Nothing is more pleasant than to see suddenly endowed with motion a
thing stagnant by nature. The hat that on the head of the man in the
street is nothing to us, how much it is if it be animated by a gust of
wind! There is no churl that does not rejoice with it in its strength,
and in the swiftness and cunning that baffle its pursuer, who, he too,
when the chase is over, bears it no ill will at all for its escapade. I
know families that have sat for hours, for hours after bedtime, mute, in
a dim light, pressing a table with their finger-tips, and ever bringing
to bear the full force of their minds on it, in the unconquerable hope
that it would move. Conversely, nothing is more dismal than to see set
in permanent rigidness a thing whose aspect is linked for us with
the idea of great mobility. Even the blithest of us and least easily
depressed would make a long detour to avoid a stuffed squirrel or a case
of pinned butterflies. And you can well imagine with what a sinking of
the heart I beheld, this morning, on a road near the coast of Norfolk, a
railway-car without wheels.
Without wheels though it was, it had motion--of a kind; of a kind worse
than actual stagnation. Mounted on a very long steam-lorry that
groaned and panted, it very slowly passed me. I noted that two of its
compartments were marked FIRST, the rest THIRD. And in some of them, I
noted, you might smoke. But of this opportunity you were not availing
yourself. All the compartments, the cheap and the dear alike, were
vacant. They were transporting air only--and this (I conceived)
abominable. The sun slanted fiercely down on the old iron roof, the old
wooden walls, the dingy shut windows. The fume and grime of a thousand
familiar tunnels, of year after year of journeys by night, journeys by
day, from time immemorial, seemed to have invested the whole structure
with a character that shrank from the sun’s scrutiny and from the
nearness of sea and fields. Fuliginous, monstrous, slowly, shamefully,
the thing went by--to what final goal?--in the lovely weather.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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