This century was still young and ardent when ruin fell upon Cuckoo Valley.  Its head rested on the slope of a high and sombre moorland, scattered with granite and china-clay; and by the small town of Ponteglos, where it widened out into arable and grey pasture-land, the Cuckoo river grew deep enough to float up vessels of small tonnage from the coast at the spring tides.  I have seen there the boom of a trading schooner brush the grasses on the river-bank as she came before a southerly wind, and the haymakers stop and almost crick their necks staring up at her top-sails.  But between the moors and Ponteglos the valley wound for fourteen miles or so between secular woods, so steeply converging that for the most part no more room was left at the bottom of the V than the river itself filled.  The fisherman beside it trampled on pimpernels, sundew, watermint, and asphodels, or pushed between clumps of Osmunda regalis that overtopped him by a couple of feet.  If he took to wading, there was much ado to stand against the current.  Only here and there it spread into a still black pool, greased with eddies; and beside such a pool, it was odds that he found a diminutive meadow, green and flat as a billiard-table, and edged with clumps of fern.  To think of Cuckoo Valley is to call up the smell of that fern as it wrapped at the bottom of the creel the day’s catch of salmon-peal and trout.

The town of Tregarrick (which possessed a gaol, a workhouse, and a lunatic asylum, and called itself the centre of the Duchy) stood three miles back from the lip of this happy valley, whither on summer evenings its burghers rambled to eat cream and junket at the Dairy Farm by the river bank, and afterwards sit to watch the fish rise, while the youngsters and maidens played hide-and-seek in the woods.  But there came a day when the names of Watt and Stephenson waxed great in the land, and these slow citizens caught the railway frenzy.  They took it, however, in their own fashion.  They never dreamed of connecting themselves with other towns and a larger world, but of aggrandisement by means of a railway that should run from Tregarrick to nowhere in particular, and bring the intervening wealth to their doors.  They planned a railway that should join Tregarrick with Cuckoo Valley, and there divide into two branches, the one bringing ore and clay from the moors, the other fetching up sand and coal from the sea.  Surveyors and engineers descended upon the woods; then a cloud of navvies.  The days were filled with the crash of falling timber and the rush of emptied trucks.  The stream was polluted, the fish died, the fairies were evicted from their rings beneath the oak, the morals of the junketing houses underwent change.  The vale knew itself no longer; its smoke went up week by week with the noise of pick-axes and oaths.

On August 13th, 1834, the Mayor of Tregarrick declared the new line open, and a locomotive was run along its rails to Dunford Bridge, at the foot of the moors.  The engine was christened The Wonder of the Age; and I have before me a handbill of the festivities of that proud day, which tells me that the mayor himself rode in an open truck, “embellished with Union Jacks, lions and unicorns, and other loyal devices.”  And then Nature settled down to heal her wounds, and the Cuckoo Yalley Railway to pay no dividend to its promoters.

It is now two years and more since, on an August day, I wound up my line by Dunford Bridge, and sauntered towards the Light Horseman Inn, two gunshots up the road.  The time was four o’clock, or thereabouts, and a young couple sat on a bench by the inn-door, drinking cocoa out of one cup.  Above their heads and along the house-front a vine-tree straggled, but its foliage was too thin to afford a speck of shade as they sat there in the eye of the westering sun.  The man (aged about one-and-twenty) wore the uncomfortable Sunday-best of a mechanic, with a shrivelled, but still enormous, bunch of Sweet-William in his buttonhole.  The girl was dressed in a bright green gown and a white bonnet.  Both were flushed and perspiring, and I still think they must have ordered hot cocoa in haste, and were repenting it at leisure.  They lifted their eyes and blushed with a yet warmer red as I passed into the porch.

Two men were seated in the cool tap-room, each with a pasty and a mug of beer.  A composition of sweat and coal-dust had caked their faces, and so deftly smoothed all distinction out of their features that it seemed at the moment natural and proper to take them for twins.  Perhaps this was an error:  perhaps, too, their appearance of extreme age was produced by the dark grey dust that overlaid so much of them as showed above the table.  As twins, however, I remember them, and cannot shake off the impression that they had remained twins for an unusual number of years.

