among the masses; for just by Eccles three miles of the line was left unguarded, ‘Could Mr. Blackburne say what was to be done?’
‘My husband is away,’ said the Vicaress, ‘but I know that about fifty special constables were out last year, the very men for this work, if their licenses have not expired.’
‘Never mind licenses,’ replied Mr. Barton, with a superb indifference to form, quite natural under the circumstances. ‘Where can I find the men?’
‘Oh,’ replied Mrs. Blackburne, ‘I can get the men for you.’
Mr. Barton hesitated, but soon with gratitude accepted the offer, and with the help of the churchwardens and constables ‘a guard for the Duke’ was soon collected on the bridge of Eccles, armed with staves and clubs to be dispersed along the line.
This done, she had a tent put up for herself and children, with whom were Lord Wilton’s little daughters, the Ladies Elizabeth and Katherine Egerton, and their governess. The tent was just above the cutting and looked down on to it, and they would have a good view of the first train, expected to pass about eleven o’clock. The morning wore on, the crowds were increasing, and low murmurs of wonder were heard. It was thought that the experiment had failed. A few of the villagers came into the field, but none troubled the little band of watchers. The bright sunshine had passed away, and it had become dark, with large hot drops of rain, forerunners of a coming thunderstorm. The people lined the whole of the way from Manchester to Liverpool, and, as far as the eye could reach, faces were seen anxiously looking towards Liverpool. Suddenly a strange roar was heard from the crowd, not a cheer of triumph, but a prolonged wail, beginning at the furthest point of travelling along the swarming banks like the incoming swirl of a breaker as it runs upon a gravelled beach.
Like a true woman, her first thought was for her husband, as Mrs. Blackburne heard the words repeated on all sides, ‘An accident!’ ‘The Vicarage!’ She flew across the field to the gate and met a sad procession bringing in a sorely-wounded yet quite conscious man. She saw in a moment that he had medals on his coat, and had been very tall, so that it could not be as she feared. The relief of that moment may be imagined. Then the quiet presence of mind, by practice habitual to her, and the ready flow of sympathy left her no time to think of anything but the sufferer, who said to her pathetically, ‘I shall not trouble you long!’ She had not only the will but the power to help, even to supplying from her own medicine chest and stores, kept for the poor, everything that the surgeons required.
It was Lord Wilton who suggested the removal of Mr. Huskisson to Eccles Vicarage and improvised a tourniquet on the spot, while soon the medical men who were in the train did what they could for him. Mr. Blackburne, as will be remembered, was not with his wife, and only the presentiment which had brought Mrs. Blackburne home had given the means of so readily and quickly obtaining surgical necessaries and rest. Mr. Blackburne, writing to his mother-in-law the day after this accident, referring to Mr. Huskisson, remarks:—“To the last he retained his senses. Lord Granville says when the dying man heard Wilton propose to take him to this house he exclaimed, ‘Pray take me there; there I shall indeed be taken care of.’
But fancy my horror! _Not one word did I know of his being here till I had passed the place_, _and was literally eating my luncheon at Manchester_! In vain did I try to get a conveyance, till at last the Duke of Wellington sent to me and ordered his car to start, and I came with him back, he intending to come here; but the crowd was so _immense_ that the police dared not let him get out. To be sure, when my people on the bridge saw me standing with him, they did shout, ‘That’s as it should be—Vicar for us!’ He said, ‘These people seem to know you well.’
_Entre nous_, at the door I met my love, and after a good cry (I don’t know which was the greatest fool!) set to work. The poor fellow was glad to see me, and never shall I forget the scene, his poor wife holding his head, and the great men weeping, for they all wept! He then received the Sacrament, added some codocils to his will, and seemed perfectly resigned. But his agonies were dreadful! Ransome says they must have been so. He expired at nine. We never left him till he breathed his last. Poor woman! How she lamented his loss; yet her struggles to bear with fortitude are wonderful. I wish you could have heard him exclaim, after my petition ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive . . . ’ ‘I have not the smallest ill-will to any one person in the whole world.’ They stay here until Saturday, when they begin the sad journey to convey him to Sussex. They wanted to bury him at Liverpool, but she refused. I forgot to tell you that he told Lawrence before starting that he _wished he were safe back_.”
