Early one morning in the spring of 19—a small party of ladies and gentlemen, anxious to avoid the east wind fiend by flying from their native shores to milder regions, travelled by the electric railway towards the mouth of the Thames, and, branching off at a point near Barking Junction, traversed the new line, running for miles alongside the splendid quays recently completed between Galleon’s Reach and Tilbury, where special berths were reserved for the leviathan liners that had begun running from the port of London to Cape Town.
Long before the station was reached inquiring glances had been cast riverwards for the first glimpse of the giantess Princess Ida.
“That cannot be the Princess Ida,” said an unbelieving and short-sighted member of the party to his sharp-eyed friend, who was pointing to something which in the distance looked like a couple of White Star Cedrics linked together and towering above the roofs of the warehouses that commanded the quays.
“Well, you will see for yourself presently,” he retorted. “Seeing is believing, isn’t it?” And as the train got nearer and nearer, wonder and admiration increased, and when a break in the line of warehouses gave them a clear view of the great vessel, her beautiful proportions, her polished hull gleaming in the sunlight, and her exquisite cleanliness, their excitement and enthusiasm rendered them speechless.
The Princess was berthed close alongside the river wall, and through a great sliding port in her side over a short, stout gangway like a drawbridge, neat motor-cars laden with luggage, and with passengers who had made the run direct from their London homes, passed in continually, emerging later from a corresponding port-hole some distance away. Of cargo there was none, the only resemblance to it being mails, sufficient in quantity, however, to fully load an ordinary small steamer. As these were not timed to arrive alongside from the General Post Office until two o’clock, the party had plenty of leisure to look around, and from what they had read about this wonderful ship, supplemented by much information supplied by a courteous and communicative official detailed as cicerone, they were able to give the following history and particulars of that interesting up-to-date creation of shipbuilding—the fair giantess Princess Ida.
She was constructed by the Thames Ironworks Company, a flourishing concern that worthily represented the marked revival of the shipbuilding industry in the world’s metropolis. The material used throughout, except for the lower masts, machinery, propellers, and rigging, was aluminium alloyed with copper. Her dimensions were as follows: length over all, 1,600 feet; breadth amidships, 164 feet; depth from upper deck, 110 feet; estimated gross registered tonnage, 33,500; but her lines were so perfect and graceful as to mask these enormous measurements.[10] She had an “entrance” forward like a clipper ship, and a “clearance” aft of the utmost fineness, the stem being rounded off in most beautiful curves. Her floor in the midship sections was flat, and resembled the letter U, and deep bilge keels helped to keep her steady, and enabled her to settle down upon her shore cradle without risk of canting or straining. Her horizontal outline revealed to nautical eyes just that amount of “sheer,” and no more, necessary for strength, rising almost imperceptibly to a graceful overhanging bow, from which pointed a tapering bowsprit, apparently short, but in reality a single massive spar of Oregon pine.
This style had been adopted by the owners because, as they argued, it added considerably to the beauty of the great ship, and as she probably would never enter a dock—using a shore cradle when it was necessary to cleanse the hull—a few score feet added to her length would make but little difference in the room she took up at the quays. The figure-head, of oxidised silver, was a beautiful half-draped representation of Tennyson’s fair Princess—
Five magnificent pole-masts, set up with thick wire shrouds and backstays, rose aloft from her deck, their lower part of steel, the upper section of polished and varnished American fir, terminating in gilded globes, one of them being specially set apart for the wireless telegraph apparatus. These masts, with a graceful “rake,” could not have been much less than three hundred feet high, but were in accurate proportion to the length of the Princess Ida, giving her the appearance of a Brobdingnagian five-masted fore-and-aft schooner. In an emergency, sails could be put up from them to keep the ship’s head to the wind and sea. No ventilators showed their unsightly mouths above the very broad teak top-rail, for they were not needed; but more than the regulation number of boats—about eighty, all hoisted electrically—hung from massive davits, some being electric launches. No great forty-feet wide funnels to hold the wind; no top-hampering superstructures broke the deck area, save the deck stairway houses and the wide bridge, with its chart-room, captain’s sanctum, and binnacle house, in which a wheel that a child could turn operated the steering-gear, consisting of a great toothed pinion wheel keyed to the enormous rudder, and worked by two electric motors used alternately.
From end to end was a double striped and fringed awning. The Princess carried a search-light of enormous range and power on her foremast, and her side-lights were disposed without any disfiguring effect on her starboard and port bows, and not in miniature Eddystones. Her anchor gear, worked by electricity, was the heaviest ever made, and resembled that of the largest battleship.
Over all floated the red merchant flag of Great Britain, 40 feet by 24 feet, the flag of the South African Commonwealth, the Blue Peter at the fore, and above the taffrail the beautiful blue ensign of the Royal Naval Reserve, while in honour of this her maiden voyage she was dressed rainbow-fashion with innumerable pennons.
