Chapter IV: The Elopement (1)

Under restraint, Alice had drooped and pined, but now that Bronte had left the country she was permitted to ride about the neighborhood quite alone. She enjoyed horse exercise greatly, but no matter in what direction she left home her way lay always through Loughorne. Perhaps the roads were better in that direction, but she always exchanged salutations with a handsome working-man, by the expanse of water in Loughorne. When he was not about she used very humanely to take her horse down to the lake to drink, and from a hole in an old tree she used to remove a scrap of paper, leaving something instead. The tree used to be pointed out as "Bronte's post-box," but the lake has recently been drained, and the trees have, I believe, disappeared.

Everything that could be done was done, to please Miss McClory, but no opportunity was missed to further Farmer Burns's suit. He was a prosperous man. He had a good farm, a good house, plenty of horses and cows, and was a very desirable husband for Alice. He was also a Catholic. Bronte had shown that he did not care for her by going away, and never thinking of her more. The priest joined with Alice's female friends in pleading for Burns. At length, by incessant perseverance, they prevailed on her to consent to marry Burns, and forget Bronte. The incessant drip had made an impression at last, and the crafty relatives had gained their end.

There was joy in the Catholic camp when it was publicly announced that Miss McClory and Mr. Burns were soon to be married. McClory's house was thatched anew, and whitewashed and renovated throughout. The roses were nailed up around the windows; the street was strewn with fresh sand; new window-blinds and bed-curtains were provided, and pots and pans were burnished. Never before had McClory's house been subjected to such an outburst of sweeping and brushing and washing and scouring; the whole place became redolent of potash and suds. It was spring cleaning _in excelsis_.

The local dressmaker, Annie McCabe, whose granddaughter, of the same name, is now dressmaker in the same place, assisted by Miss McClory's female relatives, was busily engaged on the bridal dress. Burns used to look in daily on the incessant preparations, his countenance beaming with joy, but Alice would not permit him to destroy the pleasures of imagination by approaching near to her. She would lift her finger coyly, and warn him off, if he presumed on any familiarities, but she allowed him to sit on the other side of the fire from that graced by herself.

At length the wedding-day arrived. Such signs of feasting had never before been seen in Ballynaskeagh. New loaves had been procured from Newry, fresh beef from Rathfriland, whiskey from Banbridge. A great pudding, composed of flour and potatoes, and boiled for many hours over a slow fire, with hot coals on the lid of the oven, had been prepared. Two of the largest turkeys had been boiled, and laid out on great dishes with an abundant coating of melted butter, and a huge roll of roasted beef was served up as a burnt offering. Signs of abundance stood on table and dresser and hob, while rows of bottles peeped from behind the window-curtains; and neither envy nor spite could say that Red Paddy McClory was not providing a splendid wedding for his sister. The morning rose glorious, and, as the custom then was, Burns and his friends, mounted on their best horses, raced to the house of the bride "_for the broth_," first in being the winner. On such occasions crowds of neighbors crowned the hilltops. The cavalcade was greeted with ringing cheers, as it swept in a cloud of dust down the road from the Knock Hill. Several riders were unhorsed, but the steeds arrived in McClory's court, champing their bits and covered with foam. A covered car from Newry stood near the house, on the road, to take Alice to the chapel, but she was to ride away from the chapel mounted on the pillion, behind her husband.

There was an unexpected pause; no one knew why. Some dismounted and stood by their stirrups, ready to mount when the bride had entered her carriage. Glasses of whiskey were handed round, and then the pause became more awkward and the suspense more intense. At last it became known that Alice, who had been up nearly all night finishing her new gowns, had felt weary, and fitting on her wedding dress, had gone out on her mare for a spurt, to shake off drowsiness. Messengers were sent in different directions to search for her, but they had not returned. Some accident must have befallen her.

