The Scotch Express by Stephen Crane
The entrance to Euston Station is of itself sufficiently imposing. It
is a high portico of brown stone, old and grim, in form a casual
imitation, no doubt, of the front of the temple of Nike Apteros, with a
recollection of the Egyptians proclaimed at the flanks. The frieze,
where of old would prance an exuberant processional of gods, is, in this
case, bare of decoration, but upon the epistyle is written in simple,
stern letters the word "EUSTON." The legend reared high by the gloomy
Pelagic columns stares down a wide avenue, In short, this entrance to a
railway station does not in any way resemble the entrance to a railway
station. It is more the front of some venerable bank. But it has another
dignity, which is not born of form. To a great degree, it is to the
English and to those who are in England the gate to Scotland.

The little hansoms are continually speeding through the gate, dashing
between the legs of the solemn temple; the four-wheelers, their tops
crowded with luggage, roll in and out constantly, and the footways beat
under the trampling of the people. Of course, there are the suburbs and
a hundred towns along the line, and Liverpool, the beginning of an
important sea-path to America, and the great manufacturing cities of the
North; but if one stands at this gate in August particularly, one must
note the number of men with gun-cases, the number of women who surely
have Tam-o'-Shanters and plaids concealed within their luggage, ready
for the moors. There is, during the latter part of that month, a
wholesale flight from London to Scotland which recalls the July throngs
leaving New York for the shore or the mountains.

The hansoms, after passing through this impressive portal of the
station, bowl smoothly across a courtyard which is in the center of the
terminal hotel, an institution dear to most railways in Europe. The
traveler lands amid a swarm of porters, and then proceeds cheerfully to
take the customary trouble for his luggage. America provides a
contrivance in a thousand situations where Europe provides a man or
perhaps a number of men, and the work of our brass check is here done by
porters, directed by the traveler himself. The men lack the memory of
the check; the check never forgets its identity. Moreover, the European
railways generously furnish the porters at the expense of the traveler.
Nevertheless, if these men have not the invincible business precision of
the check, and if they have to be tipped, it can be asserted for those
who care that in Europe one-half of the populace waits on the other half
most diligently and well.

Against the masonry of a platform, under the vaulted arch of the train-
house, lay a long string of coaches. They were painted white on the
bulging part, which led halfway down from the top, and the bodies were a
deep bottle-green. There was a group of porters placing luggage in the
van, and a great many others were busy with the affairs of passengers,
tossing smaller bits of luggage into the racks over the seats, and
bustling here and there on short quests. The guard of the train, a tall
man who resembled one of the first Napoleon's veterans, was caring for
the distribution of passengers into the various bins. There were no
second-class compartments; they were all third and first-class.

The train was at this time engineless, but presently a railway "flier,"
painted a glowing vermilion, slid modestly down and took its place at
the head. The guard walked along the platform, and decisively closed
each door. He wore a dark blue uniform thoroughly decorated with silver
braid in the guise of leaves. The way of him gave to this business the
importance of a ceremony. Meanwhile the fireman had climbed down from
the cab and raised his hand, ready to transfer a signal to the driver,
who stood looking at his watch. In the interval there had something
progressed in the large signal box that stands guard at Euston. This
high house contains many levers, standing in thick, shining ranks. It
perfectly resembles an organ in some great church, if it were not that
these rows of numbered and indexed handles typify something more acutely
human than does a keyboard. It requires four men to play this organ-like
thing, and the strains never cease. Night and day, day and night, these
four men are walking to and fro, from this lever to that lever, and
under their hands the great machine raises its endless hymn of a world
at work, the fall and rise of signals and the clicking swing of

And so as the vermilion engine stood waiting and looking from the shadow
of the curve-roofed station, a man in the signal house had played the
notes that informed the engine of its freedom. The driver saw the fall
of those proper semaphores which gave him liberty to speak to his steel
friend. A certain combination in the economy of the London and
Northwestern Railway, a combination which had spread from the men who
sweep out the carriages through innumerable minds to the general manager
himself, had resulted in the law that the vermilion engine, with its
long string of white and bottle-green coaches, was to start forthwith
toward Scotland.