The hull was built on the cellular principle, divided into water-tight compartments up to above the water-line, the decks or floors being ten in number. The mighty hold, and the space where bunkers would have been in an ordinary steamer, were filled with storage batteries; so that an immense area was at disposal for electric power, renewed daily by a wonderful chemical process, the weight of the batteries—in this case an advantage—taking the place of ballast, keeping the Princess Ida at an almost unvarying draught.
Relatively the machinery of the Princess Ida was simplicity itself. She had three propellers that looked inadequate to move so vast a bulk. There were no quadruple expansion-balanced engines with cylinders of 28, 41, 58, and 84 inches in diameter, and no bewildering gathering of cranks, pistons, rods, and levers, but the shafts were coupled direct to enormous electric motors which turned them with resistless force, without the loss involved in the use of a long propeller-shaft. There was no escaping steam, no heat, no stuffy stoke-hold and fierce boilers, no smell of oil and waste, and the ventilation was almost as perfect as on deck.
Going on board by the central gangway reserved for foot-passengers, one entered a splendid hall fifty feet high and a hundred feet square, resembling the lounge saloon of a big hotel, with glass dome-shaped skylight above—a winter garden with beds of flowers and groups of sea-loving palms at the side, kept-renewed throughout the voyage; seductive easy-chairs and couches scattered about; tables here and there, covered with periodicals and writing material; while at one end of a platform, used by the ship’s band, and forming a miniature stage, was a grand piano backed by a handsome curtain of peacock-blue plush, and, facing it, a fine organ, both instruments strictly reserved for public entertainments, theatrical and otherwise. The walls of this beautiful saloon were of polished New Zealand woods, Kauri pine predominating, than which a lighter and more elegant wainscot can hardly be imagined. Fireplaces with ornate overmantels burnt logs of wood—a sacrifice to conventionality and sentiment, as they were not required for warmth, the ship being lighted and heated throughout by electricity.
In general arrangement the interior of the ship reminded one of a modern hotel, and the illusion was heightened by the port-holes on the main or second deck being so arranged as to resemble plate-glass windows set in frames of great strength, and when the vessel began to move on the waters it was as if a section of the Cecil Hotel had floated off into the river. But, though beautifully furnished, the ship was not overdone with meaningless decoration. Mirrors were restricted in number, and there was but little gilding. Rare paintings of ships, birds, and flowers were on the walls, while wood-carvings in the style of Grinling Gibbons and delicate French bronzes beautified unsightly corners. All the decks were covered with india-rubber laid over fireproof planking, reducing noise to a minimum, those below the upper deck being carpeted; and as all the doors were sliding and shut noiselessly, the general effect of quietude was delightful, even the electric gongs being subdued in tone.
The style of upholstery throughout was that of the latest Victorian Era, modified to meet the requirements of life at sea. There was, of course, a very grand dining-saloon, and smaller ones for private parties; also a principal drawing-room, boudoirs, tea-rooms, and in the transoms (i.e. the aftermost part of the ship) one small and purely ornamental parlour in imitation of Princess Ida’s in her college—
where a statue of that divinity, seated on a throne, with a couple of tame leopards on each side, was placed as a kind of tutelary genius, to which the sentimental ladies on board made weekly offerings of the choicest flowers they could get.
Then there had been skilfully provided in this wonderful ship a small oratory for the use of Roman Catholic passengers, several libraries, reading and lecture rooms, a music-room, a cardroom, smoking saloons of course, a billiard-room, (available in very fine weather), swimming or rather plunge baths, and electric and ordinary baths in abundance made of aluminium; besides massage-rooms, coiffeurs’ and barbers’ saloons, a shooting-gallery, a post and telegraph office, a gymnasium, a skating-rink, a bowling-alley, a photographic room, an amateur’s workshop, an apartment specially set apart for ping-pong and similar games, American bars, and a miniature cafe for the pleasure of those who would make believe they were still ashore; a tennis-court, a miniature golf-link, a small running, walking, and cycle track (quoits, cricket, hockey, and even football could always be enjoyed on the upper deck), an aviary (parrots prohibited), a natural history room, an aquarium, a servants’ hall, a nursery (a remote locality) with tracks for perambulators; small shops for confectionery, millinery, hosiery, and tobacco; also a printing-press, a dispensary, and a hospital; a cell for insubordinates, and, alas! a mortuary.[11]
On the upper deck—so great was the distance from stem to stern, twice up and down being more than a mile—small electric trolley-chairs were at the disposal of the old or infirm to enable them to take open-air exercise. A wide shelter-promenade ran round the ship’s sides between two of the decks, looking out on the sea through spacious port-holes, and when wind and rain were too pronounced there were the roomy stairway houses on deck wherein to take refuge.
On every floor there were lifts for those who cared to use them. The telegraph and telephone made intercommunication easy, and at every corner of the ship, with its maze of corridors and staircases, direction-tablets indicated one’s whereabouts.
