About an hour after midnight, on our journey from Boston to Albany, we
came to a sudden pause where no station was visible; and immediately,
very much to my surprise, the engine-driver, conductor, and several
passengers were seen sallying forth with lanterns, and hastening down the
embankment on our right. “What are they going to do now?” said I to a
gentleman, who, like myself, kept his seat. “Only to take a look at some
cars that were smashed this morning,” was the reply. On opening the
window to observe the state of affairs, as well as the darkness would
allow, there, to be sure, at the bottom and along the side of the high
bank, lay an unhappy train, just as it had been upset. The locomotive on
its side was partly buried in the earth; and the cars which had followed
it in its descent lay in a confused heap behind. On the top of the bank,
near to us, the last car of all stood obliquely on end, with its hind
wheels in the air in a somewhat grotesque and threatening attitude. All
was now still and silent. The killed and wounded, if there were any, had
been removed. No living thing was visible but the errant engineer and
others from our train clambering with lanterns in their hands over a
prostrate wreck, and with heedless levity passing critical remarks on the
catastrophe. Curiosity being satisfied all resumed their places, and the
train moved on without a murmur of complaint as to the unnecessary, and,
considering the hour, very undesirable delay. I allude to the
circumstance, as one of a variety of facts that fell within my
observation, illustrative of the singular degree of patience and
imperturbability with which railway travellers in America submit
uncomplainingly to all sorts of detentions on their journey.
_Things as they are in America_, by W. Chambers, 1853.