Presently the fireman, standing with his face toward the rear, let fall
his hand. "All right," he said. The driver turned a wheel, and as the
fireman slipped back, the train moved along the platform at the pace of
a mouse. To those in the tranquil carriages this starting was probably
as easy as the sliding of one's hand over a greased surface, but in the
engine there was more to it. The monster roared suddenly and loudly, and
sprang forward impetuously. A wrong-headed or maddened draft-horse will
plunge in its collar sometimes when going up a hill. But this load of
burdened carriages followed imperturbably at the gait of turtles. They
were not to be stirred from their way of dignified exit by the impatient
engine. The crowd of porters and transient people stood respectful. They
looked with the indefinite wonder of the railway-station sight-seer upon
the faces at the windows of the passing coaches. This train was off for
Scotland. It had started from the home of one accent to the home of
another accent. It was going from manner to manner, from habit to habit,
and in the minds of these London spectators there surely floated dim
images of the traditional kilts, the burring speech, the grouse, the
canniness, the oat-meal, all the elements of a romantic Scotland.

The train swung impressively around the signal-house, and headed up a
brick-walled cut. In starting this heavy string of coaches, the engine
breathed explosively. It gasped, and heaved, and bellowed; once, for a
moment, the wheels spun on the rails, and a convulsive tremor shook the
great steel frame.

The train itself, however, moved through this deep cut in the body of
London with coolness and precision, and the employees of the railway,
knowing the train's mission, tacitly presented arms at its passing. To
the travelers in the carriages, the suburbs of London must have been one
long monotony of carefully made walls of stone or brick. But after the
hill was climbed, the train fled through pictures of red habitations of
men on a green earth.

But the noise in the cab did not greatly change its measure. Even though
the speed was now high, the tremendous thumping to be heard in the cab
was as alive with strained effort and as slow in beat as the breathing
of a half-drowned man. At the side of the track, for instance, the sound
doubtless would strike the ear in the familiar succession of incredibly
rapid puffs; but in the cab itself, this land-racer breathes very like
its friend, the marine engine. Everybody who has spent time on shipboard
has forever in his head a reminiscence of the steady and methodical
pounding of the engines, and perhaps it is curious that this relative
which can whirl over the land at such a pace, breathes in the leisurely
tones that a man heeds when he lies awake at night in his berth.

There had been no fog in London, but here on the edge of the city a
heavy wind was blowing, and the driver leaned aside and yelled that it
was a very bad day for traveling on an engine. The engine-cabs of
England, as of all Europe, are seldom made for the comfort of the men.
One finds very often this apparent disregard for the man who does the
work--this indifference to the man who occupies a position which for the
exercise of temperance, of courage, of honesty, has no equal at the
altitude of prime ministers. The American engineer is the gilded
occupant of a salon in comparison with his brother in Europe. The man
who was guiding this five-hundred-ton bolt, aimed by the officials of
the railway at Scotland, could not have been as comfortable as a shrill
gibbering boatman of the Orient. The narrow and bare bench at his side
of the cab was not directly intended for his use, because it was so low
that he would be prevented by it from looking out of the ship's port-
hole which served him as a window. The fireman, on his side, had other
difficulties. His legs would have had to straggle over some pipes at the
only spot where there was a prospect, and the builders had also
strategically placed a large steel bolt. Of course it is plain that the
companies consistently believe that the men will do their work better if
they are kept standing. The roof of the cab was not altogether a roof.
It was merely a projection of two feet of metal from the bulkhead which
formed the front of the cab. There were practically no sides to it, and
the large cinders from the soft coal whirled around in sheets. From time
to time the driver took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his
blinking eyes.

London was now well to the rear. The vermilion engine had been for some
time flying like the wind. This train averages, between London and
Carlisle forty-nine and nine-tenth miles an hour. It is a distance of
299 miles. There is one stop. It occurs at Crewe, and endures five
minutes. In consequence, the block signals flashed by seemingly at the
end of the moment in which they were sighted.