Families were accommodated with furnished suites of private rooms, which could be rented or even leased. Here they could bring their own servants, and be boarded independently of the other travellers. These suites varied in size from a modest sitting-room and bedroom for solitary couples, to flats suitable for a large number. There were bedrooms (not cabins) for spinsters and bachelors, and double-bedded rooms. The familiar two, four, and six open-berthed staterooms were conspicuous by their absence.
Of regulations there were few, and these were framed for the general good and were strictly enforced. No dogs or cats were allowed in any part of the ship; the playing upon any instrument, except in the music-room, was prohibited, and this applied even to the private suites; small children and babies were kept absolutely separate from the adults, and smoking was forbidden except in saloons set apart for that purpose and in private rooms.
All cookery was done by electricity,[12] supplemented by charcoal, and the scale of provisions that had to be dealt with, apart from the ship’s stores for the crew, was Gargantuan, while fresh fruit, fish, etc., were always obtained in addition at the various stopping places. For the round voyage, with allowance for accidents, say forty-two days in all, there had to be put on board for the passengers: of fish, 36,000 lbs.; fresh meat (beef, mutton, lamb, veal, and pork), 367,700 lbs.; fowls and chickens, 16,000; ducks, 1,800; geese, 950; turkeys, 1,500; partridges, grouse, etc., 3,600 brace; 260 tons of potatoes; 560 hampers of vegetables; 4,000 quarts of ice-cream; 18,000 quarts of milk; 215,000 eggs; also canned goods, butter, flour, and groceries in proportion. Of champagne, 18,000 bottles; 15,000 of claret; 110,000 of ale; 45,000 of stout; 87,000 of mineral waters; and 10,000 bottles of various spirits. All these, except the stimulants, were preserved in chilled rooms, the ice being made on board.
At a pinch the Princess Ida could accommodate—besides her crew of four hundred, a small army of servants, the stewards, and stewardesses (there were no stokers or firemen)—six thousand souls; but to ensure comfort, only 3,500 passengers were as a rule booked, necessarily at high rates. All were of one class, the only difference, as in an hotel, being in the price paid for position.
The officers were comfortably quartered in the forward part of the ship in a manner equal to the first class of many a steamer; the crew beneath, in the so-called forecastle, palatial in comparison with the old-fashioned sailing ship.
By the time the handy-man had taken these notes H. M.’s mails arrived alongside, and were put on board by electric trolleys through the central side port. There was no stupefying, deafening escape of steam, and no maddening ringing of great bells. The Blue Peter—some fifteen feet square—fluttered down from the foremast, and a megaphone in sonorous tones announced that the hour of departure had arrived, and that visitors must leave for the shore.
The Ida began to show that she could move, and majestically and slowly shifted her position, until her bow pointed seaward, a mighty cheer going up from quay and ship. An unseen orchestra gave forth “Auld Lang Syne,” and in the fading light the Princess Ida, glowing with incandescents, her syren sounding at intervals, disappeared in the river fog on her maiden voyage.
Going down channel at an easy fifteen knots, it was immediately noticeable how remarkably steady the great ship was in the choppy sea. There was an entire absence of vibration, partly attributable to the metal of which she was constructed, and to the perfect balancing of her machinery and nice adjustment of weight throughout her holds. Even in the Bay of Biscay, which was wavelessly heavy in long, sullen rollers after a mighty storm from the west had died away, the Princess behaved like a real sea-lady, yielding slowly, but steadily, to the force majeur of the Atlantic; and no one dreamt of being sea-sick except one very bilious-looking gentleman, a heavy eater, hailing from Brazil.
In short, she proved herself to be a splendid sea-boat. Not a drop of water could reach her upper decks; pitch she hardly could, as her great length enabled her to ride quietly across the valleys between oncoming waves.
A few hours’ detention at beautiful Madeira, and shortly afterwards Teneriffe was reached, where it began to be warm; but the ship was so spacious, and was kept so cool by means of refrigerators, electric fans, and—when necessary—punkahs, that no one felt in the least inconvenienced by the heat. There were no smuts, no smoke, and, better still, no smell of oil or paint (neither of these being used on the ship), no cockroaches, mosquitoes, flies, or rats!
FIG. 35. ELECTRIC LAUNCH ON THE THAMES
By permission of the Immisch Electric Launch Co., Ltd., London
Here she began to put on speed, working up to eighteen knots an hour, her maximum (very great speed being no special consideration), and it was then observed that so smooth and tapering were her lines, that she slipped through the water raising but little bow wave, and almost as frictionless as a swift ocean-fish.
An hour or so at lonely Ascension, and the same at St. Helena—in each case to deliver and receive mails, and to keep up telegraphic communication with London—a voyage altogether of wondrous beauty and enjoyment, nights of solemn loveliness, and days that broke in perfect splendour, cloudless, save for little patches of white here and there, and the ocean a dazzling radiance of deep blue.
