Anonymous: Raped on the Railway

Think of the consequences, if this lady were to take some man in the street. She would be liable to catch some hideous disease or, apart from that, be subject perhaps to blackmail by her Paramour, whose honesty might prove to be less strong than his tool.

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:

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

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.

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.

Amongst these last was a young man dressed in a tweed suit, and wearing a travelling cap. His face was handsome, though rather impudent-looking, and there was a half observant, half-merry twinkle in his blue eyes. A long fair moustache partially concealed a firm-looking, clear cut mouth. His auburn hair curled closely over a well-shaped head. It was difficult to tell from his appearance what was his profession, and you might easily have guessed him to be a soldier, or an artist, or a literary man, or perhaps a young gentleman of no profession at all.