Read Ebook: Trips in the Life of a Locomotive Engineer by Dawson Henry Glober Dulce Dubious Author

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We all felt sad, and sympathized fully with Billy's grief; but the ludicrousness with which he expressed it, was too much for any of us; and we turned away, not to hide a tear, but to suppress a smile, and choke down a laugh.

But Billy was very clannish; and, to use his own expression, "the passenger might go hang, if there was any of the railroad byes in the muss." But as soon as Billy's fears as to any of his comrades being injured were allayed, no man could be more efficient than he in giving aid to anybody. Billy was true to duty, and never forgot what to do, if it was only in the usual routine of his business. Outside of that, however, he could commit as many Irish bulls as any one.

I well remember one night I had the night freight to haul. We were going along pretty good jog, when the bell rang for me to stop. I stopped and looked back to see what could be the matter. I saw no stir; so after waiting awhile, I started back to see if I could find any one. After getting back about twenty cars, I found that the train was broken in two, and that the rest of the cars were away back out of sight. I hallooed to my fireman to bring a light, and started on foot back around the curve, to see where they were. I got to the curve, and saw a light coming up the track towards me; the man who carried it was evidently running as fast as he could. I stopped to see who it was; and in a few moments he approached near enough to hail me--when, mistaking me for a trackman, and without slackening his speed the least, Billy Brown--for it was he--bellowed out, with a voice like a stentor, only broken by his grampus-like blowing, "I say, I say, did yees see iver innything of a train goin' for Albany like h--l jist now?" I believe I never did laugh quite so heartily in my life, as I did then; and Billy, turning around, addressed me in the most aggrieved manner possible, saying: "Pon me sowl now, Shanghi, its mighty mane of yees to be scarin' the life out of me wid that laff of yours, an' I strivin' as hard as iver I could to catch up wid yees, and bring yees back, to take the resht of yere train which ye were afther lavin in the road a bit back."

A BAD BRIDGE.

I was on the lead. George coupled in behind me. We both had fast "machines;" and in a little quiet talk we had before starting, we resolved to do some pretty fast running where we could.

The hungry passengers at last finished their meal, it being a refreshment station; the bell was rang; "all aboard" shouted; and we pulled out. Like twin brothers those engines seemed to work. Their "exhausts" were as one, and each with giant strength tugged at the train. We plowed through the snow, and it flew by us in fleecy, feathery flakes, on which our lights shone so bright that it seemed as if we were plunging into a cloud of silver dust. On! on! we rushed; the few stops we had to make were made quickly; and past the stations at which we were not to stop, we rushed thunderingly: a jar, a rumble, a shriek of the whistle, and the glimmering station-lights were away back out of sight.

At last we were within fourteen miles of the terminus of our journey. Both engines were doing their utmost, and the long train behind us was trailing swiftly on. Soon the tedious night-ride would be over; soon the weary limbs might rest. We were crossing a pile bridge in the middle of which was a draw. The rising of the water in the river had lifted the ice, which was frozen to the piles, and thus, I suppose, weakened the bridge, so that, when our two heavy engines struck it, it gave away. I was standing at my post, when, by the sudden strain and dropping of the engine, I knew that we were off the track, but had no idea of the real nature of the calamity. My engine struck her forward end upon the abutments of the bridge, knocking the forward trucks from under her. She held there but an instant of time; but in that instant I and my fireman sprang upon the runboard, and from thence to the solid earth. We turned in time to see the two engines go down into the water, there thirty feet deep; and upon them were piled the baggage, mail and express cars, while the passenger cars were some thrown from the track on one side, some on the other. The terrible noise made by the collision and the hissing made by the cold waters wrapping the two engines in their chill embrace, deafened and appalled us for an instant; but the next, we were running back to help the wounded. We found many wounded and seven dead amidst the wreck of the cars; but seven more were missing, and among them were six of the railroad men. After searching high and low, amidst the portion of the wreck on dry land, we with one accord looked shudderingly down into those black, chilling waters, and knew that there they lay dead. All night long we sat there. The wild wintry blasts howled around us; the cold waters gurgled and splashed amid the wreck; we could hear the wounded groan in their pains; but we listened in vain for the voices we were wont to hear. The chill tide, over which the ice was even then congealing anew, covered them. Mayhap they were mangled in the collision, and their shriek of pain was hushed and drowned as the icy waters rippled in over their lips. We almost fancied, when we threw the light of our lanterns upon the black flood, that we could see their white faces turned up toward us, frozen into a stony, immovable look of direst fear and agonizing entreaty.