Cape Town—six thousand miles in sixteen days out from Tilbury—and, greeted by thousands who had flocked from far and near to witness the sight, the Princess Ida glided to her berth inside the great breakwater.
And there for the present I must leave her.
I think I have demonstrated that, theoretically at least, the tiny electric launches, put on the Thames in 1889 by the Immisch Company, one of which, the Lammda, took the then Prince of Wales through Boulter’s Lock, was the forerunner of the ocean steamer of the twentieth century.
But there is no absolute novelty under the sun; for it is stated that in 1838 a distinguished Roman scientist, Jacobi, invented an electric motor which drove a small boat on the Neva at two miles an hour.
LITTLE more need be said as to the advantages of the new order of things, for however technical opinions may differ about the relative advantages of steam or electricity, there cannot be any doubt that the public fully recognise the immense superiority of the latter in details of cleanliness and general comfort.
Tube railways are intensely disliked by some people, and as heartily appreciated by millions of others. That they are an advantage in many ways is unquestionable, though they are not yet without defects. Motor-cars (electric or petrol), to those who use them, appear to be the safest and most delightful of vehicles, but here again perfection has not been reached.
With these four well-known forms of traction I must now deal, and not eulogisticallv. In the old days when some recluse renowned for his holiness—which he had instanced by living unwashed for years in a hair shirt until it fell to pieces—died, his admirers frequently put in a claim for his canonisation. This necessitated the appointment of an individual called the Advocatus Diaboli, a leader of the opposition, whose duty it was to raise all kinds of objections to the granting of the sacred honour, and to recall everything possible to the detriment of the candidate. Not a pleasant task, certainly, but not altogether unnecessary.
After this fashion it is fair to bring up some sort of a case against electric traction.
As regards electric railway accidents and blockings of tubes, the Advocatus Diaboli is able to quote rather too many examples. Commencing with the United States, where in July, 1902, a car, descending the mountain on the Mountain and Lake Electric Railway, near Gloversville, where the grade is a thousand feet in four miles, became uncontrollable, and, acquiring frightful velocity, collided with another car which was ascending the slope. Both cars rushed down several feet, and then ran off the rails. Each car contained seventy passengers, and of these fifteen were killed and injured. Ten bodies, mangled beyond recognition, were taken from the wreckage. Most of the victims were women.
At home there is the disastrous Liverpool Electric Overhead Railway fire of December 23rd, 1901. The trains are run on the multiple control principle, a motor at each end, and the accident was due to a defect in the rear one. But as it is a typical case, I will quote in full the cause of the accident, as assigned by Lieutenant-Colonel H. A. Yorke, the Board of Trade Inspector. He says: “A gale of wind was blowing from the west, that is, from the mouth of the tunnel towards the station, which caused the fire to spread from carriage to carriage until the whole train was enveloped in flames. It is estimated that the train was well alight about twelve minutes after the stoppage. There were twenty-nine passengers, who, when the train first came to a stand, were urged by the driver and guard to keep their seats, as there was no danger. The driver and guard seem to have made some futile attempts to put out the fire; but it soon became apparent that the fire had obtained the mastery, and the passengers found it necessary to alight. They had only eighty yards to walk in order to reach the station, and the majority of them appear to have gone to their homes without any delay, and to have suffered no ill-effects from the fire. It appears, however, from the evidence that a few remained behind, presumably to watch the progress of the conflagration and the result of the effort to control it.”
The inspector went on to say that in his opinion it would have been productive of no serious danger had only the driver acted with a moderate degree of prudence. When this man discovered that his rear motor had failed his duty was to disconnect his rear motor by means of the plug provided for the purpose in his apartment. He should then have run into the station with one motor, as is often done. For some reason or other, which cannot be conjectured, the driver, instead of disconnecting the defective motor, and in disregard of the warning of the guard, made repeated efforts to bring it into use, the result being that before long the woodwork of the rear carriage was ignited by the flashes produced by the electric arc when the current was switched on to the defective motor. While the driver was so employed both he and the guard appear to have told the passengers to keep their seats, as there was no danger. Both these men and the station foreman seem to have exhibited a lamentable lack of judgment in this respect. It is impossible not to feel that the sacrifice of life might have been easily avoided. If the passengers had been hurried out of the train as soon as it became evident that it had broken down, and if none of them had been permitted to loiter about the station, their safety would have been secured. And if the train men and station foreman, who deserve credit for their efforts to prevent the fire from spreading, had only realised sooner that the train was doomed, they too had ample time to escape. The cutting off of the current did no good, but, by putting the place in darkness, rather increased the difficulties and danger of the situation.
The lesson of the disaster is, that all woodwork should be removed as far as possible from the electric machinery of the railway carriages, and that for the purpose of insulation material should be employed which is uninflammable.
Of blocks or stoppages on tube railways the following are examples.
