Page:Blackwood's Magazine volume 146.djvu/343
novelty and delight in sharing a seeming power of volition, would be enough to inspire the old charioteer spirit. The mystery of the glistening and bright array of handles, gauges, and pipes; the rushing wind; the interminable clatter of wheels and rails; the momentary terror at the sudden swerve from the straight to the curves; the changing and mingling of views; the escarped earthworks and rocks, which rise and fall, and lengthen and change to some new phase of interest; the fervid glowing heat of the fire-box and the reassuring regularity of the men in performing their duties. No necessity with this special steed to hold fast, no plunging to right or left, but a steady and snake-like motion, yet quicker than the wind, and by virtue of the bogie system, which has never yet been known to fail, following the sinuous winding of the line with marvellous fidellty and ease, like one of the vertebrata, and racing the banks with more than the speed of the red deer, and developing more power than a regiment of horse.
The vigilance of the driver never decreases, and the fireman, at almost regular intervals of every three to five minutes, carefully lays on his two or three shovelfuls of coal. So far, the pressure had never varied more than two or three pounds on the square inch, so that the pointer of the steam-gauge seemed almost incapable of motion.
Over the summit, which had so far been the most rapid elevation yet achieved, and we skim down the 4½ miles with a sleigh-like motion. Flitting through Irchester, then a comparatively level stretch through Wellingboro, Finedon, and Isham, at a speed of about 60 miles an hour, trending upwards to Kettering, then over the rolling undulations to Geddington, mount Corby, and again descending, rush another tunnel, pass Gretton in a splendid whirl towards the lowest dip of the valley.
Another climb of one in a hundred and sixty-seven, burying ourselves in the oblivion of a tunnel, nearly two miles long, soon to be followed by another, over the crest and a short declivity. Again, on the rise through Manton tunnel, breasting the bank of one in a hundred and forty, at a speed of 63 miles an hour, over the hills by Oakham and Ashwell, with a splendid running ground of nine miles before us, leaving Whissendine and Saxby behind, we are fairly in the heart of the happy hunting-ground, and sight the old parish church of Melton, with its water-courses, patches of wood, and graceful curve. One more ascent of one in two hundred and twenty (of whose existence I should not have known, had it not been for the chart with which I had provided myself, so easily was it surmounted), then through Old Dalby, Upper Broughton, Widmerpool, Plumtree, and Edwalton—good names smacking of the old Saxon times—bowling along without any apparent effort, we at last see the well-built town of Nottingham, with its handsome villas, picturesquely placed, and crowned by the old castle.
Over the meadows, with steam off, and rapidly reducing speed (the break being lightly and skilfully applied), we run up in grand style, without a hitch, and stop, just as the long hand of the platformn clock pointed to five minutes past one, having accomplished the 124 miles in two hours and twenty-five minutes, much the longest run of any in England, since the racing north last year, and of everyday occurrence, without a stoppage.