Mr. Huskisson was not buried at Chichester, for at last Mrs. Huskisson consented to the popular wish that his body might have a public funeral at Liverpool, where a statue of him by Gibson now stands in the cemetery.”
ELEVATED SIGHT-SEERS WISHING TO DESCEND.
Sir J. A. Picton, in his _Memorials of Liverpool_, relates an amusing incident connected with the opening of the railway at that town. “On the opening of the railway,” he remarks, “of course, every point and ‘coin of vantage’ from whence the procession could be best seen was eagerly availed of. A tolerably high chimney had recently been built upon the railway ground, affording a sufficient platform on the scaffolding at the top for the accommodation of two or three persons. Two gentlemen connected with the engineer’s department took advantage of this crowning eminence to obtain a really ‘bird’s eye view’ of the whole proceedings. They were wound up by the tackle used in hoisting the bricks, and enjoyed the perspective from their airy height to their hearts’ content. When all was over they, of course, wished to descend, and gave the signal to be let down again, but alas! there was no response. The man in charge, excited by the events of the day, confused by the sorrowful news by which it was closed, and, it may be, oblivious from other causes, had utterly forgotten his engagement and gone home. Here was a prospect! The shades of evening were gathering, the multitudes departing, and every probability of being obliged to act the part of St. Simeon of Stylites very involuntarily. Despair added force and strength to their lungs, and at length—their condition and difficulty having attracted attention—they were relieved from their unpleasant predicament.”
THE DUKE’S CARRIAGE.
A correspondent of the _Athenæum_, in 1830, speaking of the carriage prepared for the Duke of Wellington at the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, remarks: “It rather resembled an eastern pavilion than anything our northern idea considers a carriage. The floor is 32 feet long by 8 wide, gilt pillars support a crimson canopy 24 feet long, and it might for magnitude be likened to the car of Juggernaut; yet this huge machine, with the preceding steam engine, moved along at its own fiery will even more swimmingly, a ‘thing of heart and mind,’ than a ship on the ocean.”
LORD BROUGHAM’S SPEECH.
At a dinner given at Liverpool in celebration of the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway, Lord Brougham thus discourses upon the memorable event and the death of Mr. Huskisson:—“When I saw the difficulties of space, as it were, overcome; when I beheld a kind of miracle exhibited before my astonished eyes; when I saw the rocks excavated and the gigantic power of man penetrating through miles of the solid mass, and gaining a great, a lasting, an almost perennial conquest over the powers of nature by his skill and industry; when I contemplated all this, was it possible for me to avoid the reflections which crowded into my mind, not in praise of man’s great success, not in admiration of the genius and perseverance he had displayed, or even of the courage he had shown in setting himself against the obstacles that matter afforded to his course—no! but the melancholy reflection that these prodigious efforts of the human race, so fruitful of praise but so much more fruitful of lasting blessing to mankind, have forced a tear from my eye by that unhappy casualty which deprived me of a friend and you of a representative!”
AN EARLY RIDE ON THE LIVERPOOL AND MANCHESTER RAILWAY.
No account of its first beginnings would, however, be complete for our time, which did not also give an idea of the impressions produced on one travelling over it before yet the novelty of the thing had quite worn away. It was a long time, comparatively, after September, 1830, before the men who had made a trip over the railroad ceased to be objects of deep curiosity. Here is the account of his experience by one of these far-travelled men, with all its freshness still lingering about it:—
“Although the whole passage between Liverpool and Manchester is a series of enchantments, surpassing any in the Arabian Nights, because they are realities, not fictions, yet there are epochs in the transit which are peculiarly exciting. These are the startings, the ascents, the descents, the tunnels, the Chat Moss, the meetings. At the instant of starting, or rather before, the automaton belches forth an explosion of steam, and seems for a second or two quiescent. But quickly the explosions are reiterated, with shorter and shorter intervals, till they become too rapid to be counted, though still distinct. These belchings or explosions more nearly resemble the pantings of a lion or tiger, than any sound that has ever vibrated on my ear. During the ascent they become slower and slower, till the automaton actually labours like an animal out of breath, from the tremendous efforts to gain the highest point of elevation. The progression is proportionate; and before the said point is gained, the train is not moving faster than a horse can pace. With the slow motion of the mighty and animated machine, the breathing becomes more laborious, the growl more distinct, till at length the animal appears exhausted and groans like the tiger, when overpowered in combat by the buffalo.
