None of the ostlers of the greasy stables, in which the locomotives are housed, ever call him Dobbin, or Old Jack, or Jenny, or say, "Well done, old fellow!" when they unhitch him from the train at midnight, after a journey of a hundred leagues.

His driver is a real man of flesh and blood; with wife and children whom he loves.

He goes on Sunday to church, and, maybe, sings the psalms of David, and listens devoutly to the sermon, and says prayers at home, and the few who know him speak well of him, as a good and proper man in his way.

But, spurred and mounted upon the saddle of the great iron hexiped, nearly all the passengers regard him as a part of the beast.

No one speaks to him, or thinks of him on the journey.