Originally published in The Leisure Hour (Religious Tract Society) vol.1 #16 (15 Apr 1852).
A company of British speculators propose a new route to India, by which a man may in seven days transport himself from London to Calcutta. Carriages and locomotives, rushing over iron lines, are to replace steam-ships, camels, oceans, and canals. Instead of harbours, we shall enter stations; instead of passing through straits, we shall fly over viaducts; instead of paddling between rocks, we shall be whirled through tunnels. The magnificent floating hotels of the Oriental Company will become vulgar means of transport. None but old-fashioned people will think of travelling by them. When we, the "men of progress," spend our summer season in a country-house among the Neilgherry hills, we shall not dream of going by those antiquated conveyances by which persons now waste a whole month in the journey to India. We shall go down to Gracechurch-street, take our second-class ticket by the "Great Eastern, Calais, Constantinople, Orontes, Euphrates, and Calcutta Railway," and with a moderate-sized carpet-bag, full of sandwiches, pork-pies, and sherry, take our seats. The whistle will start our trains, and we shall be off as though it were to Liverpool or Bath; for no stoppages are to be allowed by the way, except to take up or set down passengers.
This looks like pleasantry, and so it is, but only in the manner of expressing our anticipations. It is exactly what the projectors propose, and what we believe can and will be accomplished. Whither, however, will that train convey us? What scenes shall we pass by the way?
In the first place, let engineers project as they please, the channel will still separate the British islands from France. Two hours of rolling and pitching over salt water there must be—until, at least, the art of mechanics allows a suspension-bridge to be swung between Dover cliffs and the rocks of the opposite continent. At present, none will blame us if we consider such an achievement impossible. A steam-packet must be employed. We therefore start with Calais. Every one knows that town, which needs, therefore, no more notice. Thence to Calcutta the ground is new; that is, as the overland route to India.
The route by way of Egypt consists of two seastages, besides the channel, making 5075 miles; that is, from Marseilles to Alexandria, and from Suez to Calcutta. The second is by far the longer, leading the voyager, as it does, round two-thirds of the Arabian peninsula. The proposed route would be exactly 5600 miles from the booking-house in Gracechurch-street to the terminus in the capital of the great Bengal presidency—the former metropolis, indeed, of British India.
From Calais the line runs to the painted city of Ostend, with its Chinese variety of colours and quaint style of building. There the traveller may muse over the change of times, and compare the whistle of the engine and the hum of passengers' voices with the fearful sounds of war which, 250 years ago, drenched the surrounding soil with the blood of ten myriads of men. Proceeding through a flat, populous, and fertile country, he will reach Cologne, fruitful in corn and wine, with its ancient crescent-shaped city, its vast cathedral, its purple shrine of the three wise men, and its other curiosities. Abundance of timber, rich mines of iron, plenty of coal, and an industrious people, have accumulated great wealth in the surrounding provinces, and offer facilities for the construction of railroads, as well as merchandise for them to transport when completed. Then we roll on to Augsburg, situated in a beautiful plain—a large and handsome city, which will afford interest to all the excursionists, supposing they stopped there for refreshments. From this they will fly along the flat provinces of Lombardy, most favourable to engineering enterprise, and visit the dark, steep, winding streets of Trieste, at the head of the Adriatic, with its ancient remains, its gigantic hospital, its cathedrals, churches, and picturesque scenery. Thence, amid new landscapes, new people, new associations, they will be borne forward over the iron road, until the west is left behind; the east is reached; the cross disappears; the crescent glimmers overhead; turbans and flowing robes succeed to stiff broadcloth and barbarous hats; women clothed in graceful costumes, contrast with the heavily-wrapped figures of the north; and the city of Constantinople, with its golden domes, its glittering cupolas, its fairy-like minarets, its groves of elegant trees, and all its variety of form and hue, flashes on the sight like the creation of enchantment!
We need not dwell on the physical capabilities of the countries lying between Ostend and Orsova, on the frontiers of the Ottoman empire. Whatever the difficulties may be, science and wealth have determined to surmount them, for a railroad has already been resolved upon all the way. The whole plan is completed, and its execution may be looked upon as certain. Thence to the City of Sultans is only 345 miles. Turkey in Europe offers, as far as its surface is concerned, many facilities for the construction of a railway. Lines of hills, indeed, intersect it; but they are pierced by long regular valleys, not very sinuous, and labour is comparatively cheap. The government is most anxious to promote an undertaking of the kind, and, under its favour, the land on both sides of the line might be purchased at a low price. From Constantinople to Bassorah on the Persian Gulf is 1355 miles: 455 of these extend eastward from the mouth of the Orontes to the valley of the Euphrates. Commencing, therefore, with a tubular bridge to connect Europe with Asia, the route would be across a tract by no means such as to offer any formidable obstacles to the progress of a railroad. The ranges, unlike those of northern India, are far from impenetrable. Long, wide, clear valleys, with a smooth level, open them at intervals. In America far greater difficulties have been surmounted. Their indomitable spirit leads the citizens of that noble commonwealth to assail, indeed, the most formidable barriers of the earth; but they do achieve what they dare attempt, and the line of 1500 miles just completed by the state of Massachusetts should shame us from timidity. They propose to tunnel through the Rocky Mountains, and connect the city of Independence in Missouri with San Francisco in California. If that be considered feasible, why not the route from Orsova to Hydrabad?
