The most impressive feature about the railway in Newfoundland is that it should exist at all. Twenty years ago the late Sir Robert Reid began to invade the trackless wilderness with an army of navvies, and in a very short time the iron horses went snorting and panting through the lonely woods and desolate tracts that form the vast interior of the island. Only a great mind could have surmounted the obstacles that confronted the undertaker of so gigantic a scheme. There were mountains and rivers to evade, stretches of water to bridge over, granite rocks to pierce, swampy land and thick forests to avoid, and last, but not least, the selection of a route that should be not only the best commercially, but also the best from the standpoint of picturesqueness.

From St. John’s, the starting-point, to Port-aux-Basques, the terminus, is a distance of 548 miles, and the journey is covered in about twenty-eight hours. The track is a narrow gauge, and the engines are not so large as the passenger engines of England; but over many sections of the track a speed of thirty-five miles an hour is attained. The route is very circuitous, some of the curves being so sharp that from your seat in the carriage you can see the engine and the first two or three coaches taking the curve.

The coaches—or cars, as they are called in Newfoundland—are like those in America. They are not divided into compartments to accommodate ten persons, five on each side; nor do you enter from the side of the car. You enter at the end, and take your seat with fifty or sixty other people. There is an aisle down the centre, with seats on either side capable of accommodating two passengers. You can walk down the aisle the full length of the train. There are a dining-car and a sleeping-car attached to the train, and there are also small compartments at one end of the cars reserved for the use of smokers. When the meals are ready in the dining-car, an attendant walks through each car to announce the fact to the passengers. You do not pay so much for the meal, but call for just what your taste requires, and pay for that only.

There are no ticket-collectors, as in England, whose duty it is to examine or collect your ticket; but, as in America, a man is kept on the train continually to perform those duties, and to announce the name of the stopping-places as the train approaches them.

When bedtime arrives, a coloured man enters your car and pulls down a sort of shelf, which is called an “upper berth,” the “lower berth” being the seats converted into a very comfortable bed. Curtains are drawn in front of your bed, so that you are hidden from the view of the other passengers. If you choose an upper berth, you climb into it by means of a small step-ladder, and then begins that very difficult task of taking your trousers off while lying on your back. It takes a good deal of practice to perform this feat successfully when the train is running along at full speed, and I have known many a traveller give it up in despair, choosing rather to sleep in his pants than attempt the operation. It is no less difficult to put your pants on again next morning, and it is very laughable to see some passenger peeping over the top of his curtain to see if the line is clear, so that he can jump down into the aisle and dress in an upright attitude.

When you have managed to get your pants and vest on, you go into the compartment at the end of the “sleeper” reserved for washing. This also requires a little practice, for if the train takes a curve when you are washing, you are apt to find yourself thrown on the head of a fellow-passenger in the act of lacing up his boots; or if the train pulls up, it is probable that your head comes in contact with the mirror over the washstand. The most difficult performance of all, however, is shaving while the train is in motion, and if you find a passenger at breakfast with a piece of sticking-plaster on his chin, you will know that he has been trying his hand at that exceedingly difficult feat.

The route followed by the Reid Newfoundland Railway is most picturesque, and although you are twenty-eight hours reaching Port-aux-Basques from St. John’s, the time seems to pass by very quickly. At intervals the engine pulls up at a water-shed for five or ten minutes, and the passengers all jump off into the tangle of shrubbery to stretch their legs, and, if it is autumn, gather a few handfuls of raspberries, strawberries, and blue-berries. It is great fun to see the passengers rush for the train when the big bell on the engine gives the signal for restarting, some of them dropping their fruit in the scramble up the high steps of the cars.

Mile upon mile of the land over which the train travels is uninhabited, and you cannot help thinking how strange it is that this delightful country has not been cultivated, and how you would like to bring out some of the teeming millions eking out a miserable existence in the crowded cities of Europe.

From Deer Lake to Port-aux-Basques the railway passes through mountain, vale, and forest and the scenery lying between Long Range and the Gulf of St. Lawrence is full of beauty and variety. As you step on to the steamship Bruce to cross the Cabot Strait for Canada, you look back upon the old English Colony of Newfoundland with the happiest of recollections, mingled with a good deal of genuine regret, for you have found the Newfoundlanders a great-hearted people, the air exhilarating, and the scenery inspiring. It is then that you understand why the Newfoundlander, though he may leave his beautiful “sea-girt isle” for a season, finds no rest for the sole of his foot outside the land that gave him birth.