A short extract from "The Railways of England" by W.M. Acworth,
published in 1900 - a poetic impression of the power and beauty
of the steam locomotive.


England, such for example as that of Barnsley in Yorkshire, of Stafford,
or the vale of Berks, up each of which a great railway is carried, and over
which the eye commands an extended view. In the extreme distance a white
line of cloud appears to rise from the ground, and gradually passes away
into the atmosphere. Soon a light murmur falls upon the ear, and the glitter
of polished metal appears from time to time among the trees. The murmur soon
becomes deeper and more tremulous. The cloud rises of a more fleecy
whiteness, and its conversion into the transparent air is more evident. The
train rushes on; the bright engine rolls into full view; now crossing the
broad river, now threading the various bendings of the railway, followed by
its dark serpent-like body. The character of the sound is changed. The
pleasant murmur becomes a deep intermitting boom, the clank of chains and
carriage-fastenings is heard, and the train rolls along the rails with a
resonance like thunder.Suddenly a wagon stands in the way, or a plank, it
may be, has been left across the rails; a shrill, unearthly scream issues
from the engine, piercing the ears of the offending workmen, and scarcely
less alarming the innocent passengers. Many a foolish head is popped out of
the window, guards and brakesmen busily apply their drags, and the driver
reverses the machinery of his engine, and exerts its utmost force, though
in vain, to stop the motion. The whole mass fairly slides upon the rail with
the momentum due to some sixty or seventy tons. Then comes the moment of
suspense, when nothing remains to be done, and it is uncertain whether the
obstacle will be removed in time. It is so: and the huge mass slides by with
scarcely an inch to spare. Off go the brakes, round fly the wheels, the
steam is again turned on,and the train rolls forward at its wonted speed,
until smoothly and silently it glides into the appointed stopping place.
Then come the opening of doors, and the bustle of luggage-porters. Coaches,
cabs, omnibuses, vehicles of every description, fill and rapidly drive off,
until before ten minutes have elapsed the uncouth engine has slunk back into
its house, and some hundred passengers, with their luggage, have disappeared.
Like a dream, and the platform is once more left to silence and
solitude.

(I presume that Mr. Bourne is John Cooke Bourne, the artist who made
drawings of the construction of the London and Birmingham and Great
Western Railways of England in the 1830s and 1840s.)