Raped on the Railway

We are happy to record that the Priest and the Viscountess were acquitted, and we can only hope that this skirt-loving priest, threw his to the winds, and married the charming little lady whose white thighs had been made a public spectacle for the sake of his love.

Other men, before now, have honourably espoused women they have been the cause of bringing into public shame. Some scoundrels, we know, have deserted the sweetheart whom they had gotten with child, or abandoned the woman who has been divorced for having yielded herself to her lover's lust. But this does not prove they were right. Of course, we do not say that a man is bound to marry every woman he gets down upon her back, but there are cases where he is obliged and in duty bound to do so. The following instance, recorded by some unknown Byron, illustrates our point:

THE VIOLATED NYMPH, (1)

(1) The date of this charming little poem is about 1707.

The four and twentieth day of May,
Of all days in the year,
A virgin Lady fresh and gay,
Did privately appear;
Hard by a River side got she,
And did sing loud the rather,
'Cause she was sure, she was secure,
And had intent to bathe her.
With glittering, glancing, jealous Eyes,
She slyly looks about,
To see if any lurking spies
Were hid to find her out:
And being well resolved that none,
Could see her Nakedness,
She pulled her robes off one by one,
And did her self undress.
Her purple Mantle fring'd with Gold,
Her Ivory Hands unpin;
It would have made a
Coward bold,
Or tempted a Saint to sin.
She turn'd about and look'd around
Quoth she, I hope I'm safe,
Then her rosie Petticoat,
She presently put off.
The snow white Smock which she had on,
Transparently to deck her,
Look'd like Cambric or Lawn,
Upon an Alabaster Picture:
Thro' which Array I did faintly spy.
Her Belly and her Back,
Her Limbs were straight, and all was white,
But that which should be black.
Into a flowing Stream she leapt,
She looked like Venus' Glass.
The Fishes from all quarters crept,
To see what Angel 'twas.
She did so like a Vision look,
Or Fancy in a Dream.
'Twas thought the Sun the Skies forsook,
And dropt into the Stream,
Each Fish did wish himself a Man,
About her all was drawn,
And at the Sight of her began
To spread abroad their Spawn:
She turn'd to swim upon her Back,
And so displayed her Banner,
If Jove had then in Heaven been,
He would have dropt upon her.
A Lad that long her Love had been,
And could obtain no Grace,
For alt her prying lay, unseen,
Hid in a secret place:
Who had often been repuls'd
When he did come to
Woo her, Pull'd off his Cloaths, and furiously
Did run and leap into her.
She squeak'd, she cry'd, and down she
He brought her up again,
He brought her o'er upon the Shore,
And then-and then-and then.
As Adam did Old Eve enjoy,
You may guess what I mean,
Because she all uncover'd lay,
He cover'd her again.
With watery Eyes she pants and cries
«I'm utterly undone,
If you will not be wed to me,
E'er the next Morning Sun.
He answer'd her he ne'er would stir,
Out of her Sight till then,
«We'll both clap Hands in Wedlock Marry, and to't again.»

Little did I think, whilst reading this account, that I should one day be asked by a friendly and enterprising publisher to write down some of my recollections on the subject of rape, which, I may as well mention, has always been a favourite subject with me. If I detest violence to children, I adore a victory won over a woman. To get a strong-bodied wench, in the prime of health, down on her back, and triumph over her virtue, in spite of all her struggles, is to my mind the height of delightful existence, the sum of all human ambition. Rapes on children seem to me unnatural, and like eating fruit before it is mature. The same considerations can hardly apply to a ripe, full-grown, perfectly developed woman. To her, the friction, contact, and embraces of man, flesh to flesh close-locked and intertwined, is as much a necessity as eating and drinking, and sleeping and breathing. Many women cannot be made to appreciate this philosophy until they have been violently taken against their will, and made to taste of that fruit for which they afterwards entertain such a passionate liking.

The account here set forth may be taken as strictly exact. In “nothing I have extenuated,” I can truly add that “naught have I set down in malice. All the events narrated in the following pages occurred to a friend still living, and who is ready to step forward in attestation of their veracity. I write only from the vantage-ground of a disinterested person, a sort of invisible witness, faithfully recording all details, without over-stepping the bounds of moderation.

EUSTON STATION

The entrance to Euston Station is of itself sufficiently imposing. It is a high portico of brown stone, old and grim, in form a casual imitation, no doubt, of the front of the temple of Nike Apteros, with a recollection of the Egyptians proclaimed at the flanks. The frieze, where of old would prance an exuberant procession, of gods, is, in this case, bare of decoration, but upon the epistle is written in simple, stern letters the word, “EUSTON.” The legend, reared high by the gloomy Pelagic columns stares down a wide avenue. In short, this entrance to a railway station does not in any way resemble the entrance to a railway station. It is more the front of some venerable bank. But it has another dignity, which is not born of form. To a great degree it is to the English, and to those who are in England, the gate to Scotland.

The platform at Euston, a few minutes before the Scotch Express starts, is one of those sights which will provide a philosopher with food for thought, whatever may be the bent of his mind. Apart from the passengers, concerning each of whom it is possible to mentally construct a little tragedy or comedy, there is the huge red engine throbbing with suppressed strength until the moment when it is permitted to bound forward with its living freight of passengers with all their cares, pleasures, griefs, joys, businesses, or errands of mercy or mischief.

By the side of the metal monster, stood a quiet-looking man in gray, who was to direct and control it onus course. The fireman was pouring oil from a long-necked can into various brass-cups, and the guard, resplendent in a uniform ornamented with silver braid, strutted up and down the platform, touching his cap now and again, with a deference born of many tips, to some quiet-looking middle-aged gentleman who was doubtless some nobleman on his way to visit his Scotch estates.

It wanted but ten minutes to starting time, and most of the passengers had already ensconced themselves comfortably in their seats. The only exceptions were those who were being “seen off” by relatives or friends; some of these passengers were old travellers who had taken the precaution to secure their seats before exchanging the last words and farewell kisses with their wives or other female relatives.

Others, on the contrary, had not troubled to secure seats, being well aware that it is only on rare occasions, such as the beginning of the grouse-shooting or salmon-fishing season, that the Scotch Express is ever crowded.