Burns, who rode a powerful black horse, and who had won the broth, galloped off wildly towards Loughbrickland. The other cavaliers scoured the country in different directions; but, while all kinds of surmises were being hazarded, a messenger on foot from Banbridge, with dainties for the feast, arrived, and reported that he had met Miss McClory and a tall gentleman galloping furiously toward the river Bann, near Banbridge. There was great excitement among the guests, and whiskey and strong language without measure. After a hurried consultation the mounted guests agreed to pursue the fugitives and bring Miss McClory back; but, while they were tightening their girths and getting ready for a gallop of five or six miles, a boy rode up to the house on the mare that had been ridden by Alice, bearing a letter to say she had just been married to Hugh Bronte in Magherally church. She sent her love and grateful thanks to her brother, hoped the party would enjoy the wedding dinner, and begged them to drink her health as Mrs. Bronte.

The plucky manner in which the lady had carried out her own plan, outwitting the coercionists by her own cleverness, called forth admiration in the midst of disappointment, and the cheery message touched every heart. The calamity that had befallen Burns did not weigh heavily on the hearts of the guests, in presence of the splendid dinner before them, and especially as it was now clear that the lady was being forced to marry him against her will.

At this juncture the kind and courteous old priest rose, and with great skill and good-humor talked about the events of the day. He brought into special prominence the humorous and heroic episode in a manner that appealed to the chivalry of his hearers, and then, with tender pathos, referring to the beautiful daughter of the house, called upon the guests to drink her health. The toast was responded to with a hearty ringing cheer. Burns, who has left a good reputation behind him, promptly proposed prosperity to the new-married couple, and Red Paddy, always kind and generous, promised to send the united good wishes of the whole party to the bride and bridegroom, and to assure them of a hearty welcome, in which the past would be forgotten. Paddy, as we shall see, kept his word. Thus the grandfather and grandmother of the great novelists were married in 1776, in the Protestant church of Magherally, the clergyman who officiated pronouncing the bride the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

* * * * *

The following verses have always been known as the product of Hugh Bronte's muse. I am inclined to think they may have, in an original form, been produced by Hugh, and smoothed down by his son Patrick. And perhaps, in the refining process, they have lost in strength more than they have gained in sound.

I do not think old Hugh would have known anything, at first hand, of "the peach bloom," or of "the blood-red Mars." The poem, forty years ago, had many variations, but there is one line of special interest, as it shows that the verses were known to Charlotte Bronte. The verse, with a slight variation, is put into the mouth of Jane Eyre. Rochester says: "Jane suits me; do I suit her?" Jane answers: "To the finest fibre of my nature, sir."

ALICE AND HUGH.

The red rose paled before the blush
That mantled o'er thy dimpled cheek,
The peach bloom faded at the flush
That tinged thy beauty ripe and meek.

Thy milk-white brow outshone the snow:
Thy lustrous eyes outglanced the stars:
Thy cherry lips, with love aglow,
Burned ruddier than the blood-red Mars.

Thy sweet, low voice waked in my heart
Dead memories of my mother's love.
My long-lost sister's artless art
Lived in thy smiles, my gentle dove.

Dear Alice, how thy charm and grace
Kindled my dull and stagnant life!
From first I saw thy winning face,
My whole heart claimed thee for my wife.

I thought you'd make me happy, dear:
I sought you for my very own:
You clung to me through storm and fear:
You loved me still, though poor and lone.

My love was centred all in self:
Thy love was centred all in me:
True wife, above all pride and pelf,
My life's deep current flows for thee.

The finest fibres of my soul
Entwine with thine in love's strong fold;
Our tin cup is a golden bowl;
Love fills our cot with wealth untold.

THE LEGEND OF THE ELEPHANT AND THE LION.

BY HENRY M. STANLEY.

Copyright, 1893, by Henry M. Stanley.

