I suppose that when little boys made their journeys by coach with David Copperfield or Tom Brown and his pea-shooting comrades they did in truth find adventure easier to achieve than we who were born in an age of railways.  But though the rarer joys of far travel by road were denied us, it did not need Mr. Rudyard Kipling in a didactic mood to convince us that there was plenty of romance in railway journeys if you approached them in the right spirit.  We were as fond of playing at trains as most small boys, and a stationary engine with the light of the furnace glowing on the grim face of the driver was a disquieting feature of all my nightmares.  So when the grown-up people announced that one of us was to make a long journey young Ulysses became for the moment an envied and enchanted p. 9figure.  Our periodical excursions to London were well enough in their way; noisy, jolly parties in reserved carriages to pantomimes and the Lord Mayor’s Show, or matter-of-fact visits to the dentist or the shops.  But we all knew the features of the landscape on the way to London by heart, and it was the thought of voyaging through the unknown that fired our lively blood, our hazy sense of geography enabling us to believe that all manner of marvels were to be seen by young eyes from English railway-carriages.  Also we did not feel that we were real travellers until we had left all our own grown-ups behind, though in such circumstances we had to put up with the indignity of being confided to the care of the guard.  Until children have votes they will continue to suffer from such slights as this!

One morning in early spring I left London for the north.  The adult who saw me off performed his task on the whole very well.  True, he introduced me to the guard, a bearded and sinister man; but, on the other hand, he realised the importance of my having a corner seat, and only once or twice p. 10committed the error of treating me as if I were a parcel.  For my part, I was at pains to conceal my excitement beneath the mannerisms of an experienced traveller.  I put the window up and down several times and read aloud all the notices concerning luncheon-baskets and danger-signals.  Then my companion shook hands with me in a sensible, manly fashion, and the train started.  I sat back and examined my fellow-travellers, and found them rather disappointing.  There were three ladies, manifestly of the aunt kind, and a stiff, well-behaved little girl who might have stepped out of one of my sister’s story-books.  She was reading a book without pictures, and when I turned over the pages of my magazines she displayed no interest in them whatever.  I could never read in the train, so, with a tentative effort at good manners, I pushed them towards her, but she shook her head; to show her that I did not think this was a snub I pulled out my packet of sandwiches and had my lunch.  After that I played with the blind, which worked with a spring, until one of the aunts told me not to fidget, although she was no p. 11aunt of mine.  Then I looked out of the window, a prey to voiceless wrath.

By now we had left London far behind, and when I had finished composing imaginary retorts to the unscrupulous aunt I was quite content to see the wonders of the world flit by.  There were hills and valleys decked with romantic woods and set with fascinating and secretive ponds.  To my eyes the hills were mountains and the valleys perilous hollows, the accustomed lairs of tremendous dragons.  I saw little thatched houses wherein swart witches awaited the coming of Hansel and Gretel, and fairy children waved to me from cottage gardens and the gates of level-crossings, greetings which I dutifully returned until the aunt made me pull up the window.  After a while a change came over the scenery.  The placid greens and browns of the countryside blossomed to gold and purple and crimson.  I saw a roc float across the arching sky on sluggish wings, and my eyes were delighted with visions of deserts and mosques and palm-trees.  That my fellow-passengers would not raise their heads to behold p. 12these marvels did not trouble me; I beat on the window with delight, until, like little Billee in Thackeray’s ballad, I saw Jerusalem and Madagascar and North and South Amerikee.

Then something surprising happened.  I saw the earth leap up and invade the sky and the sky drop down and blot out the earth, and I felt as though my wings were broken.  Then the sides of the carriage closed in and squeezed out the door like a pip out of an orange, until there was only a three-cornered gap left.  The air was full of dust, and I sneezed again and again, but could not find my pocket-handkerchief.  Presently a young man came and lifted me out through the hole, and seemed very surprised that I was not hurt.  I realised that there had been an accident, for the train was broken into pieces and the permanent way was very untidy.  Close at hand I saw the little girl sitting on a bank, and a man kneeling at her feet taking her boots off.  I would have liked to speak to her, but I remembered how she had refused the offer of my magazines, and was afraid she would p. 13snub me again.  The place was very noisy, for people were calling out, and there was a great sound of steam.  I noticed that everybody’s face was very white, especially the guard’s, which made his beard seem as black as soot.  The young man took me by the hand and led me along the uneven ground, and there was so much to see that my feet kept stumbling over things, and he had to hold me up.  On the way we passed the body of a man lying with a rug over his head.  I knew that he was dead; but I had seen drunken men in the streets lie like that, and I could not help looking about for the policeman.  Soon we came to a little station, and the platform was crowded with people who would not stand still, but walked round and round making noises.  When I climbed up on the platform a woman caught hold of me and cried over me.  One of her tears fell on my ear and tickled me; but she held me so tightly that I could not put up my hand to rub it.  Her breath was hot on my head.

Then I heard a detested voice say, “Poor little boy, so tired!” and I shuddered back p. 14into consciousness of the world that was least interesting of all the worlds I knew.  I need not have opened my eyes to be sure that the aunts were at their fell work again, and that the little girl’s snub nose was tilted to a patronising angle.  Had I awakened a minute later she, too, would have joined in the auntish chorus of compassion for my weakness.  As it was, I looked at her with drowsy pity, finding that she was one of those luckless infants who might as well stay at home for all the fun they get out of travelling.  She knew no better than to scream when the train ran into a tunnel; what would she have done if she had seen my roc?

The train ran on and on, and still I throned it in my corner, awake or dreaming, indisputably master of all the things that counted.  The three aunts faded into antimacassars; the little girl endured her uninteresting life and became an aunt and an antimacassar in her turn, and still I swung my legs in my corner seat, a boy-errant in the strange places of the world.  I do not remember the name of the station at which the bearded guard p. 15ultimately brought me out of my dreams.  I do remember standing stiffly on the platform and deciding that I had been travelling night and day for three hundred years.  When I communicated this fact to the relatives who met me they were strangely unimpressed; but I knew that when I returned home to my brothers they would display a decent interest in the story of my wanderings.  After all, you can’t expect grown-up people to understand everything!