Serious inconvenience was caused on December 30th, 1901, by a mishap on the Central London Railway. It appeared that just before five o’clock in the morning a motor was being shunted into the Bank Station to take the first train to Shepherd’s Bush, when, though going dead slow, some of the gear apparently fouled the current rail, and it jumped the points just where the two tunnels join, and effectually prevented any train entering or leaving either. The nearest “cross-over,” by which trains could be shunted from one to the other, was at the British Museum Station, but even timely notice did not make the walk through the wet any the more attractive to business men, the rain having caused all the omnibuses to be filled long before they got to the station gates. When the line was constructed it was proposed to make a second siding at the Bank as at Shepherd’s Bush, and had this been done there would have been no dislocation of traffic, but fears for the effects of vibration on buildings above vetoed the proposal. On an ordinary railway a powerful crane would probably have been run alongside, but the space in the tube is so circumscribed that it was with the utmost difficulty that the engine, which weighed forty-four tons, and was resting against the side of the tunnel, could be moved. As the afternoon wore on, crowds of City men gathered in the subway in the hope that the obstruction would soon be removed, but it was not till five o’clock that the line was cleared and the traffic resumed.
Once more the Twopenny Tube distinguished itself by a stoppage. It was on December 30th, 1902, the anniversary of the precisely similar mishap in 1901, but fortunately with less serious results. Then the engine fell against the side of the tube, and the workmen could only get at one side of it; but this one settled itself in such a position that jacks could be got to work under both sides. The points at the terminus very much resemble those at the ends of the tram lines, and with the tremendous traffic passing over them (engines 1,200 times a day) the only wonder is that accidents of this kind do not occur more often than once a year. With a curious perversity, the engine chose the time—four o’clock in the afternoon—when it would cause the maximum of inconvenience, and the thousands of City men and women going home realised more fully than ever the advantage of the tube. The nearest cross-over is between the British Museum and Chancery Lane, and notice was at once given that trains were running between the former station and the western terminus. As soon as possible gangs of men got to work, and within an hour and a half the wheels were got on, but unfortunately it was very difficult to see what had caused the mishap, as in getting the motor back the evidences of the cause were removed. Some little delay was occasioned by straightening the bent rails, but at half-past eight an engine was run to and fro over the points to see that they were all right again, and a few minutes later the message was sent to all stations: “Resumed bookings and ordinary working.”
These mishaps showed how necessary it was that, instead of cross-overs, loops should be provided, round which trains could be run.
January 16th, 1902, witnessed an accident on the City and South London Electric Railway, happily unattended with serious consequences. A train left the Elephant and Castle Station shortly after seven a.m., and had proceeded some two hundred yards towards the Borough when what is technically known as a “short” occurred in the switch. This means, roughly, that the current had chosen to go a way of its own instead of through the insulated wires to the motor. Hence, an “arc” was produced—that is, an arc lamp on a large scale. The insulating material began to burn and smell and smoke. Small defects of this kind are common enough, and the flame is frequently put out with the driver’s hand or cap. On this occasion the flame resisted all efforts to put it out, and the driver had to stop the cars and send back for assistance. The following trains came on slowly, and the engine pushed the broken-down predecessor on to the Borough Station. It was found necessary to ask the passengers (fortunately numbering only about thirty or forty) to leave the train, and the fire was then easily extinguished, though it was found necessary to cut off the current from the generating station for a short time. The line was only blocked for about an hour, and the accident was of little importance except as illustrating one advantage which, it is said, the “engine” system of electric traction possesses over the “multiple unit.”
But apart from accidents and breakdowns, a terrible indictment is brought against tube railways in general, and the Central London in particular, which, if true, constitutes a veritable drawback. The accuser is Dr. L. C. Parkes, Medical Officer of Health for Chelsea, who says: “Tube railways are still such a comparative novelty, that the question of the healthiness of this mode of travel has not yet been fully determined. Dr. Wynter Blyth, in an address a year ago, gave the results of some experiments on the ventilation and condition of the atmosphere in the tubes and stations of the Central London Railway. The chief cause of the movements of air in the tubes and stations, lifts and stairways, is the passage of the trains along the tubes, which the carriages nearly fill, thus acting as a piston in a cylinder, driving air before them and sucking it in from behind in their progress from one station to another. The condition of the atmosphere, was not excessively foul, the largest amount of CO ascertained to be present, being 11·9 parts per 10,000 vols. This sample was taken in a carriage containing twenty-seven people between the Lancaster Gate and Marble Arch Stations. The amount of CO present in the air of the station’s lifts and stairways varied between 8 and 11 parts per 10,000. In no case, then, did Dr. Wynter Blyth find the amount of CO in the air of the tube to be more than three times the amount usually present in the outer atmosphere of the London streets (average 4 parts per 10,000). Contrasted with the tunnel of the Metropolitan Railway between Gower Street and King’s Cross Stations, where a sample of the air taken showed that CO was present to the extent of 25·9 parts per 10,000, the air of the tube railway is comparatively pure.”