There can be no question of the statement that the road-beds of English
railways are at present immeasurably superior to the American road-beds.
Of course there is a clear reason. It is known to every traveler that
peoples of the Continent of Europe have no right at all to own railways.
Those lines of travel are too childish and trivial for expression. A
correct fate would deprive the Continent of its railways, and give them
to somebody who knew about them.

The continental idea of a railway is to surround a mass of machinery
with forty rings of ultra-military law, and then they believe they have
one complete. The Americans and the English are the railway peoples.
That our road-beds are poorer than the English road-beds is because of
the fact that we were suddenly obliged to build thousands upon thousands
of miles of railway, and the English were obliged to build slowly tens
upon tens of miles. A road-bed from New York to San Francisco, with
stations, bridges, and crossings of the kind that the London and
Northwestern owns from London to Glasgow, would cost a sum large enough
to support the German army for a term of years. The whole way is
constructed with the care that inspired the creators of some of our now
obsolete forts along the Atlantic coast.

An American engineer, with his knowledge of the difficulties he had to
encounter--the wide rivers with variable banks, the mountain chains,
perhaps the long spaces of absolute desert; in fact, all the
perplexities of a vast and somewhat new country--would not dare spend a
respectable portion of his allowance on seventy feet of granite wall
over a gully, when he knew he could make an embankment with little cost
by heaving up the dirt and stones from here and there. But the English
road is all made in the pattern by which the Romans built their
highways. After England is dead, savants will find narrow streaks of
masonry leading from ruin to ruin. Of course this does not always seem
convincingly admirable. It sometimes resembles energy poured into a rat-
hole. There is a vale between expediency and the convenience of
posterity, a mid-ground which enables men surely to benefit the
hereafter people by valiantly advancing the present; and the point is
that, if some laborers live in unhealthy tenements in Cornwall, one is
likely to view with incomplete satisfaction the record of long and
patient labor and thought displayed by an eight-foot drain for a
nonexistent, impossible rivulet in the North. This sentence does not
sound strictly fair, but the meaning one wishes to convey is that if an
English company spies in its dream the ghost of an ancient valley that
later becomes a hill, it would construct for it a magnificent steel
trestle, and consider that a duty had been performed in proper
accordance with the company's conscience. But after all is said of it,
the accidents and the miles of railway operated in England are not in
proportion to the accidents and the miles of railway operated in the
United States. The reason can be divided into three parts--older
conditions, superior caution, the road-bed. And of these, the greatest
is older conditions.

In this flight toward Scotland one seldom encountered a grade crossing.
In nine cases of ten there was either a bridge or a tunnel. The
platforms of even the remote country stations were all of ponderous
masonry in contrast to our constructions of planking. There was always
to be seen, as we thundered toward a station of this kind, a number of
porters in uniform, who requested the retreat of any one who had not the
wit to give us plenty of room. And then, as the shrill warning of the
whistle pierced even the uproar that was about us, came the wild joy of
the rush past a station. It was something in the nature of a triumphal
procession conducted at thrilling speed. Perhaps there was a curve of
infinite grace, a sudden hollow explosive effect made by the passing of
a signal-box that was close to the track, and then the deadly lunge to
shave the edge of a long platform. There were always a number of people
standing afar, with their eyes riveted upon this projectile, and to be
on the engine was to feel their interest and admiration in the terror
and grandeur of this sweep. A boy allowed to ride with the driver of the
band-wagon as a circus parade winds through one of our village streets
could not exceed for egotism the temper of a new man in the cab of a
train like this one. This valkyric journey on the back of the vermilion
engine, with the shouting of the wind, the deep, mighty panting of the
steed, the gray blur at the track-side, the flowing quicksilver ribbon
of the other rails, the sudden clash as a switch intersects, all the din
and fury of this ride, was of a splendor that caused one to look abroad
at the quiet, green landscape and believe that it was of a phlegm quiet
beyond patience. It should have been dark, rain-shot, and windy; thunder
should have rolled across its sky.

It seemed, somehow, that if the driver should for a moment take his
hands from his engine, it might swerve from the track as a horse from
the road. Once, indeed, as he stood wiping his fingers on a bit of
waste, there must have been something ludicrous in the way the solitary
passenger regarded him. Without those finely firm hands on the bridle,
the engine might rear and bolt for the pleasant farms lying in the
sunshine at either side.

