“What can be more palpably absurd and ridiculous than the prospect held out of locomotives travelling _twice as fast_ as stage coaches! We should as soon expect the people of Woolwich to suffer themselves to be fired off upon one of Congreve’s ricochet rockets, as trust themselves to the mercy of such a machine going at such a rate.... We trust that Parliament will, in all railways it may sanction, limit the speed to _eight or nine miles an hour_, which we entirely agree with Mr. Sylvester is as great as can be ventured on with safety.” This was praise indeed, and it is amazing that the British Parliament, which is always full of ordinary men, did not take the hint and limit the speed of the locomotive to that of a trotting horse. Nevertheless, though this grand opportunity was missed, the Parliamentary Committee did all in its power to obstruct the measure. One of its members asked George Stephenson: “Suppose a cow were to stray upon the line?” There was a hush of horror, then he added: “Would not that, think you, be a very awkward circumstance?” “Yes,” answered Stephenson, “very awkward indeed—_for the coo_!” The leading councils openly declared that this “untaught and inarticulate genius” was mad.... “Every part of the scheme shows that this man has applied himself to a subject of which he has no knowledge, and to which he has no science to apply.” Not only would these locomotive engines be a terrible nuisance, “in consequence of the fire and smoke vomited forth by them,” but “the value of land in the neighbourhood of Manchester alone would be deteriorated by no less than £20,000!” “The most absurd scheme that ever entered into the head of man to conceive,” shouted Mr. Alderson, the leading counsel. “No engineer in his senses would go through Chat Moss,” solemnly declared Mr. Giles, the most eminent engineer brought forward by the opposition. He estimated the cost of such a project at £270,000. Stephenson did it for £28,000, but the line was an expensive one as it had so many fox covers to avoid.