Dr. Parkes continues: “It may be safely asserted that constant travelling day after day, even if only for a limited period each day, in an atmosphere containing 15 to 20 parts per 10,000 of CO, such CO being derived solely from a human source, must eventually tend to injure health. There are two other dangers in tube-travelling which require notice. First, the danger in the warm summer and the cold winter months alike of bodily chill. In the hot weather the traveller passes suddenly from the warm street into a much colder atmosphere below the ground level. In the winter the reverse happens—the passenger who has been warmed and enervated by the devitalised air below meets the chilly wintry blast on emerging into the street. Secondly, the air of the tube being very dry, and constantly in movement, there must be much organic dust of human origin floating in it. The dangers of tubercular expectoration are no doubt intensified in such a dry and shifting atmosphere as that of the tube, and the cautionary notices to prevent spitting are wisely exhibited in every carriage.”
On the whole, Dr. Parkes favours open air to other methods of travelling. He recommends that as far as possible travelling should be by routes open to the air of heaven.
WHEN the Chiswick High Road tram-line was being made the tradesmen petitioned the London County Council against it. They complained of the annoyance as well as of the danger of the trams. They said that the trams, being large (carrying seventy people in all) and running on eight wheels, made considerably more noise than the light horse-car; that the motor was not silent, and the progress of the trolley along the shivering overhead wire made a continuous, most unmusical, and penetrating din; while the brake—of necessity powerful—also had a harsh note quite its own. To this was added the noise and flash of electric sparks and a singularly sonorous and imperative bell in place of the usual whistle; and as the cars came along every two and a half minutes in each direction, they who dwelt along the route did not find them altogether lovely.
Some people maintain that electric trams are not merely unlovely, but are decidedly dangerous to travel in. There have been electric tram accidents, of course, and very serious ones. For instance, at Huddersfield, one June night in 1902, a car, as it approached the town and was half-way down an incline of a mile in length, got out of control. The trolley arm left the wire, plunging the conveyance into darkness. By this time the pace of the car was too great to permit of anyone getting off. It went whizzing past the car standing in the next loop; but failing to negotiate a sharp curve at the bottom of Somerset Road, ran straight across the street, smashing the pavement and dashing with great force into a grocer’s shop, the wooden front of which collapsed. The front of the car was also driven in. Three persons were killed and six seriously injured.
At Chatham a catastrophe, resulting in four deaths and many injuries, is still fresh in people’s minds. It occurred on October 30th, 1902, and was extraordinary in many respects, the tram being completely wrecked. The Chatham and District Light Railway is worked as an electric tramway on the overhead trolley system, and has been in operation about twelve months. The scene of the mishap was at the foot of Westcourt Street, Old Brompton, in the parish of Gillingham, close to the main entrance to Chatham Dockyard, where there is a very steep gradient. A workmen’s car, filled with mechanics and labourers on their way to work, suddenly bolted in descending the hill, notwithstanding that the brakes had been duly applied. The weight of the heavily laden vehicle increased the velocity every yard of the way, and a terrific pace was obtained.
There is a sharp curve in the railway at the end of the road. The passengers screamed as they realised their danger. The driver shouted to them to jump off the car, which many did; and the driver and conductor themselves took a leap for their lives, and thus avoided serious injury. As anticipated, the curve proved fatal to the safety of the car. The heavy vehicle toppled over on its side with a terrific crash, and the passengers, projected in all directions, made a confused heap in the highway.
Those who were not seriously injured struggled to their feet, but others remained prostrate, unable to move, shrieking or groaning with pain, and several more were rendered insensible. Assistance was speedily forthcoming, and the sufferers were removed to the Royal Naval Hospital, which is within a stone’s-throw of the scene of the accident.
In September of the same year a remarkable accident took place at Glasgow, also with fatal results. About half-past nine one Saturday night, when the streets were at their busiest, a Possilpark car got out of the driver’s control, and began to move down a slope of Renfield Street, which is the main car artery of Glasgow. Where Renfield Street cuts Sauchiehall Street, the principal thoroughfare of the city, the vehicle dashed into a Pollokshields car, standing at the junction. Both cars left the rails, and the runaway, without perceptible interruption, continued on its career, driving the other before it, the conductors’ platforms being interlocked. A few yards further on a Dennistown car was encountered. The two locked cars swept down, and, driving the third in front of them, continued their course down to Argyle Street, a distance of about six hundred yards. A long succession of cars was moving upwards, and with the momentum the three heavy cars had then attained a disaster seemed imminent. However, where the Dennistown line, coming out of St. Vincent Place, joins Renfield Street, the foremost of the three runaways took the branch points, swerved with such speed that it failed to keep the rails, and plunged headlong across the street, being eventually brought up by the wall of a shop. The second and third cars, still locked together, followed the former, striking the shop almost at the same point.
At Devonport another accident, resulting in death, occurred the same month. About nine o’clock in the morning, a car containing eight passengers, six of whom were on the top, got beyond the control of the driver on the incline leading to the South-Western Railway Station. The powerful brakes were promptly applied, but failed to check the progress of the car, which rapidly gathered momentum, although the reversing gear was also applied at full pressure.