The traveller might take a stroll about Antioch—which is remarkable for being one of the cheapest places in the world. A recent author tells us that he tried to be extravagant there, but could not. Passing down the beautiful vale of Elghab, we whirl along the valley of the mighty Euphrates, whose whole course is 1985 miles. On the banks of that celebrated stream—the "joy-making river" of classic times—once stood cities "the glory of kingdoms;" but desolation now reigns in their place. Man, as Tacitus says, has made a solitude there and called it peace; though it would speedily bloom again at the apparition of steam. The length of valley to be occupied by the railway is about 900 miles. From Babylon to Bassorah on the sea, the train would shoot along over a plain almost perfect, the rate of inclination being only six inches and a half in every mile. The formation is chalky, and the level nature of the country is proved by the fact that it was formerly intersected in all directions by long artificial canals, with scarcely any locks. All the traces, however, of its ancient prosperity have disappeared, and the vast and fertile countries watered by the Euphrates are so many melancholy deserts.
Reaching Bassorah, with its corn-fields, its date-groves, its gardens, its eastern aspect, and its busy port, we continue our route and enter Persia. A low tract of country, running along the sea the whole length of the gulf, affords a line for the railway. Its formation is stony, but comparatively smooth, and would present no serious difficulties in the way of the engineer. Thence through Baluchistan the same capability is offered. A flat country borders the ocean, and by this route the locomotive may speed onwards over the Indus, and thence to the city of Calcutta.
The projectors of this magnificent undertaking allow themselves fourteen years for its completion. We seriously believe that if supported as they should be, by government and by the public, their success will answer their expectations. Obstacles, indeed, there are. Rivers are to be bridged; hills are to be tunnelled; cuttings are to be made through broad and rugged tracts; viaducts are to be carried across valleys and marshes; and materials are to be collected in all parts of the route. The jealousy of certain powers is to be overcome; the prejudices of the ignorant are to be set aside; and, above all, money is to be procured. But not one of these difficulties ought to be insuperable. England has, with a less worthy object, achieved greater efforts. The energy which carried on the last general war would have constructed seven or eight such railroads. We do not, therefore, see anything visionary in the project.
The 900 miles of the Euphrates valley are to be completed first. Twenty days out of thirty-nine will thus be saved to the traveller, who will then proceed from Ostend to the Mediterranean, thence to the mouth of the Orontes, thence by railway to Bassorah, and across the Gulf to India. The completion of this section will occupy, it is supposed, five years. The European interval will then be filled up, in a similar period. Lastly, the rails will be laid down between Bassorah and Hydrabad, on the Indus, where the projected Indian lines will meet them, and complete the route.
It is, indeed, a wonderful scheme, requiring some imagination to realize in its broad perfection. Who can coolly entertain the idea of a locomotive engine puffing all the way, without stoppage, from Calais, in France, to Calcutta, in India? Who can think of it panting over the mighty aqueduct of Seleucia, or flying over a branch line to Baalbec? Who can familiarize himself with the prospect of lounging in a first-class carriage, and whirling at the rate of a mile a minute across the beautiful plains of Issus, where Alexander and Darius watered the soil with torrents of human blood, to appease their lust of glory? Poets and historians have much to answer for in consecrating the memory of such achievements. Better had Homer sung the arts of peace, than inflamed men to emulate the deeds of such heroes. Who can think, as a matter of fact, of a tubular bridge hanging over the sea where the mighty fleet of Byzantium kept watch at the gates of Europe? But the most entrancing idea of all is of a railroad with cuttings, tunnels, embankments, inclines, and gradients; of engines with boilers, pistons, cranks, and safety-valves; of trains with drivers, guards, policemen, and mail-bags running straight through that region to which history has assigned the seat of paradise. A line near the Garden of Eden!—a station close to Antioch!—an embankment in the salubrious vale of Suediah! And why not? Is there more romance in the poverty, slavery, and debasement of the people? is there more poetry in the neglect of the soil, in the multiplication of ruins, and the decay of nature all over those unhappy countries, than in the conquests of civilisation?
But, in reality, nothing could be more sublime than the idea of compassing half the world in seven days; of rushing along an iron road, straight from west to east; of rattling at the heels of a locomotive through many countries in succession; of exchanging, in the course of one week, the bitter winds of England for the sultry calm of Bengal. And what a varied panorama 3s unrolled by the way. There is an infinite variety of scenes, a motley procession of men. The downs and cliffs of England—the plains, and woods, and antiquated towns of Germany—the levels of Lombardy, blooming, though under the Austrian rule—the mountains and valleys of eastern Europe and western Asia—the picturesque landscapes of Persia, and the rugged tracts of Baluchistan,—all appear and vanish as we watch the flying panorama. Nor will the aspect of living things be less various or remarkable: stout Londoners, trim Frenchmen, portly Germans, bearded Turks, gaudy Persians, and Baluchis armed to the teeth. Round hats and genteel paletots; wide-awakes and long-peaked waistcoats; straw hats, short petticoats, and pastoral tunics; long robes, turbans, and yellow slippers; gorgeous vests and jewelled turbans, with heron plumes; quilted capotes and oriental trousers; all these will bewilder the traveller's mind, as they glance, each for a day, before his eyes. In the morning he may look on the black masses of houses, the tall chimneys, the enormous factories, and the neat cottages of England. Then he sees the handsome villages of Germany—the lofty, airy tenements in which peasant proprietors dwell on their own little estates. Then the flat roofs, the jealous lattices, the sun-burnt walls, and gaudy decorations of the Ottoman empire, may amuse his view. These are succeeded by the mud-built, desolate, dirty cities of Persia, where all that is beautiful is concealed within the building, and all that is ugly is displayed without. More picturesque than these, are the black tents and rude hovels of Baluchistan.
The interests of trade, of peace, of humanity, and of religion. combine to recommend the project.—Eclectic Review.