This driver was worth contemplation. He was simply a quiet, middle-aged
man, bearded, and with the little wrinkles of habitual geniality and
kindliness spreading from the eyes toward the temple, who stood at his
post always gazing out, through his round window, while, from time to
time, his hands went from here to there over his levers. He seldom
changed either attitude or expression. There surely is no engine-driver
who does not feel the beauty of the business, but the emotion lies deep,
and mainly inarticulate, as it does in the mind of a man who has
experienced a good and beautiful wife for many years. This driver's face
displayed nothing but the cool sanity of a man whose thought was buried
intelligently in his business. If there was any fierce drama in it,
there was no sign upon him. He was so lost in dreams of speed and
signals and steam, that one speculated if the wonder of his tempestuous
charge and its career over England touched him, this impassive rider of
a fiery thing.

It should be a well-known fact that, all over the world, the engine-
driver is the finest type of man that is grown. He is the pick of the
earth. He is altogether more worthy than the soldier, and better than
the men who move on the sea in ships. He is not paid too much; nor do
his glories weight his brow; but for outright performance, carried on
constantly, coolly, and without elation, by a temperate, honest, clear-
minded man, he is the further point. And so the lone human at his
station in a cab, guarding money, lives, and the honor of the road, is a
beautiful sight. The whole thing is aesthetic. The fireman presents the
same charm, but in a less degree, in that he is bound to appear as an
apprentice to the finished manhood of the driver. In his eyes, turned
always in question and confidence toward his superior, one finds this
quality; but his aspirations are so direct that one sees the same type
in evolution.

There may be a popular idea that the fireman's principal function is to
hang his head out of the cab and sight interesting objects in the
landscape. As a matter of fact, he is always at work. The dragon is
insatiate. The fireman is continually swinging open the furnace-door,
whereat a red shine flows out upon the floor of the cab, and shoveling
in immense mouthfuls of coal to a fire that is almost diabolic in its
madness. The feeding, feeding, feeding goes on until it appears as if it
is the muscles of the fireman's arms that are speeding the long train.
An engine running over sixty-five miles an hour, with 500 tons to drag,
has an appetite in proportion to this task.

View of the clear-shining English scenery is often interrupted between
London and Crew by long and short tunnels. The first one was
disconcerting. Suddenly one knew that the train was shooting toward a
black mouth in the hills. It swiftly yawned wider, and then in a moment
the engine dived into a place inhabitated by every demon of wind and
noise. The speed had not been checked, and the uproar was so great that
in effect one was simply standing at the center of a vast, black-walled
sphere. The tubular construction which one's reason proclaimed had no
meaning at all. It was a black sphere, alive with shrieks. But then on
the surface of it there was to be seen a little needle-point of light,
and this widened to a detail of unreal landscape. It was the world; the
train was going to escape from this cauldron, this abyss of howling
darkness. If a man looks through the brilliant water of a tropical pool,
he can sometimes see coloring the marvels at the bottom the blue that
was on the sky and the green that was on the foliage of this detail. And
the picture shimmered in the heat-rays of a new and remarkable sun. It
was when the train bolted out into the open air that one knew that it
was his own earth.

Once train met train in a tunnel. Upon the painting in the perfectly
circular frame formed by the mouth there appeared a black square with
sparks bursting from it. This square expanded until it hid everything,
and a moment later came the crash of the passing. It was enough to make
a man lose his sense of balance. It was a momentary inferno when the
fireman opened the furnace door and was bathed in blood-red light as he
fed the fires.

The effect of a tunnel varied when there was a curve in it. One was
merely whirling then heels over head, apparently in the dark, echoing
bowels of the earth. There was no needle-point of light to which one's
eyes clung as to a star.

From London to Crew, the stern arm of the semaphore never made the train
pause even for an instant. There was always a clear track. It was great
to see, far in the distance, a goods train whooping smokily for the
north of England on one of the four tracks. The overtaking of such a
train was a thing of magnificent nothing for the long-strided engine,
and as the flying express passed its weaker brother, one heard one or
two feeble and immature puffs from the other engine, saw the fireman
wave his hand to his luckier fellow, saw a string of foolish, clanking
flat-cars, their freights covered with tarpaulins, and then the train
was lost to the rear.