At the foot of the slope, where the line takes a sharp curve into one of the main roads to Devonport, the vehicle, which had by this time attained a terrific pace, jumped the rails, crossed the road, and dashed into a wall enclosing the carriage entrance to the station. The force of the impact broke the wall, and caused the car itself partly to topple over. Some of the terrified passengers on the top jumped into the roadway, and others were thrown off. One young man, in jumping off, succeeded in clearing the car and the wall, but as he alighted in the roadway, which slopes down to the entrance of the station, a piece of granite coping, weighing several hundredweight, dislodged by the force of the collision, fell on his head, death being instantaneous. Other injured persons were lying in the roadway some distance from the wrecked car, the upper part of which was a shapeless mass of broken seats and twisted rails. The position of the car enabled it to be seen that the brakes were gripping the wheels lightly, while the wooden brakes, which act on the lines, appeared to be down to the utmost extent.
In this case the verdict of the coroner’s court coincided with the Board of Trade’s subsequent report, to the effect that the accident was brought about by the negligence and incapacity of the driver of the car, the Board of Trade adding that the cause was excessive speed on a steep gradient and sharp curve, that the driver was responsible for the accident in failing to use the brake-power, and in disobeying the company’s orders by leaving the stopping-place without a signal.
These runnings away of electric trams called for increased attention to the question of brakes, which, though they will always hold a car on a stiff incline on dry rails, yet when the track is greasy they introduce an element of danger by reason of their very power. They skid the wheels, which is always a source of great danger. In such cases safety lies in relaxing the pressure, but it needs a wary brain and firm nerves to ease off the brake at all when the car has already bolted.
Then there are collisions, which luckily seldom occur. In October last one took place between two electric tramcars between Middleton and Rhodes, near Manchester. The cars were carrying workmen, and the accident occurred near what is known as the Parkfield loop. The vehicles were travelling in opposite directions, and owing to some cause, at present unexplained, they both got on the same line, instead of one waiting on the loop. About twelve of the passengers were more or less hurt by broken glass, and one of the drivers was injured about the leg.
Cars can be completely overturned, as was proved by an incident that happened in December last year to one of the London County Council trams. It left the metals at St. George’s Circus, and after jolting along for a few yards slowly toppled over into a ditch three feet deep, which had been dug on the near side for the purpose of laying the electrical connections. There were about ten passengers on the top and twelve inside, and the tram was already overturning before they had fully realised their danger. Fortunately they retained their presence of mind, and those on the top, by clinging to the rails, prevented themselves from being hurled into the roadway. Two small boys, who were unable to retain their grip of the rail when the side of the car struck the ground, were thrown off into the gutter, but escaped with little more than a few cuts and a severe shaking. The cause was difficult to discover, but probably as the lines were being rearranged some piece of iron or other hard substance eluded the observation of those put to watch, got into the groove of the metals, and caused the car to jump the rail at a spot where excavations were being made.
In our climate tramway traffic is not exposed to any very inclement weather, so that electric traction is not likely to prove a failure by reason of heavy snowfalls, as in New York last winter during a blizzard.
There is a serious feature in the overhead trolley system which ought not to be overlooked, as the following will show. In the centre of Sunderland four principal streets cross, and here, about eight o’clock one Saturday night in August, 1902, when the thoroughfares were congested with people, the trolley-arm of a tram-car became entangled, and no fewer than three live electric wires snapped. A woman received a severe shock through one of them striking an iron handrail on the tram which she was boarding; but the promptitude of a motor inspector in turning off the current averted further personal injury.
The Fulham Public Baths tragedy at the beginning of this year exemplified the fact that it does not require a high alternative current to kill. Under certain conditions 200 volts are sufficient. Criminals are electrocuted at a voltage of 2,000, the current passes in at the skull. The murderous elephant, Topsy, in New York paid the penalty of her misdeeds by having a current of 6,600 volts passed through her, and died in ten seconds; but a minute before, she had swallowed 460 grains of cyanide of potassium!
My own personal experience somewhat resembles that of the woman at Sunderland. It was at Ramsgate on a rainy day, and, the car being full inside, I had to travel outside, seats, metal-work, and everything being naturally very wet, and in taking hold of the iron framing of a seat I experienced so strong a shock that I called up the conductor. He ridiculed the idea, but while he was arguing the matter out, contending that it was an impossibility, he inadvertently grasped the wet trolley-pole, which gave him such an electric sensation that he yelled and fell flat on the roof. The car had to be stopped, and until the rain ceased no passengers were allowed outside.
By those who dislike them, every imaginable evil is laid at the doors, or, rather, the wheels of motor-cars, whether propelled by petrol or electricity, and recorded accidents are quoted, chapter and verse being given to show that they are the enemies of pedestrian, driving, and cycling mankind. Here are some examples.
