The "railroad saint" was a locomotive engineer. His life was ever an
open book, yet while careful and almost severe in his personal
religious habits, he did not criticize the manners of his associates.
He simply let his well kept searchlight shine.
Though born in Ohio, his boy life was spent mainly in Nebraska, when
it was just emerging from the ragged swaddlings of rough frontierdom;
and during his young manhood he lived in Wyoming, at the time when men
"carried the law in their hip-pockets," as he graphically expressed
it.
Early becoming an employee of the Union Pacific, he was a permanent
portion of its westward intermountain extension, and he did his life's
work among the scenic cliffs and clefts of the picturesque crags and
corrugated cañons of the wrinkled ridges in the Rocky and the Wahsatch
ranges. Opportunities for literary education were very limited to one
so engaged, and little more than what was absolutely necessary to the
railmen did he receive. But he was not ignorant by any means. In later
years he read extendedly and with careful discrimination. He had a
poet's soul, but was not visionary.
His mother had been a careful and sensible Christian. The indelible
impress she left upon him was like to that given by Jochebed to her
son Moses. He never wholly escaped from her hallowed influence,
although he descended into vicious living and became a notorious and
blatant blasphemer, sceptic, and drunkard.
Once when attending a national convention of railway engineers in an
Eastern city he noticed a little flower boy vainly attempting to
dispose of his roses. Our engineer (who always had a feeling for the
"other fellow") paid the lad for all he had left and directed him to
carry them to the hotel where the delegates were stopping, and give
them to the ladies in the parlor. This act was repeated on successive
days. It attracted attention finally, and one of the delegates asked
him if he were a Christian. Characteristically he blurted out: "Do
you see anything about me that indicates it? If so, I will take it off
at once. Why do you ask such a question?"
"Because," said the questioner, "your kindness to that pale-faced
little flower boy makes people think you are."
"Nothing at all queer about that," was the quick reply. "Common
humanity should dictate such deeds. If I myself wanted a favor, I'd
not go to any Christian for it; I'd rather tackle a bartender or a
gambler."
"Well, Dr. T----, of the Methodist Church, has heard of you," remarked
his questioner, "and he says he would like to meet you for an hour or
so before you leave the city."
"But I've no desire to meet any preacher, though if it will afford the
gentleman any pleasure, I will gladly do it for that reason and no
other. What do you suppose he wants?"
The intermediary arranged a time of meeting, and after introducing the
men, left the "eagle eye" in the pleasant study of the minister, a
pastor of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South. After a few minutes
of easy conversation, the minister abruptly cut all Gordian knots and
said: "Mr.----, are you a Christian?"
"No, sir, not so you can notice it."
"Why are you not?"
"Why should I be?"
"It gives to every one who embraces true religion a better, broader,
worthier view and conception of life."
"Wherein, mister?"
"It puts purpose into his life and interprets the end to which he is
tending."
Then came up from the keen intellect-quiver of our Rocky Mountain
engineman all the stock phrases, replies, and arguments of Voltaire,
Rousseau, Ingersoll, and others whose writings he knew perfectly.
With Christian and cultivated patience the minister listened and then
said with captivating and sympathetic tenderness: "But, my dear sir,
that is all speculation on the part of those scholarly and eloquent
men whom you quote so accurately. They know no better. The religion of
Jesus is not speculation; it is practical knowledge. Would not you,
sir, like to know personally as to its truth?"
"Yes, but how can I?"
His foot had been taken in the snare of the wise trapper.
Said the preacher: "You can; and this is the way. As you leave this
city for your return to the West, get a cheap New Testament; indeed,
here is a copy; please accept it. Tear it in two in the middle,
retaining only the four Gospels--Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. Read
them; you will by yourself and by this means find the way to perfect
knowledge."
He of the throttle, hungry for the deepest knowledge, did as directed
and advised.
Back to his cab and engine he went, under the deepest conviction. Yet
he declared that he needed no extraneous assistance to be as good as
any Christian; Jesus he considered a superfluity, and said so. The
negative influences of the atheistic authors yet warped him. He said:
"I dare any of you to watch me. I can and will be as upright as any
Christian on earth." But after a short time of exemplary conduct, he
would wake up some morning only to discover to his hearty disgust that
he had been on an extended period of dissipation. Later he would
attempt another straightening-up and try to "be good" without the
necessary becoming so, only to fall again and harder than before.