The driver twisted his wheel and worked some levers, and the rhythmical
chunking of the engine gradually ceased. Gliding at a speed that was
still high, the train curved to the left, and swung down a sharp
incline, to move with an imperial dignity through the railway yard at
Rugby. There was a maze of switches, innumerable engines noisily pushing
cars here and there, crowds of workmen who turned to look, a sinuous
curve around the long train-shed, whose high wall resounded with the
rumble of the passing express; and then, almost immediately, it seemed,
came the open country again. Rugby had been a dream which one could
properly doubt. At last the relaxed engine, with the same majesty of
ease, swung into the high-roofed station at Crewe, and stopped on a
platform lined with porters and citizens. There was instant bustle, and
in the interest of the moment no one seemed particularly to notice the
tired vermilion engine being led away.

There is a five-minute stop at Crewe. A tandem of engines slip up, and
buckled fast to the train for the journey to Carlisle. In the meantime,
all the regulation items of peace and comfort had happened on the train
itself. The dining-car was in the center of the train. It was divided
into two parts, the one being a dining-room for first-class passengers,
and the other a dining-room for the third-class passengers. They were
separated by the kitchens and the larder. The engine, with all its
rioting and roaring, had dragged to Crewe a car in which numbers of
passengers were lunching in a tranquility that was almost domestic, on
an average menu of a chop and potatoes, a salad, cheese, and a bottle of
beer. Betimes they watched through the windows the great chimney-marked
towns of northern England. They were waited upon by a young man of
London, who was supported by a lad who resembled an American bell-boy.
The rather elaborate menu and service of the Pullman dining-car is not
known in England or on the Continent. Warmed roast beef is the exact
symbol of a European dinner, when one is traveling on a railway.

This express is named, both by the public and the company, the "Corridor
Train," because a coach with a corridor is an unusual thing in England,
and so the title has a distinctive meaning. Of course, in America, where
there is no car which has not what we call an aisle, it would define
nothing. The corridors are all at one side of the car. Doors open thence
to little compartments made to seat four, or perhaps six, persons. The
first-class carriages are very comfortable indeed, being heavily
upholstered in dark, hard-wearing stuffs, with a bulging rest for the
head. The third-class accommodations on this train are almost as
comfortable as the first-class, and attract a kind of people that are
not usually seen traveling third-class in Europe. Many people sacrifice
their habit, in the matter of this train, to the fine conditions of the
lower fare.

One of the feats of the train is an electric button in each compartment.
Commonly an electric button is placed high on the side of the carriage
as an alarm signal, and it is unlawful to push it unless one is in
serious need of assistance from the guard. But these bells also rang in
the dining-car, and were supposed to open negotiations for tea or
whatever. A new function has been projected on an ancient custom. No
genius has yet appeared to separate these two meanings. Each bell rings
an alarm and a bid for tea or whatever. It is perfect in theory then
that, if one rings for tea, the guard comes to interrupt the murder, and
that if one is being murdered, the attendant appears with tea. At any
rate, the guard was forever being called from his reports and his
comfortable seat in the forward end of the luggage-van by thrilling
alarms. He often prowled the length of the train with hardihood and
determination, merely to meet a request for a sandwich.

The train entered Carlisle at the beginning of twilight. This is the
border town, and an engine of the Caledonian Railway, manned by two men
of broad speech, came to take the place of the tandem. The engine of
these men of the North was much smaller than the others, but her cab was
much larger, and would be a fair shelter on a stormy night. They had
also built seats with hooks by which they hang them to the rail, and
thus are still enabled to see through the round windows without
dislocating their necks. All the human parts of the cab were covered
with oilcloth. The wind that swirled from the dim twilight horizon made
the warm glow from the furnace to be a grateful thing.

As the train shot out of Carlisle, a glance backward could learn of the
faint, yellow blocks of light from the carriages marked on the dimmed
ground. The signals were now lamps, and shone palely against the sky.
The express was entering night as if night were Scotland.

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

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.
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