“The moment that the height is reached and the descent commences, the pantings rapidly increase; the engine with its train starts off with augmenting velocity; and in a few seconds it is flying down the declivity like lightning, and with a uniform growl or roar, like a continuous discharge of distant artillery.
“At this period, the whole train is going at the rate of thirty-five or forty miles an hour! I was on the outside, and in front of the first carriage, just over the engine. The scene was magnificent, I had almost said terrific. Although it was a dead calm the wind appeared to be blowing a hurricane, such was the velocity with which we darted through the air. Yet all was steady; and there was something in the precision of the machinery that inspired a degree of confidence over fear—of safety over danger. A man may travel from the Pole to the Equator, from the Straits of Malacca to the Isthmus of Darien, and he will see nothing so astonishing as this. The pangs of Etna and Vesuvius excite feelings of horror as well as of terror; the convulsion of the elements during a thunderstorm carries with it nothing but pride, much less of pleasure, to counteract the awe inspired by the fearful workings of perturbed nature; but the scene which is here presented, and which I cannot adequately describe, engenders a proud consciousness of superiority in human ingenuity, more intense and convincing than any effort or product of the poet, the painter, the philosopher, or the divine. The projections or transits of the train through the tunnels or arches are very electrifying. The deafening peal of thunder, the sudden immersion in gloom, and the clash of reverberated sounds in confined space combine to produce a momentary shudder or idea of destruction—a thrill of annihilation, which is instantly dispelled on emerging into the cheerful light.
“The meetings or crossings of the steam trains flying in opposite directions are scarcely less agitating to the nerves than their transits through the tunnels. The velocity of their course, the propinquity or apparent identity of the iron orbits along which these meteors move, call forth the involuntary but fearful thought of a possible collision, with all its horrible consequences. The period of suspense, however, though exquisitely painful, is but momentary; and in a few seconds the object of terror is far out of sight behind.
“Nor is the rapid passage across Chat Moss unworthy of notice. The ingenuity with which two narrow rods of iron are made to bear whole trains of wagons, laden with many hundred tons of commerce, and bounding across a wide, semi-fluid morass, previously impassable by man or beast, is beyond all praise and deserving of eternal record. Only conceive a slender bridge of two minute iron rails, several miles in length, level as Waterloo, elastic as whalebone, yet firm as adamant! Along this splendid triumph of human genius—this veritable _via triumphalis_—the train of carriages bounds with the velocity of the stricken deer; the vibrations of the resilient moss causing the ponderous engine and its enormous suite to glide along the surface of an extensive quagmire as safely as a practiced skater skims the icy mirror of a frozen lake.
“The first class or train is the most fashionable, but the second or third are the most amusing. I travelled one day from Liverpool to Manchester in the lumber train. Many of the carriages were occupied by the swinish multitude, and others by a multitude of swine. These last were naturally vociferous if not eloquent. It is evident that the other passengers would have been considerably annoyed by the orators of this last group, had there not been stationed in each carriage an officer somewhat analogous to the Usher of the Black Rod, but whose designation on the railroad I found to be ‘Comptroller of the Gammon.’ No sooner did one of the long-faced gentlemen raise his note too high, or wag his jaw too long, than the ‘Comptroller of the Gammon’ gave him a whack over the snout with the butt end of his shillelagh; a snubber which never failed to stop his oratory for the remainder of the journey.”
To one familiar with the history of railroad legislation the last paragraph is peculiarly significant. For years after the railroad system was inaugurated, and until legislation was invoked to compel something better, the companies persisted in carrying passengers of the third class in uncovered carriages, exposed to all weather, and with no more decencies or comforts than were accorded to swine.
EARLY RAILWAY TRAVELLING.
A writer in _Notes and Queries_ remarks:—“On looking over a diary kept by my father during two journeys northward in 1830–31, I thought the readers might be amused with his account of what he saw of railway travelling, then in its infancy:—
“Monday, Oct. 11, 1830, Darlington.—Walked to the railroad, which comes within half-a-mile of the town. Saw a steam engine drawing about twenty-five wagons, each containing about two tons and a half of coals. A single horse draws four such wagons. I went to Stockton at four o’clock by coach on the railroad; one horse draws about twenty-four passengers. I did not like it at all, for the road is very ugly in appearance, and, being only one line with occasional turns for passing, we were sometimes obliged to wait, and at other times to be drawn back, so that we were full two hours going eleven miles, and they are often more than three hours. There is no other conveyance, as the cheapness has driven the stage-coaches off the road. I only paid 1s. for eleven miles. The motion was very unpleasant—a continual jolting and disagreeable noise.”