It was a custom with us, when crossing Africa in 1874-77, to meet after dinner around the camp-fire, to while away the evening with pleasant gossip, reminiscences, curious African legends. Sunset in the tropics is soon followed by darkness, and the heavy vapors rising from the hot, steaming ground appear to give thickness and substance to it. A large fire is then very agreeable, as it drives away the damp and dew; and it is a comfort to look into its flames and glowing embers, wherein each man sees what he sees. No doubt the drift of the mind at such times, to think of such things as are driven away by the needs of the stirring day, suggested that we could be more sociable and more interested if we related to one another such stories as were told to us by the old folks at home. On trial it was found that there were some of our men who were most accomplished in the art of narration, and I fancied, after writing one or two out, that there was some kind of a moral of an African character in each, after which I paid more attention to them, and, on retiring from the circle, I would hastily jot down what I had heard. If there were some points still obscure in the story I would invite its narrator to relate it to me at the first halting-place. But then I would find also that there was a great deal of difference between the story told to me alone and that related to the audience round the fire--there was then less local color, less detail, and less animation.

* * * * *

At a camp on the Upper Congo, in 1877, Chakanja drew near our fire as story-telling was about to begin, and was immediately beset with eager demands for a tale from him. Like a singer, who always professes to have a cold before indulging us, Chakanja needed more than a few entreaties; but finally, after vowing that he never could remember anything, he consented to gratify us with the legend of the Elephant and the Lion.

"Well," he answered, with a deep sigh, "if I must, I must. You must know we Waganda are fond of three things--to have a nice wife, a pleasant farm, and to hear good news, or a lively story. I have heard a great many stories in my life, but, unlike Kadu, my mind remembers them not. Men's heads are not the same, any more than men's hearts are like. But I take it that a poor tale is better than none. It comes back to me like a dream, this tale of the Elephant and the Lion. I heard it first when on a visit to Gabunga's; but who can tell it like him? If you think the tale is not well told, it is my fault; but then, do not blame me too much, or I shall think I ought to blame you to-morrow, when it will be your turn to amuse the party.

"Now open your ears. A huge and sour-tempered elephant went and wandered in the forest. His inside was slack for want of juicy roots and succulent reeds, but his head was as full of dark thoughts as a gadfly is full of blood. As he looked this way and that, he observed a young lion asleep at the foot of a tree. He regarded it for a while, then, as he was in a wicked mind, it came to him that he might as well kill it, and he accordingly rushed at it, and impaled it with his tusks. He lifted it with his trunk, swung it about, dashed it against the tree, and afterwards kneeled on the body until it became as shapeless as a crushed banana pulp. He then laughed, and said, 'Ha! ha! This is a proof that I am strong. I have killed a lion, and people will say proud things of me, and will wonder at my strength.'

"Presently a brother elephant came up and greeted him.

"'See,' said the first elephant, 'what I have done. It was I that killed him. I lifted him on high, and, lo! he lies like a rotten banana. Do you not think I am very strong? Come, be frank now, and give me some credit for what I have done.'

"Elephant No. 2 replied: 'It is true that you are strong, but that was only a young lion. There are others of his kind, and I have seen them, who would give you considerable trouble.'

"'Ho, ho!' laughed the first elephant. 'Get out, stupid! You may bring his whole tribe here, and I will show you what I can do. Ay, and to your dam to boot.'

"'What! My own mother, too!'

"'Yes. Go and fetch her if you like.'

"'Well, well,' said No. 2, 'you are far gone, there is no doubt. Fare you well.'

"No. 2 proceeded on his wanderings, resolved in his own mind that, if he had an opportunity, he would send some one to test the boaster's strength. No. 1 called out to him:

"'Away you go. Good-by to you.'

"A little way on, No. 2 elephant met a lion and lioness, full grown, and splendid creatures, who turned out to be the parents of the youngster which had been slain, and he said to them, after a sociable chat:

"'If you go further on along the path I came, you will meet a kind of game which requires killing badly. He has just mangled your cub.'

"Meantime elephant No. 1, chuckling to himself very conceitedly, proceeded to the pool near by to bathe and cool himself. At every step he went you could hear this: 'Ha, ha, ha! Lo! I have killed a lion.' While he was in the pool, spurting the water in a shower over his back, he suddenly looked up, and at the water's edge beheld a grown lion and lioness regarding him sternly.

"'Well, what do you want?' he asked. 'Why are you standing there looking at me?'

"'Are you the rogue who killed our child?' they asked.

