ABSTRACT

Alack, Mr. Tennyson, I have missed the mail for more years than I wish to reckon—missed the wholesome travel with the wind on your face, and the passage swift, but not too swift, through ever-varying scenery, and the gay interchange of welcome and humor, and the stoppages at roadside inns, and the cheery tankard, and all the possibility of adventures. Railways are excellent things, and I wonder how the world got on without them; but twenty or thirty miles on the best line in England thrills every nerve in my body, and makes my brain throb, and causes me to feel so grimy that I abhor myself. Then the hideous smell of the engine, the dust and ashes that attack your eyes and nostrils, the fustiness of the carriages, the maniacal scream of the steam-whistle, the grinding and groaning noises of the whole machine—are not these abominations?