Once, after such humiliating debauch, he entered a saloon which
contained the only barber shop in the village, the railway division
point where he had his "layovers" for regular rest. He sat down for
his daily shave. It was the morning after pay-day among the employees,
and, as he stated it to the writer, "everybody, even the barber, had
been drunk." Cigar stumps, empty bottles, cards, and other plentiful
signs of the previous night's carousals covered the floor with
bacchanalian litter. Lying there, eyes shut, an Armageddon was taking
place on the stage of his perturbed soul. His story is this:
"While lying there that morning a voice said to me, 'You are not a
square-dealer.' I opened my eyes on the barber, only to see a bloated
face with impassive and mute lips; he had said nothing, I could easily
see. I closed my eyes again, only to hear, 'You do not treat me as you
would a gentleman.' I now knew that the voice was that of an unseen
person, and I replied mentally but really. 'Who are you, and what do
you want?' 'I am Jesus, whom you deny without having known, and
condemn without having attempted to prove. You have been saying all
the while you can succeed without my assistance, and you know you have
failed every time. All I want is a chance in your life that I may
prove myself to you.' Then I replied, 'If this is what you want, just
come in and we will talk it over.' He then came in never to go out
again. I went to my little shack-room and, locking the door, took out
of a little old hair-covered trunk a Bible my mother had given me; it
had lain there for thirty long years untouched. I opened it and read a
while and then got down on my knees to pray. What I said was about
like this: 'Lord, if it is really the Lord who was talking to me (I
have my doubts), you know I am a man of my word, and you can trust me.
I want to make you a proposition: I'll do the square thing by you if
you'll do the same by me. Amen!'"
"This," said he, "was the beginning of the struggle for rest to my
soul; and I found it."
An incident leading to his immediate, possibly ultimate safety, was a
conversation in a saloon. It does not always transpire that we are
benefited by the act of the talebearer, but in this case it was highly
salutary. One of his engineer friends, drinking at the bar, said:
"Never fear about H----. He will soon get over all this and be along
with us as usual."
Hearing it, he became very righteously indignant and said: "By the
grace of God, never! I'll go up to the church my wife attends and join
with her, and when they know I am a church member they'll let me
alone." He did so at once. He was saved. He lived for many years,
always happy, always helpful, and without fear he ascended the snowy
hills of old age, with their enveloping mists.
Afflicted with a creeping paralysis, he lingered long, ever cheerful,
and interested in his friends, to whom he sent many messages. To his
brothers of the Odd Fellows he sent this message: "Boys, I'll not see
you any more. I am just like a boy at Christmas Eve, who with
stocking hung up, is anxious for daylight. The shadows have come over
me. My stocking is hung up by the Father's fireplace and I am almost
impatient for the morning. I haven't the remotest idea what I will
get, but I am sure it will be something good." A few days before his
translation he was visited by one of his old-time railway associates,
who said to him: "H----, you are now up against the real thing,
according to your belief; and it looks to us the same, just as if you
would have to go some one of these days. How does it seem? What is it
like?"
Looking at the questioner lovingly, the dying man said, "Charley,
you've worked for the railway company a long time, and never had many
promotions, have you?"
"Yes, about twenty years--and no promotions."
"Well, Charley, suppose there'd come to you to-day a wire from
headquarters saying there's a big promotion waiting for you on your
arrival, and at the same time a pass for your free transportation. How
do you think that would seem to you?"
"My soul, but that'd be fine," said he.
"Well, Charley, that's just my case exactly," said the radiant man.
"I've been working for God and his company for about that same length
of time and never had much promotion so far as I could see, and now I
have a summons direct from the glory land telling me there's a big
advancement for me, and it sounds mighty good."
He was dressed for the wedding, the Christmas morning, or whatever
awaited him, and was anxious that the couriers of the King should
come. When the moment came the old engineer's headlight was undimmed,
the switch signals showed green, and when he called for the last board
at the home station the signal came back: "All's well; come on in."
He had received his coveted promotion.