On Sept. 1, 1831, he remarks:—“The railroad to Stockton has been improved since I was here, as they are now laying down a second line.”
“Wednesday, Oct. 27, 1830.—Left Manchester at ten o’clock by the railroad for Liverpool. We enter upon it by a staircase through the office from the street at present, but there will, I suppose, be an open entrance, by-and-bye; they have built extensive warehouses adjoining. We were two hours and a half going to Liverpool (about thirty-two miles), and I must think the advantages have been a good deal overrated, for, prejudice apart, I think most people will allow that expedition is the only real advantage gained; the road itself is ugly, though curious and wonderful as a work of art. Near Liverpool it is cut very deeply through rock, and there is a long tunnel which leads into a yard where omnibusses wait to convey passengers to the inns. The tunnel is too low for the engines at present in use, and the carriages are drawn through it by donkeys. The engines are calculated to draw fifty tons. . . I cannot say that I at all liked it; the speed was too great to be pleasant, and makes you rather giddy, and certainly it is not smoother and easier than a good turnpike road. When the carriages stop or go on, a very violent jolting takes place, from the ends of the carriages jostling together. I have heard many say they prefer a horse-coach, but the majority are in favour of the railroad, and they will, no doubt, knock up the coaches.”
“Monday, Sept. 12, 1831.—Left Manchester by coach at ten o’clock, and arrived in Liverpool at half-past two. . . The railroad is not supposed to answer vastly well, but they are making a branch to Warrington, which will hurt the Sankey Navigation, and throw 1,500 men out of employment; these people are said to be loud in their execrations of it, and to threaten revenge. It is certain the proprietors do not all feel easy about it, as one living at Warrington has determined never to go by it, and was coming to Liverpool by our coach if there had been room. He would gladly sell his shares. A dividend of 4 per cent. had been paid for six months, but money had been borrowed. . . . Charge for tonnage of goods, 10s. for thirty-two miles, which appears very dear to me.”
CRABB ROBINSON’S FIRST RAILWAY JOURNEY.
“June 9th, 1833.—(Liverpool). At twelve o’clock I got upon an omnibus, and was driven up a steep hill to the place where the steam carriages start. We travelled in the second class of carriages. There were five carriages linked together, in each of which were placed open seats for the travellers, four or five facing each other; but not all were full; and, besides, there was a close carriage, and also a machine for luggage. The fare was four shillings for the thirty-one miles. Everything went on so rapidly that I had scarcely the power of observation. The road begins at an excavation through a rock, and is to a certain extent insulated from the adjacent country. It is occasionally placed on bridges, and frequently intersected by ordinary roads. Not quite a perfect level is preserved. On setting off there is a slight jolt, arising from the chain catching each carriage, but, once in motion, we proceeded as smoothly as possible. For a minute or two the pace is gentle, and is constantly varying. The machine produces little smoke or steam. First in order is the tall chimney; then the boiler, a barrel-like vessel; then an oblong reservoir of water; then a vehicle for coals; and then comes, of a length infinitely extendible, the train of carriages. If all the seats had been filled, our train would have carried about 150 passengers; but a gentleman assured me at Chester that he went with a thousand persons to Newton fair. There must have been two engines then. I have heard since that two thousand persons or more went to and from the fair that day. But two thousand only, at three shillings each way, would have produced £600! But, after all, the expense is so great that it is considered uncertain whether the establishment will ultimately remunerate the proprietors. Yet I have heard that it already yields the shareholders a dividend of nine per cent. And Bills have passed for making railroads between London and Birmingham, and Birmingham and Liverpool. What a change it will produce in the intercourse! One conveyance will take between 100 and 200 passengers, and the journey will be made in a forenoon! Of the rapidity of the journey I had better experience on my return; but I may say now that, stoppages included, it may certainly be made at the rate of twenty miles an hour.