Morning came, and still we could not reach our friends and comrades. Days went by before they were found, but when found each man was at his post. None had jumped or flinched, all went down with the wreck, and were found jammed in; but their countenances wore no look of fear, the icy waters that congealed their expression, did not find a coward's look among them; all wore a stern, unflinching expression that would have shown you, had you seen them just ere they went down, that they would do as they did do, stick bravely to their posts, and go down with the wreck, doing their duty at the cost of their lives.

A WARNING.

I am not, nor was I ever, superstitious. I do not believe in dreams, signs, witches, hobgoblins, nor in any of the rest of that ilk with which antiquated maidens were in olden time used to cheer the drooping spirits of childhood, and send us urchins off to our bed, half scared to death, expecting to see some horrid monster step out from every corner of the room, and in unearthly accents declare his intention to "grind our bones for coffee," or do something else equally horrid, the contemplation of which was in an equal degree unfitted to render our sleep sound or our rest placid. Somehow the visitors from the other world, that children used to be told of, were never pretty nor angelic, but always more devilish than any thing else. But in these days, this has changed; for the ghosts in which gullible people deal now, are pre?minently silly things. They use their superhuman strength in tumbling parlor furniture about the rooms, and in drumming on the floors and ceilings of bed-rooms. The old proverb is, that "every generation grows weaker and wiser." In this respect, however, we have reversed the proverb; for a great many have grown stronger in gullibility and weaker in intellect, else we would not have so many spiritualists who wait for God and His angels to thump out their special revelations, or else tumble a table about the room to the tune of A B C.

I have known, as have many, probably all of my readers, a great many people who professed to have the firmest faith in dreams and signs, who were always preadmonished of every event by some supernatural means, and who invariably are looking out for singular events when they have been visited by a singular dream. I have never believed in these things, have always laughed at them, and do so still. Yet there is one circumstance of my life, of this kind, that is shrouded in mystery, that I cannot explain, that I know to be so, and yet can scarcely believe, when a warning was given to me somehow, I know not how, that shook me and influenced me, despite my ridicule of superstition and disbelief in signs or warnings of any kind; so that I heeded it, and, by so doing, saved myself from instant death, and saved also many passengers who, had they known of the "warning" which influenced me to take the steps which I did, would have laughed at me, and endeavored to drive me on. The facts are briefly as follows--I tell them, not attempting to explain them, nor offering any theory concerning them--neither pretending that angels or devils warned me, and only knowing that it was so:

I was running a Night Express train, and had a train of ten cars--eight passenger and two baggage cars--and all were well loaded. I was behind time, and was very anxious to make a certain point; therefore I was using every exertion, and putting the engine to the utmost speed of which she was capable. I was on a section of the road usually considered the best running ground on the line, and was endeavoring to make the most of it, when a conviction struck me that I must stop. A something seemed to tell me that to go ahead was dangerous, and that I must stop if I would save life. I looked back at my train, and it was all right. I strained my eyes and peered into the darkness, and could see no signal of danger, nor any thing betokening danger, and there I could see five miles in the daytime. I listened to the working of my engine, tried the water, looked at the scales, and all was right. I tried to laugh myself out of what I then considered a childish fear; but, like Banquo's ghost, it would not down at my bidding, but grew stronger in its hold upon me. I thought of the ridicule I would have heaped upon me, if I did stop; but it was all of no avail. The conviction--for by this time it had ripened into a conviction--that I must stop, grew stronger, and I resolved to stop; and I shut off, and blew the whistle for brakes, accordingly. I came to a dead halt, got off, and went ahead a little way, without saying any thing to anybody what was the matter. I had my lamp in my hand, and had gone about sixty feet, when I saw what convinced me that premonitions are sometimes possible. I dropped the lantern from my nerveless grasp, and sat down on the track, utterly unable to stand; for there was a switch, the thought of which had never entered my mind, as it had never been used since I had been on the road, and was known to be spiked, but which now was open to lead me off the track. This switch led into a stone quarry, from whence stone for bridge purposes had been quarried, and the switch was left there, in case stone should be needed at any time; but it was always kept locked, and the switch-rail spiked. Yet here it was, wide open; and, had I not obeyed my preadmonition--warning--call it what you will--I should have run into it, and, at the end of the track, only about ten rods long, my heavy engine and train, moving at the rate of forty-five miles per hour, would have come into collision with a solid wall of rock, eighteen feet high. The consequences, had I done so, can neither be imagined nor described; but they could, by no possibility, have been otherwise than fatally horrid.