"'Perhaps I am,' he answered. 'Why do you want to know?'

"'Because we are in search of him. If it be you that did it, you will have to do the same to us before you leave this ground.'

"'Ho! ho!' laughed the elephant loudly. 'Well, hark! It was I who killed your cub. Come now, it was I. Do you hear? And if you do not leave here mighty quick, I shall have to serve you both as I served him.'

"The lions roared aloud in their fury, and switched their tails violently.

"'Ho, ho!' laughed the elephant gayly. 'This is grand! There is no doubt I shall run soon, they make me so skeery;' and he danced round the pool, and jeered at them, then drank a great quantity of water and blew it in a shower over them.

"The lions stirred not, but kept steadfastly gazing at him, planning how best to attack him.

"Perceiving that they were obstinate, he threw another stream of water over the lions and then backed into the deepest part of the pool, until there was nothing seen of him but the tip of his trunk. When he arose again the lions were still watching him and had not moved.

"'Ho, ho!' he trumpeted, 'still there? Wait a little, I am coming to you.' He advanced towards the shore, but, when he was close enough, the lion sire sprang into the air, and alighted on the elephant's back, and furiously tore at the muscles of the neck, and bit deep into the shoulder. The elephant retreated into the deepest part of the pool again, and submerged himself and his enemy, until the lion was compelled to abandon his back and begin to swim ashore. No sooner had he felt himself relieved than the elephant rose to the surface, and hastily followed and seized the lion with his trunk. Despite the lion's struggles, he was pressed beneath the surface, dragged under the elephant's knees, and trodden into the mud, and in a short time the lion sire was dead.

"The elephant laughed triumphantly, and cried, 'Ho, ho! am I not strong, Ma Lion? Did you ever see the like of me before? Two of you, Young Lion and Pa Lion, are now killed. Ma Lion, you had better try now, just to see if you won't have better luck. Come on, old woman, just once.'

"The lioness fiercely answered, while she retreated from the pool, 'Hold on where you are. I am going to find my brother, and will be back shortly.'

"The elephant trumpeted his scorn of her kind, and seizing the carcass of her lord, flung it on shore after her, and declared his readiness to abide where he was, that he might make mash of all the lion family.

"In a short time the lioness had found her brother, who was a mighty fellow, and full of fight. As they advanced near the pool together, they consulted as to the best means of getting at him. Then the lioness sprang forward to the edge of the pool. The elephant retreated a short distance. The lioness upon this crept along the pool, and pretended to lap the water. The elephant moved towards her. The lion waited his chance, and finally, with a great roar, sprang upon his shoulders and commenced tearing away at the very place which had been wounded by lion sire.

"The elephant backed quickly into deep water, and submerged himself, but the lion maintained his hold and bit deeper. The elephant then sank down until there was nothing to be seen but the tip of his trunk, upon which the lion, to avoid suffocation, relaxed his hold, and swam vigorously toward shore. The elephant rose up, and as the lion was stepping on shore, seized him, and drove one of his tusks through his body; but, as he was in the act, the lioness sprang upon the elephant's neck, and bit and tore so furiously that he fell dead, and with his fall crushed the dying lion.

"Soon after the close of the terrible combat, elephant No. 2 came up, and discovered the lioness licking her chops and paws, and said:

"'Hello, it seems there has been quite a quarrel here lately. Three lions are dead, and here lies one of my own kind, stiffening.'

"'Yes,' replied the lioness gloomily, 'the rogue elephant killed my cub while the little fellow was asleep in the woods. He then killed my husband and brother, and I killed him; but I do not think the elephant has gained much by fighting with us. I did not have much trouble in killing him. Should you meet any friends of his, you may warn them to leave the lioness alone, or she may be tempted to make short work of them.'

"Elephant No. 2, though a patient person generally, was annoyed at this, and gave a sudden kick with one of his hind feet which sent her sprawling a good distance off; and asked:

"'How do you like that, Ma Lion?'

"'What do you mean by that?' demanded the enraged lioness.

"'Oh, because I hate to hear so much bragging.'

"'Do you also wish to fight?' she asked.

