One morning, in the year 185-, I was running the Morning Express, or
the Shanghæ run, as it was called, on the H. road in New York state.
The morning was foggy, damp and uncomfortable, and by its influence
I was depressed so that I had the "blues" very badly; I felt weary
and tired of the life I was leading, dull and monotonous always, save
when varied by horror. I got to thinking of the poor estimate in which
the class to which I belonged was held by the people generally, who,
seated in the easy-cushioned seats of the train, read of battles far
away--of deeds of heroism, performed amid the smoke and din of bloody
wars,--and their hearts swell with pride,--they glow with gladness to
think that their own species are capable of such daring acts, and all
the while these very readers are skirting the edges of precipices, to
look down which would appall the stoutest heart and make the strongest
nerved man thrill with terror;--they are crossing deep, narrow gorges
on gossamer-like bridges;--they are passing switches at terrific speed,
where there is but an inch of space between smooth-rolling prosperity
and quick destruction;--they are darting through dark, gloomy tunnels,
which would be turned into graves for them, were a single stone to
be detached from the roof in front of the thundering train;--they
are dragged by a fiery-lunged, smoke-belching monster, in whose form
are imprisoned death-dealing forces the most terrific. And mounted
upon this fire-fiend sits the engineer, controlling its every motion,
holding in his hand the thread of every life on the train, which a
single act--a false move--a deceived eye, an instant's relaxation of
thought or care on his part, would cut, to be united nevermore; and the
train thunders on, crossing bridges, gullies and roads, passing through
tunnels and cuts, and over embankments. The engineer, firm to his post,
still regulates the breath of his steam-demon and keeps his eye upon
the track ahead, with a thousand things upon his mind, the neglect or
a wrong thought of either of which would run the risk of a thousand
lives;--and these readers in the cars are still absorbed with the
daring deeds of the Zouaves under the warm sun of Italy, but pay not a
thought to the Zouave upon the engine, who every day rides down into
the "valley of death" and charges a bridge of Magenta.
But to return to this dismal, foggy morning that I began to tell you
of. It was with some such thoughts as these that I sat that morning
upon my engine, and plunged into the fog-banks that hung over the river
and the river-side. I sat so
"Absorbed in guessing, but no syllable expressing"
of whether it must always be so with me; whether I should always be
chilled with this indifference and want of appreciation in my waking
hours, and in my sleep have this horrible responsibility and care to
sit, ghoul-like, upon my breast and almost stifle the beating of my
heart;--when with a crash and slam my meditations were interrupted, and
the whole side of the "cab," with the "smokestack," "whistle-stand" and
"sand-box" were stripped from the engine. The splinters flew around my
head, the escaping steam made most an infernal din, and the "fire-box"
emitted most as infernal a smoke, and I was entirely ignorant of what
was up or the extent of the damage done. As soon as I could stop, I
of course, after seeing that every thing was right with the engine,
went back to see what was the cause of this sudden invasion upon the
dreary harmony of my thoughts, and the completeness of my running
arrangements, when lo! and behold it was a North River _schooner_ with
which I had collided. It had, during the fog, been blown upon the
shore, and into its "bowsprit," which projected over the track, I had
run full tilt.
I think that I am justified in calling a collision between a schooner
on the river and a locomotive on the rail, a _collision extraordinary_.
Readers, do not you?