This is my experience in getting warnings from a source that I know not and cannot divine. It is a mystery to me--a mystery for which I am very thankful, however, although I dare not attempt to explain it, nor say whence it came.

SINGULAR ACCIDENTS.

The brothers G. are well known to all travelers by the route of the N. Y. C. R. R. They have been a long time employed there, and by the traveling public and the company that employ them they are universally esteemed; but the star of them all, the one most loved by his companions in toil, respected by travelers, and trusted by his employers, was Thomas, who met with his death in one of those calamitous accidents which so frequently mar the career of the railroad man. I was an eye-witness of the accident, and shall attempt to describe it.

The day on which it occurred was a glorious summer one; the breeze wafted a thousand pleasant odors to my senses; the birds sang their sweetest songs. As I was journeying along the highway between Weedsport and Jordan, I heard the rumble of the approaching train, and as from where I was I could get a fair view of the passing train, which was the fastest on the road and was behind time a few minutes, I stopped to watch it as it passed. On it came, the sun glancing on the polished engine as it sped along like the wind. The track where I had stopped, was crossed by two roads, one of them crossing at right angles, the other diagonally; between the two crossings there was a large pile of ties placed, probably eight feet from the track. I saw the engine, which was running at full speed, pass the pile, when suddenly, without warning, in a second of time, the cars went piling and crashing over the bank into a promiscuous heap, crushed into each other like egg-shells. One of them, a full-sized car, turned a complete somersault; another was turned once and a half around, and lay with one end down in the ditch, and the other up to the track, while the third went crashing into its side. I hitched my horse and ran over to the scene, expecting, of course, that not a soul would be found alive; arrived there, I found that no person was killed but poor Tom, and not over a dozen hurt, although the cars were crowded, and not a seat was left whole in the cars, which were perfectly riddled. They had already found Tom's body, which lay under the truck of the first passenger car, which had been torn out, and one wheel lay on his neck. He had no need of care, no need of sympathy, for the first crash killed him; and so with no notice, no warning, no moment for a faintly whispered good-bye to those he loved, poor Tom passed away to the unknown shore, leaving many friends to grieve for him.

We got him out, laid him beside the track, and stood solemnly by; grieving that he, our friend, had gone and left no message for the wife who idolized him, the brothers who had loved him, or the friends who so fully appreciated his many noble qualities. While we stood thus speechless with heartfelt, choking grief, a man came up and asked for the man who had charge of the train. Some one, I forget who, pointed to the mangled form of poor Tom and said, "There is all that is mortal of him." Said the thing--I will not call him man--"Dear me! I'm sorry; I wanted to find some one to pay for my cow."

It was his cow that had caused the accident, by jumping out against the baggage car after the engine had passed.

Another singular accident occurred on a road in the State of New York. An engine, to which something had happened that required a couple of sticks of wood out on the run-board as fulcrum for a lever, was passing through a station at full speed, when one of the sticks, that had carelessly been left outside, fell off and was struck by the end of the main rod on the backward stroke; impelled backwards by the force of the blow, it struck a man, standing carelessly beside the track, full on the side of the head, fracturing his skull, and killing him instantly.

