THE ROMANCE OF TRAINS

Otago Witness, Issue 3765, 11 May 1926, Page 78

THE ROMANCE OF TRAINS

By

Isabel Stevenson .

(For th* Witness.) Years ago, when the first crude but self-confident train went bumping and jarring along the railroad track, inspiring the quickly alternating emotions of fear, joy, and wonder in the minds of the discomfited but enterprising passengers—on that very day did the romance of trains begin. Under parental guidance the smallest child enters the train a flutter of excitement and anticipaton, being soon deeply infatuated either with the moving picture of the world outside, or with the representatives of the world of men within the carriage. The child has been brought into a room at home where his mother has been entertaining friends, but this carriage is a new kind of room —in fact, a small world for the time being filled with the sounds of human life, which breathe mystery and romance even into the youngest heart. With ecstatic thrills the child is ever alert for bridges and tunnels, exulting in rumbling over the bridges, yet fearful of the great noise as was primitive man; thrilling in the depths of the tunnel, yet fearful of the black cloak of darkness which has fallen so suddenly. The long, important-looking express train as it dashes past cannot help but exude that fragrant aroma of romance which casts its spell over those who have ■ watched its speedy transit, as well as those within. The watchers strain to glimpse the mysterious and unknown faces as the iron horse dashes past. Little worshipping children wave, trying to catch the, engine driver’s fleeting and inky smile, while even austere grown-ups pause a moment from their work to flutter a handkerchief, returning to their work happier because of having viewed the transient visitant. The romance of the train has been felt by human beings ever since its invention, but to imagine an express winding its way along the Canadian Pacific railway, penetrating such unsurpassed scenery as that of Banff or Lake Louise, is to reveal its own ugliness and awkwardness as compared with the wonder of Nature itself; and although this fact might seemingly detract from the atmosphere of romance it really adds to it, for the travellers, although at times an electric spasm of fear thrills them when some dangerous chasm is being bridged, cannot help but feel the romance existing in the fa«t that these tigly, inefficientlooking wooden carriages, with their human freight, are being impelled by a mysterious, white, vapoury force called steam, whieh comes from a colourless, harmless-looking liquid called water. When night comes, and the train is speeding on through the night black as Erebus, the romance of the train is at its height. The traveller leans back and dreams. If it were not for the neverceasing rumble he could imagine himself being borne on the wings of some huge bird into the mysterious unknown. He knows that there are hosts of tall trees in the world outside, and houses filled with people; occasionally he smells the salt smell of the sea, but lie feels he is no longer part of it. He is dimly aware of periodical stops at dimly-lit stations, each of which appears to him as unreal as a new world, and the languid flame of romance glows brighter in intensity. • But the traveller whose work necessitates a daily journey in some murky suburban train is to be excused if he fails to notice or appreciate my glamour of romance. Goaded into irritation by the slow, sometimes jerky, progress, and by the frequent stops and nolsv shuntings; infected wth boredom because there is scarcely a new face to lighten the monotony, he buries liis disgruntled head in a newspaper to the detriment of his sight, or else glares abstractedly before him. If vou were to speak of the romance of trains to him he would consign you to everlasting torment. For him the romance of the train is dead —and yet if some’psychologist asked him to draw an outline of the railroad track which he has traversed continuously so many years he would probab'y prove himself shockingly and most uiiromantieally incompetent.