One addressed me.  “Parties outside pretty comfortable?” he asked.

“They were drinking out of the same cup,” I answered.

He nodded.  “Made man and wife this mornin’.  I don’t fairly know what’s best to do.  Lord knows I wouldn’ hurry their soft looks and dilly-dallyin’; but did ’ee notice how much beverage was left in the cup?”

“They was mated at Tregarrick, half-after-nine this mornin’,” observed the other twin, pulling out a great watch, “and we brought ’em down here in a truck for their honeymoon.  The agreement was for an afternoon in the woods; but by crum! sir, they’ve sat there and held one another’s hand for up’ards of an hour after the stated time to start.  And we ha’nt the heart to tell ’em so.”

He walked across to the window and peered over the blind.

“There’s a mort of grounds in the cocoa that’s sold here,” he went on, after a look, “and ’tisn’t the sort that does the stomach good, neither.  For their own sakes, I’ll give the word to start, and chance their thankin’ me some day later when they learn what things be made of.”

The other twin arose, shook the crumbs off his trousers, and stretched himself.  I guessed now that this newly-married pair had delayed traffic at the Dunford terminus of the Cuckoo Valley Railway for almost an hour and a half; and I determined to travel into Tregarrick by the same train.

So we strolled out of the inn towards the line, the lovers following, arm-in-arm, some fifty paces behind.

“How far is it to the station?” I inquired.

The twins stared at me.

Presently we turned down a lane scored with dry ruts, passed an oak plantation, and came on a clearing where the train stood ready.  The line did not finish:  it ended in a heap of sand.  There were eight trucks, seven of them laden with granite, and an engine, with a prodigiously long funnel, bearing the name The Wonder of the Age in brass letters along its boiler.

“Now,” said one of the twins, while the other raked up the furnace, “you can ride in the empty truck with the lovers, or on the engine along with us - which you like.”

I chose the engine.  We climbed on board, gave a loud whistle, and jolted oil.  Far down, on our right, the river shone between the trees, and these trees, encroaching on the track, almost joined their branches above us.  Ahead, the moss that grew upon the sleepers gave the line the appearance of a green glade, and the grasses, starred with golden-rod and mallow, grew tall to the very edge of the rails.  It seemed that in a few more years Nature would cover this scar of 1834, and score the return match against man.  Hails, engine, officials, were already no better than ghosts:  youth, and progress lay in the pushing trees, the salmon leaping against the dam below, the young man and maid sitting with clasped hands and amatory looks in the hindmost truck.

At the end of three miles or so we gave an alarming whistle, and slowed down a bit.  The trees were thinner here, and I saw that a high-road came down the hill, and cut across our track some fifty yards ahead.  We prepared to cross it cautiously.

“Ho-o-oy!  Stop!”

The brake was applied, and as we came to a standstill a party of men and women descended the hill towards us.

“‘Tis Susan Warne’s seventh goin’ to be christen’d, by the look of it,” said the engine-driver beside me; “an’, by crum! we’ve got the Kimbly.”

The procession advanced.  In the midst walked a stout woman, carrying a baby in long clothes, and in front a man bearing in both hands a plate covered with a white cloth.  He stepped up beside the train, and, almost before I had time to be astonished, a large yellow cake was thrust into my hands.  Engine-driver and stoker were also presented with a cake apiece, and then the newly-married pair, who took and ate with some shyness and giggling.

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked the stoker, with his mouth full.

“A boy,” the man answered; “and I count it good luck that you men of modern ways should be the first we meet on our way to church.  The child ’ll be a go-ahead if there’s truth in omens.”

“You’re right, naybour.  We’re the speediest men in this part of the universe, I d’ believe.  Here’s luck to ’ee, Susan Warne!” he piped out, addressing one of the women; “an’ if you want a name for your seventh, you may christen ’en after the engine here, the Wonder of the Age.”

We waved our hats and jolted off again towards Tregarrick.  At the end of the journey the railway officials declined to charge for the pleasure of my company.  But after some dispute, they agreed to compromise by adjourning to the Railway Inn, and drinking prosperity to Susan Warne’s seventh.