LUDICROUS INCIDENTS.

There is not often much that is comic on the "rail," but occasionally an incident occurs that brings a loud guffaw from everybody who witnesses it.

I remember once standing by the side of an engine that was switching in the yard. The fellow who was running it I thought, from his actions while oiling, was drunk, so I watched him. He finished oiling, and clambered up on to the foot-board and attempted, in obedience to the orders of the yard-man, to start out. He jerked and jerked at the throttle-lever, but all to no effect; the engine would not budge an inch. I saw from where I stood what was the matter, and although nearly bursting with laughter, I refrained from telling him, but looked on to see the fun. After pulling for at least a dozen times, he bawled out to the yard-man that he couldn't go, and then gave another twitch, but it was of no use; then he stepped back a step or two and looked at the throttle, with a look of the most stupid amazement that I ever saw; his face expressed the meaning of the word "dumbfoundered" completely. At last the fireman showed him what was the matter. It was simply that he had set the thumb-screw on the throttle-lever and neglected to unloose it, in each of his efforts.

Another laughable affair occurred on one of the Eastern roads, I forget which. An engine stood on the switch, all fired up and ready to start; the hands were all absent at dinner. A big black negro, who was loafing around the yard, became exceedingly inquisitive as to how the thing was managed--so up he gets and began to poke around. He threw the engine into the forward gear and gave it steam, of course not knowing what he was doing; but of that fact the engine was ignorant, and at once, like a mettled steed, it sprung to full speed and away it went, carrying the poor darkey an unwilling dead-head ride. He did not know how to stop it, and dare not jump, for, as he himself expressed it, when found, "Gorra mity, she mos flew." The engine of course ran until steam ran down, which was not in fourteen miles, and Mr. Darkey got off and put for the woods. He didn't appear at that station again for over a week. He said that "ef de durn ting had a gon much furder he guessed he'd a bin white folks."

"Ol Long," an old friend of mine, tells a pretty good story about an old white horse that he struck once. Ol says that he was running at about thirty miles an hour, when an old white horse jumped out on the track right in front of the engine, which struck him and knocked him away down into the ditch, where he lay heels up. He of course expected that the horse was killed, and so reported on arriving at the end of the road; but what was his surprise, on returning the next day, to see the self-same old nag quietly eating by the side of the road. Ol says he believes the old fellow did look rather sour at him, but he could not apologize.

EXPLOSIONS.

It is easy to account for explosions of boilers on the hypothesis of too great pressure; but it is hardly ever very easy--frequently utterly impossible--to account for the causes which induce that overpressure. There are, to be sure, a number of reasons which may be advanced. The engineer may have screwed the scales down too much, and thus, the safety-valve not operating to let off the surplus steam, a force may be generated within the boiler of such tremendous power that the strong iron will be rent and torn like tissue-paper. This I say may occur, but in my experience I never knew of such a case. Then again, the water may get so low in the boiler that, on starting the engine and injecting cold water upon the hot plates, steam will be generated so suddenly as not to find vent, and in such enormous quantities and of so high a temperature as to explode the strongest boiler. Again, the water may be allowed to get low in the boiler, and the plates getting extremely hot, the motion of the train would generate steam enough by splashing water against them to cause an explosion. A proper care and due attention to the gauges would obviate this, and render explosion from these causes impossible. A piece of weak or defective iron, too, may have been put into the boiler at the time of its manufacture, and go on apparently safe for a long time, until at last it gives way under precisely the same pressure of steam that it has all along held with safety, or it may be with even less than it has often carried. How the engineer is to obviate this most fruitful cause of explosions, for the life of me I cannot see; still if his engine does blow up, everybody and their wives will believe that it happened entirely through his neglect. A person who has never seen an explosion, can form no idea of the enormous power with which the iron is rent. I saw one engine that had exploded, at a time too when, according to the oaths of three men, it had a sufficiency of water and only 95 lbs. of steam to the square inch, and was moving at only an ordinary speed, yet it was blown 65 feet from the track, and the whole of one side, from the "check joint" back to the "cab," was torn wide open--the lower portion hanging down to the ground, folded over like a table-leaf, and the other portion lay clear over to the other side, while from the rent, the jagged ends of more than half of the flues projected, twisted into innumerable shapes. The frame on that side was broken, and the ends stuck out from the side at right angles with their former position. I saw another, where the whole boiler front was blown out and the engine tipped clear over backwards on to the tender and freight car, where the engineer and fireman were found, crushed into shapeless masses, lying in the midst of the wreck. The engine Manchester exploded while standing at a station on the H. R. R. R., and killed two out of five men, who were standing together beside the tender. Two of those who were left, deposed, on oath, that not three minutes before the accident occurred, the engineer tried the water and found fully three gauges, while there was a pressure of only ninety-five pounds to the square inch, and it was blowing off.

