Fifty Years of Railway Life in England, Scotland and Ireland | Page 8

poets from Chaucer
down; and of novels, _Bulwer Lytton's, Scott's, Dickens_' and
_Thackeray's_. These are the books I best remember, but there were
others of classic fame, and I read them all; but not, I fear to much
advantage, for though I have read many books it has been without
much method, just as fancy led, and study, memory and judgment have
been little considered. Still, unsystematic reading is better than no
reading, and, as someone has said, "a phrase may fructify if it falls on
receptive soil."
I never in my boyhood or youth, except on short visits to relatives,
enjoyed the advantage, by living in the country, of becoming intimate
with rural life. We resided at Derby in a terrace on the outskirt of the
town, much to my dislike, for monotonous rows of houses I have ever
hated. One's home should be one's friend and possess some special
feature of its own, even in its outward aspect, to love and remember. As
George Eliot says: "We get the fonder of our houses if they have a
physiognomy of their own, as our friends have."

In my schooldays, country walks, pursued as far as health and strength
allowed, were my greatest pleasure, sometimes taken alone, sometimes
with a companion. The quiet valley of the Trent at Repton, Anchor
Church, Knoll Hills, the long bridge at Swarkestone, the charming little
country town of Melbourne, the wooded beauties of Duffield and
Belper, the ozier beds of Spondon; how often have I trod their fields,
their woods, their lanes, their paths; and how pleasantly the memory of
it all comes back to me now!
In those days fashions and manners differed greatly from those of
to-day. Ladies wore the crinoline (successor to the hoop of earlier
times), chignons and other absurdities, but had not ventured upon short
skirts or cigarettes. They were much given to blushing, now a lost art;
and to swooning, a thing of the past; the "vapours" of the eighteenth
century had, happily, vanished for ever; but athletic exercises, such as
girls enjoy to-day, were then undreamed of. Why has the pretty art of
blushing gone? One now never sees a blush to mantle on the cheek of
beauty. Does the blood of feminine youth flow steadier than it did, or
has the more unrestrained intercourse of the sexes banished the sweet
consciousness that so often brought the crimson to a maiden's face?
The manners of maidens had more of reserve and formality then. The
off-hand style, the nod of the head, the casual "how d'ye do," were
unknown. Woman has not now the same desire to appear always
graceful; she adopts a manly gait, talks louder, plays hockey, rides
horseback astride, and boldly enters hotel smoking rooms and railway
smoking compartments without apology.
When walking with a lady, old or young, in those days, the gentleman
would offer his arm and she would take it. The curtsey was still
observed but gradually disappearing. When about nineteen years of age,
I remember being introduced to one of the young beauties of the town,
who I had long secretly admired. She made me a profound and graceful
curtsey--feminine homage to my budding manhood. The first curtsey I
remember receiving, except of course in the stately ceremonies of the
dance. For many a day afterwards my cheek glowed with pleasure at
the recollection of that sweet obeisance. She became my sweetheart,
temporarily; but a born butterfly, she soon fluttered away, leaving me

disconsolate--for a time!
Women then wrote a sloping hand, delicate penmanship, to distinguish
them from men; crossed and re-crossed their letters, and were greatly
addicted to postscripts.
The men? Well, they wore mutton chop whiskers, or, if Nature was
bountiful, affected the Dundreary style, which gave a man great
distinction, and, if allied to good looks, made him perfectly irresistible.
They wore "Champagne Charley" coats, fancy waistcoats,
frilled-fronted shirts, relic of the lace and ruffles of Elizabeth's days;
velvet smoking caps, embroidered slippers, elastic-side boots and
chimney pot hats.
At eighteen years of age I had my first frock coat and tall hat. Some of
my companions, happy youths! enjoyed this distinction at sixteen or
seventeen. These adornments were of course for Sunday wear; no
weekday clothes were worn on Sundays then. My frock coat was of
West of England broadcloth, shiny and smooth. Sunday attire was
incomplete without light kid gloves, lavender or lemon being the
favourite shade for a young man with any pretension to style.
Next in importance to my first frock coat ranked my first portmanteau;
it was a present, and supplanted the carpet bag which, up to then, to my
profound disgust, I had to use on visits to my relatives. The
portmanteau was the sign of youth and progress; old-fashioned people
stuck to the