dependence on foreign countries for yearly supplies of breadstuffs would cease, and the immense sums now paid for such products would be so much saved of the income of the empire. The effect of such a revolution in agriculture is almost beyond our imagination to realise. Indeed, changes so vast and so startling have never yet occurred in the history of agriculture. It may be stated that during the last fifteen years, we have imported as much foreign corn as has cost three hundred millions sterling! May we not now with reason suppose that, as the population of this country is increasing to a great extent, the discoveries of Mr. Hallett may ultimately be the means of producing sufficient food for that increase? This is no theoretical idea, but one founded on the designs of that Providence which supplies food for every living creature.
ON THE RAIL.
“Steam, sir, is a wonderful invention.”
We have all heard the remark once or twice before now; and whenever we hear of a paper on railroads, I fancy, we all suppose that this is to be the moral of the discourse. Let me say at starting that I am not going to sing the praises of Watt and Stephenson. I confess to my own knowledge on the subject of machinery being of the vaguest kind, and, beyond a traditional belief, derived from the lessons of my childhood, that the principle of the steam-engine is the same as that of a tea-kettle on the point of boiling over, I know nothing of the mechanism of “the greatest discovery of modern times.” Nor do I purpose improving the reader’s mind by an account of how many tons of coal are consumed per diem, how many passengers are conveyed over every mile, or how many parcels are delivered daily. I leave statistical demonstrations, which establish everything without proving anything, to those whose taste lies in that way. All I wish to do is to grumble about our railway accommodation. It has been my fortune to travel a great deal over railroads in many parts of the world. In fact, a large portion of my life must have been passed upon the rail; and in my capacity of an old traveller, I have arrived at a certain number of conclusions which may be worth recording.
As to railway accidents, I must express my conviction that any alarm concerning them interferes very little with the comfort of travelling by rail. You are always told that if you happen to have your head broken or your ribs knocked into your lungs by a collision, it is no consolation to learn that only one passenger in I don’t know how many millions ever gets injured. No doubt this is true, but before the accident happens this consolation is an immense comfort and solace to the traveller. Every minute of our lives the house we dwell in may fall down; or a madman we meet in the streets may shoot us dead, under an impression that he is Brutus and we are Julius Cæsar. But the chance of such a casualty is so infinitesimally small, that its possibility does not disturb our peace of mind. So it is with railway travelling. With all the caution and prudence in the world, accidents will occur on the best regulated lines. If we were to travel twenty miles an hour instead of fifty, we should doubtless have fewer accidents; and if we reduced that moderate rate by half, we should have fewer still. But personally, the only result would be that one’s chance of being killed or maimed would be some infinitesimal fraction less than it is at present. We cannot eliminate the possibility of accident, and as long as that remains an element of my journey, I care very little whether the odds in my favour are 20,000,000 or 21,000,000 to one. I remember the captain of one of the grand Cunard steamers remarking to me, that when you were in a fog off the Banks, the wisest thing was to go full speed and trust in Providence.
“If you are to hit an iceberg,” as he said, “it matters uncommonly little whether you are going twelve or eleven knots an hour; and the harder you go the sooner you will get out of the ice.”
This has always been my feeling about railroads. Accidents are all in the day’s work; if they are to come they must come, and the faster you run the shorter the time you are exposed to the danger.
Thus, for my own part, the contingency of a collision or a break-down is not one of the grievances that I brood over in my breast, as inflicted on me by the directors and managers of our railroads. My complaints against them are based upon evils, dangers, and discomforts that might be remedied by a small amount of liberality and forethought. First and foremost among my wrongs is the obstinacy with which they deprive me, speaking of myself as a representative traveller, of any means of communication with the conductors of the train. I do not believe that I am a nervous man in the ordinary sense of the word, but I own frankly, that I grow extremely uncomfortable whenever I find myself shut up in a compartment with one unknown companion. Some years ago, on a hot summer afternoon, I happened to be travelling along the Great Western line. I was very tired, and fell asleep almost as soon as I entered the carriage. When I woke up, after a half-hour’s nap, I found that the only other occupant of the compartment was a tall, powerful man, with an immense beard—a thing less common then than it is now—and an enormous oak stick, on which he was leaning his head. At that moment we were passing in sight of Windsor Castle. My unknown friend turned suddenly round to me, and, without giving me time to speak, uttered the following remarkable sentiment: “You see that castle, sir; that house, by rights, belongs to me. I am the lawful King of England.” I shall never forget the cold shudder which passed over me as I heard this remark. The train, I knew, did not stop for another thirty miles. The stranger, apart from his stick, could have beat me into a mummy with ease; and, in spite of what I had read in books, I felt considerable doubt as to whether he, like the traditional madman, would be awed by a stern and unflinching gaze. So I uttered the singularly imbecile remark, that I was glad to hear it, and proffered the deposed monarch a cigar with servile humility. He accepted it graciously, and gave