How to account for it no one could tell, so every one who knew any thing whatever in regard to such things, called it "another of the mysterious visitations of God." But the newspapers called it an evidence of gross carelessness on the part of the engineer.

Several explosions have been known where the upper tubes were found unhurt, while the lower ones were, some of them, found badly burnt. The conclusion in these cases was that the tubes were too close together, and the water was driven away from them; consequently the starting of the engine, or the pumping of cold water into the boiler, was sufficient to cause an explosion.

HOW A FRIEND WAS KILLED.

There is among the remembrances of my life as a railroad man, one of such sadness, that I never think of it without a sigh. Every man, unless he be so morose that he cannot keep a dog, has his particular friends; those in whom he confides, and to whom he is always cheerful; whose society he delights in, and the possibility of whose death, he will never allow himself to admit.

George and I differed in many respects, but more especially in this, that whereas I was one of the "fast" school of runners, who are never so contented with running as when mounted on a fast engine, with an express train, and it behind time. George preferred a slow train, where, as he said, his occupation was "killing time," not "making" it. So while I had the "Baltic," a fast engine, with drivers six feet and a half in diameter, and usually ran express trains, George had the "Essex," a freight engine, with four feet drivers.

One Saturday night I took the last run north, and was to "lay over" with my engine for the Sunday at the northern terminus of the road, until two o'clock Monday P. M. George had to run the "Night Freight" down that night, and as we wished particularly to be together the next day, I concluded to go "down the line" with him. Starting time came, and off we started. I rode for awhile in the "caboose," as the passenger car attached to a freight train is called, but as the night was warm and balmy, the moon shining brightly, tinging with silvery white the great fleecy clouds that swept through the heaven, like monstrous floating islands of snow drifting over the fathomless waters of the sea, I went out and rode with George on the engine. The night was indeed most beautiful, the moonlight shimmering across the river, which the wind disturbed and broke into many ripples, made it to glow and shine like a sea of molten silver. The trees beside the track waved and beckoned their leafy tops, looking sombre and weird in the half-darkness of the night. The vessels we saw upon the river, gliding before the freshening breeze, with their signal lights glimmering dimly, and the occasional steamers with light streaming from every window, and the red light of their fires casting an unearthly glare upon the waters; these all combined to make the scene spread before us, as we rushed shrieking and howling over the road, one of unexcelled beauty. We both gazed at it, and said that if all scenes in the life of a railroad man were as beautiful as this we would wish no other life.

But something ailed George's engine. Her pumps would not work. After tinkering with them awhile, he asked the fireman if there was plenty of water in the tank; the fireman said there was, but to make assurance doubly sure I went and looked, and lo! there was not a drop! Before passing through the station George had asked the fireman if there was plenty of water. He replied that there was; so George had run through the station, it not being a regular stopping place for the train, and here we were in a fix. George thought he could run from where we had stopped to the next water station; so he cut loose from the train and started. We had stopped on the outside of a long curve, to the other end of which we could see; it was fully a half mile, but the view was straight across the water--a bay of the river sweeping in there, around which the track went.