On a steep hill in the neighbourhood of Grimsthorpe, near Bourne, on May 25th, 1902, a motor-car got out of control and overturned. The driver, employed by Lord Willoughby de Eresby, M.P., for whom the vehicle had been built at Birmingham, was instantaneously killed, his skull being fractured. He had brought the car to Grimsthorpe Castle only the previous evening, and was out with a party of friends, mostly Lord Ancaster’s employés, when the accident happened. One man was badly injured, and two others of the party received slight injuries, but a child, who was flung over a hedge, escaped unhurt.
The following day a motor-car was being driven down a steep hill just outside Stroud, when the brake failed to act, and the car ran violently into a stone wall, carrying part of it away. One of the occupants, a local cloth manufacturer, was seriously injured, and a gentleman who accompanied him escaped with some ugly bruises.
An accident occurred near Rearsby, Leicestershire, on August 9th, 1902, whereby the master of the Quorn Hunt, Captain Burns Hartopp, and Mr. A. Burnaby were injured. The party were motoring from Little Dalby Hall to Quorn, when, near Rearsby, the car ran into a cow, with the result that the occupants were pitched out and the car was wrecked. Captain Burns Hartopp was picked up in a semi-conscious condition, Mr. Burnaby was more seriously injured, while Mr. Dashwood escaped with a shaking.
A curious escape was witnessed the same day at Monmouth. General Sir Evelyn Wood, who was accompanied by Colonel Grierson, acting Q.M.G., and Captain Wood, A.D.C., had been inspecting the Monmouth Royal Engineers (Militia) under the command of Lord Raglan. Afterwards the General and staff proceeded in a motor-car to Abergavenny. While the machine was being reversed towards the entrance of the Angel Hotel a brake refused to work, and the car mounted the pavement and ran into the wall of a shop, just missing a plate-glass window. Captain Wood, who had alighted, narrowly escaped being caught between the motor and the wall.
The following month a motor-car accident occurred at Barnet, when the Hon. C. S. Rolls was returning home in a motor-car from Barnet Fair. Mr. Rolls saw a trap containing three or four persons approaching him, and he steered his car into the hedge, but a collision could not be avoided. One of the occupants of the trap—a youth—was thrown to the ground, and the horse was cut on the leg. Mr. Rolls escaped with a slight shaking.
On the 17th of October last, while motoring from Chester, the Rev. Arthur Guest, vicar of Lower Peover, with his wife and a friend, had a startling experience. In steering past a milkcart near Lostock Chemical Works, the car ran into a brick wall and was overturned and badly smashed. The vicar, strange to say, escaped without injury, but his wife and friend were not so fortunate.
A lamentable catastrophe occurred in February this year in London, when Mr. George Edward Colebrook, an Australian merchant, of St. Mary Axe, E.C., lost his life. It appeared that on the previous Sunday the deceased went for his first motor-car ride with his brother-in-law, accompanied also by the owner of the car and a professional driver. There had been a sharp fall of snow and hail, and the roads were in a bad state. When attempting to pass at a moderate pace another car in the Finchley Road, near the Royal Oak at Hendon, the hind wheels skidded. The car turned round and ran against a raised footpath and then overturned. Mr. Colebrook was fatally injured, and died on Tuesday night from concussion of the brain, having been unconscious from the time of the accident. His brother-in-law received a fractured arm and other injuries.
Thus much for the opposition, and the Advocatus Diaboli now resumes his seat. His accusations appear formidable; but it might be justly pointed out that if a catalogue were compiled of the serious results caused by the shortcomings of the horse, motor-car accidents would be found few in comparison. It might be demonstrated that in twelve days 17 persons had been killed and 143 injured in accidents attributable to that noble animal.
When the foregoing tram and motor casualties are analysed, it will be found that the majority were due to lack of control over the brake power, to ignorance, or to careless driving.
As I have observed before, many evils have been laid to the charge of electric traction. Last year it was reported in the papers that a young woman had been instantaneously killed at Shepherd’s Bush by the overhead wires. The fatality was attributed to one of the guide-wires breaking at the extreme end (an accident which had really occurred on the line), but it had been replaced before the young lady fell down in the road, and it was proved at the inquest that she died in the normal way of heart disease.
In the old coaching days the dire forebodings of evil arising from travelling by steam were much more comprehensive than those of the present day from electric travelling. Horse-breeding, it was said, would cease and farmers become ruined, their crops perhaps destroyed by sparks from passing engines; human beings would be asphyxiated while rushing through the air at tremendous speeds; high roads would fall to rack and ruin; and every innkeeper on coach routes would be bankrupted! In fact, a lamentable social revolution was bound to be brought about by Stephenson’s pestilential proposals!
Of electrical traction, its greatest detractors can only urge—and with truth—that it is not yet without drawbacks, not yet so perfected as to render accidents impossible. And the Advocatus Diaboli, after due consideration of his own arguments, generously acknowledges that he has failed to make out his case.