In about twenty minutes after George had left we saw him coming around the farthest point of the curve; the brakeman at once took his station with his light at the end of the cars, to show George precisely where the train stood. The engine came swiftly towards us, and I soon saw he was getting so near that he could not stop without a collision, unless he reversed his engine at once; so I snatched the lamp from out the brakeman's hands, and swung it wildly across the track, but it was of no avail. On came the engine, not slackening her speed the least. We saw somebody jump from the fireman's side, and in the instant of time allowed us, we looked to see George jump, but no! he stuck to his post, and there came a shock as of a mountain falling. The heavy freight engine running, as it was, at as high a rate of speed as it could make, crashed into the train; thirteen cars were piled into a mass of ruins, the like of which is seldom seen. The tender was turned bottom side up, with the engine lying atop of it, on its side. The escaping steam shrieked and howled; the water, pouring in on to the fire, crackled and hissed; the stock that were in the cars bellowed and bleated in their agony, and it seemed as if all the legions of hell were there striving to make a pandemonium of that quiet place by the river-side. As soon as we recovered from the shock and got used to the din which at first struck terror to our hearts--and I think no sound can be more terrible than the bellowing of a lot of cattle that are crushed in a railroad smash-up--we went to work to see if George was alive, and to get him out, dead or alive. We found him under the tender, but one side of the tank lay across his body, so that he could not move. We got rails and lifted and pried, until we raised the tender and got him out. We took one of the doors from the wrecked cars, laid it beside the track, and made a bed on it with our coats and the cushions from the caboose; for poor George said he wanted to pass the few moments left him of earth beneath the open sky, and with the cool breeze to fan his cheek. Of course we dispatched a man to the nearest station for aid, and to telegraph from there for an engine; but it was late at night, everybody was asleep, and it was more than three hours before any one arrived, and all that time George lingered, occasionally whispering a word to me as I bent over him and moistened his lips.

He told me while lying there the reason why he did not stop sooner. Something had got loose on the inside throttle gearing, and he could not shut off steam, nor, owing to some unaccountable complicity of evil, could he reverse his engine. So on he had to come, pell-mell, and both of them were killed; for the fireman had jumped on some rocks, and must have died instantly, as he was most horribly mangled.

The night wind moaned through the wreck, the dripping water yet hissed upon the still hot iron of the engine, the waves of the river gurgled and rippled among the rocks of the shore, and an occasional bellow of agony was heard from amidst the cattle cars, where all the rest of the hands were at work releasing the poor creatures; but I sat there, in sad and solemn silence, waiting for him to die that had been as a brother to me. At last, just as we heard the whistle of the approaching engine, and just as the rising sun had begun to gild and bespangle the purpling east, George opened his eyes, gave my hand a faint grasp, and was no more. I stood alone with the dead man I had loved so in life, but from whom death had now separated me.

AN UNROMANTIC HERO.

Those who have traveled much on the Little Miami Railroad, must have noticed a little old fellow, with grizzled locks and an unpoetical stoop of the shoulders, who whisks about his engine with all the activity of a cat, and whom the railroad men all call "Uncle Jimmy." That is old Jimmy Wiggins, an engineer of long standing and well known. I believe Uncle Jimmy learned the machinists' trade with Eastwick & Harrison, in Philadelphia; at all events he has been railroading for a long time, and has been always noted for his carefulness and vigilance. Let me attempt to describe him. He is about five feet four inches in height, stoop-shouldered and short-legged. His hair is iron-gray, and his face would be called any thing but beautiful. He has, though, a clear blue eye that looks straight and firmly into yours with an honest and never-flinching expression, that at once convinces you that he is a "game" man. Not very careful about his dress is old Jimmy; grease spots abound on all his clothing, and his hands are usually begrimed with the marks of his trade. In short, Uncle Jimmy is any thing but a romantic-looking fellow, and a novelist would hesitate long before taking him as the hero of a romance; but the old man is a hero, and under that rough, yet placid exterior, there beats a heart that never cools, and a will that never flinches. We go back into the history of the past ages to find our heroes, and them we almost worship, but I question whether the whole history of the world furnishes a better example of self-sacrificing heroism, than this same rough and unromantic looking Jimmy Wiggins. It is not the casket that gives value to the jewel; it is the jewel gives value to all. So with Uncle Jimmy; rough he looks, but the heart he has makes him an honor to the race, and deserving of our praise. I'll tell you now why I think so.

Uncle Jimmy was running a train that laid by on the switch at Spring Valley for the Up Express to pass. He got there on time, and the express being a little behind time, the old man took advantage of the time to oil around. The whistle of the up train was heard, but he paid no heed thereto, for it was to pass without stopping. The fellow who attended to the switch stood there at his post. Uncle Jimmy was coolly at work, when a shriek from the conductor called his attention, and looking up, he saw what would frighten and unnerve almost any one. The stupid fool at the switch had thrown it wide open, and the express was already on the branch, coming too at the rate of thirty miles an hour--thirty feet in the beat of your pulse--and his train loaded with passengers stood there stock-still. That was a time to try the stuff a man was made of; ordinary men would have shrunk from the task, and run from the scene. Your lily-handed, romantic gentry would have failed then, but homely old Jimmy Wiggins rose superior to the position, and, unromantic though he looks, proved a hero. No flinch in him. What though two hundred tons of matter was being hurled at him, fifty feet in the second?--what though the chances for death for him were a thousand to one for safety? No tremor in that brave old heart, no nerveless action in that strong arm. He leaped on to the engine, and with his charge met the shock; but his own engine was reversed, and under motion backwards when the other train struck it. It all took but an instant of time, but in that moment old Jimmy Wiggins concentrated more of true courage than many a man gets into in a lifetime of seventy years. The collision was frightful; iron and wood were twisted and jammed together as if they were rotten straw. Charley Hunt, the engineer of the other train, was instantly killed; passengers were wounded; terror, fright and pain held sway. Death was there, and all stood back appalled at what had occurred; yet all shuddered more to think of what would have been the result had Old Jimmy's engine stood still, and all felt a trembling anxiety for his fate, for surely, thought they, "in that wreck his life must have been the sacrifice to his bravery;" but out of the mass, as cool, as calm as when running on a straight track, crawled Uncle Jimmy, unhurt. He still runs on the same road, and long may his days be, and happy.

THE DUTIES OF AN ENGINEER.

Those unacquainted with the duties of an engineer, are apt to think that they are extremely light, and require him simply to sit upon his seat and, shutting off or letting on the steam, regulate the speed of his engine. Although this is a part of the duty, still it is but a small portion, and for the benefit of those of my readers who are not posted on the matter, I will briefly state a few of the things he has to think of.

Say we take the engine lying in the shop cold, and an order comes for him to go out on the road. There is no water in the boiler; he must see that it is filled up to the proper level, and that the fire is started. He must know beforehand that no piece of the machinery is broken or loosened, so as to endanger the engine. To know this, he must make a personal inspection of every part of the engine--trucks, wheels, drivers, cranks, rods, valves, gearing, coupling, flues, scales, journals, driving-boxes, throttle gear, oil cups; in short, every thing about the engine must be seen to by him personally. He must know that every journal, every joint on the whole machine is in proper order to receive the oil necessary to lubricate it, for they will each and all receive a pretty severe strain in his coming ride, and, unless well oiled, will be pretty apt to get warm. He must know whether the flues are tight, or whether there are any leaks in the boiler to cause him trouble, or render it necessary for him to carry a light pressure of steam. He must see that there is water in the tank, and wood upon the tender; that he has upon the engine the tools usually necessary in case of a breakdown, such as hammers, chisels, wrenches, tongs, bolts, nuts, coupling-pins, plugs for the flues in case one should burst, chains, extra links, jack-screws, crow, and pinch-bars, an axe or hatchet; waste or rags, oil, tallow for the cylinders, and material for packing any joint that may give out. All this he must see to and know before he starts. And then, when steam is up, he can go. Now he must closely watch his time-card, and run so as to make the various stations on time. He must know that his watch is correct and in good order. He must see closely to his pumps that they work right, and that the water keeps at the proper level in the boiler. He must watch the scales that the pressure of the steam does not get too great, also the working of his engine. To the exhausts of the steam his ear must be as sensitive as a musical composer would be to a discord, for by it he can tell much of the condition of his engine, the set and play of the valves, and the condition of the many joints in the working machinery. At the same time he must keep the strictest watch of the track ahead of him, ready-nerved for any emergency that can possibly arise; it may be a broken rail, cattle on the track, some stubborn, hasty fool striving to cross the track ahead of him, a broken bridge, washed out culvert, a train broken down; or it may be some stranger frantically swinging his hands, and, in every manner possible, endeavoring to attract his attention. Something may happen to his train or his engine, and he must keep the strictest watch of both; his hands must be ready to blow the whistle, shut off steam or reverse his engine, on the instant intimation of danger, for his engine gets over the ground at a rapid rate, and nothing but a cool nerve and stout arm can stop it, perhaps not these. And if any thing does happen rendering it necessary for him to stop, he cannot say to anybody, "Here, do this;" he must go at it himself; and oftentimes, though it be but a trivial thing, it will tax his ingenuity to the utmost to repair it. Thus he goes on every day, be it clear or cloudy, whether summer breeze fill the air with balm, or the chill winds of winter make the road-bed solid as the rock, and the iron of the rails and wheels as brittle as glass; whether the rain, pelting down, makes of every tiny brook a torrent or the drifted snow blockades the track, and his engine has to plunge into the chilly mass; through it all his eye must never cease its vigil, nor his arm lose its cunning. In cold weather he must watch the pumps that they do not freeze while standing at the stations, or the wheels get fractured by the frost; and, in cold or warm weather, he must keep watch of every place where there is the slightest friction, and keep it well oiled. At every station where time is allowed, he must give the whole engine a close inspection, lest some little part be out of order, and endangering some larger and more important piece of the machinery. At last, after this his journey for the day is ended, his work is by no means done. He must again inspect his engine, and if there is any thing out of order, so much that he cannot without assistance repair it, he must apply at head-quarters for the necessary aid. But there are a hundred little matters that he can attend to himself; these he must see to and do. The friction and enormous strain necessarily wears the brasses of the journals, and creates what he calls "lost motion," that is, the journal moves in its box loosely without causing the required motion in the part of the machinery with which it is connected; this he must remedy by various expedients. The spring-packing of the piston may have worn loose, and require to be set out; some one of the numerous steam joints may be leaking, and these he must repack. Some of the flues may also be leaking; if so, he must tighten them; or there may be a crack in the boiler that leaks which can be remedied by caulking; this he must do. The grate-bars may be broken or disarranged; he must enter the fire-box and arrange them. The packing in the pumps may have worn so as to render their operation imperfect, or the valves may be out of order, or the strainer between the tank and the pump may be clogged; if either or all be the case, he must take down the pump and rectify the matter. The smokestack also may be clogged with cinders, or the netting over it may be choked so as to impede the draught; if so, he must remedy it, or see that it is done. Some of the orifices through which oil is let on to the machinery may be clogged or too open; these he must see to. One or more of the journal-boxes of the wheels may need repacking, and he must do it. An eccentric may have slipped a little, or a valve-rod been stripped, or a wheel be defective, or a tire on the driving-wheel may be loose, and have to be bolted on or reset. A gauge-cock may be clogged, a leaf of a spring broke, or the boiler may be very dirty and want washing out. Any of these things or a hundred others may have happened, and require his attention, which must on all occasions be given to it; for each part, however simple, goes to make up a whole, that, if out of repair, will render imminent a fearful loss of life and limb.

Thus the engineer rides every day, having the same care, and facing the same dangers, with the same responsibility resting on him. Who then shall say that, though he be grimy and greasy, rough and uncouth, given to tobacco-chewing, and sometimes to hard swearing, he is of no consequence to the world? Who shall blame him too severely if sometimes he makes an error?

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