"'We should never talk about doing an impossible thing, Ma Lion,' he answered. 'I have travelled many years through these woods, and I have never fought yet. I find that when a person minds his own business he seldom comes to trouble, and when I meet one who is even stronger than myself, I greet him pleasantly, and pass on, and I should advise you to do the same, Ma Lion.'

"'You are saucy, elephant. It would be well for you to think upon your stupid brother there, who lies so stark under your nose, before you trouble one who slew him, with your insolence.'

"'Well, words never yet made a plantation; it is the handling of a hoe that makes fields. See here, Ma Lion, if I talked to you all day I could not make you wise. I will just turn my back to you. If you will bite me you will soon learn how weak you are.'

"The lioness, angered still more by the elephant's contempt, sprang at his shoulders, and clung to him; upon which he rushed at a stout tree, and, pressing his shoulders against it, crushed the breath out of her body, and she ceased her struggles. When he relaxed his pressure, the body fell to the ground, and he knelt upon it, and kneaded it until every bone was broken.

"While the elephant was meditatively standing over the body, and thinking what misfortunes happen to boasters, a man came along, carrying a spear; and seeing that the elephant was unaware of his presence, he thought what great luck had happened to him.

"Said he, 'Ah, what fine tusks he has! I shall be rich with them, and shall buy slaves and cattle, and with these I will get a wife and a farm,' saying which he advanced silently, and when he was near enough, darted his spear into a place behind the shoulder.

"The elephant turned around quickly, and, on beholding his enemy, rushed after him, and, overtaking him, mauled him until in a few moments he was a mangled corpse.

"At this time a woman approached, and seeing four lions and one elephant and her husband dead, she raised up her hands wonderingly, and cried, 'How did all this happen?' The elephant, hearing her voice, came from behind a tree, with a spear quivering in his side, and bleeding profusely. At the sight of him the woman turned round to fly, but the elephant cried out to her, 'Nay, run not, woman, for I can do you no harm. The happy days in the woods are ended for all the tribes. The memory of this scene will never be forgotten. Animals will be at constant war one with another. Lions will no more greet elephants, the buffaloes will be shy, the rhinoceroses will live apart, and man, when he comes within the shadows, will think of nothing else than his terrors, and he will fancy an enemy in every shadow. I am sorely wounded, for thy man stole up to my side and drove his spear into me, and soon I shall die.'

"When she had heard these words the woman hastened home, and all the villagers, old and young, hurried into the woods, by the pool, where they found four lions, two elephants, and one of their own tribe lying still and lifeless.

"The words of the elephant have turned out to be true, for no man goes nowadays into the silent and deserted woods but he feels as though something was haunting them, and thinks of goblinry, and starts at every sound. Out of the shadows, which shift with the sun, forms seem crawling and phantoms appear to glide, and we are in a fever almost from the horrible illusions of fancy. We breathe quickly and fear to speak, for the smallest vibration in the silence would jar on our nerves. I speak the truth, for when I am in the woods near the night, there swim before my eyes a multitude of terrible things which I never see by the light of day. The flash of a firefly is a ghost, the chant of a frog becomes a frightful roar, the sudden piping of a bird signalizes murder, and I run. No, no, no woods for me when alone."

And Chakanja rose to his feet and went to his own quarters, solemnly shaking his head. But we all smiled at Chakanja, and thought how terribly frightened he would be if any one suddenly rose from behind a dark bush and cried "Boo!" to him.

SONG.

BY THOMAS CAREW. (1589-1639.)

Ask me no more where Jove bestows,
When June is past, the fading rose,
For in your beauty's orient deep
These flowers, as in their causes, sleep.

Ask me no more whither do stray
The golden atoms of the day,
For, in pure love, heaven did prepare
Those powders to enrich your hair.

Ask me no more where those stars light
That downwards fall in dead of night,
For in your eyes they sit, and there
Fixed become as in their sphere.

Ask me no more whither doth haste
The nightingale when May is past,
For in your sweet dividing throat
She winters, and keeps warm her note.

AT THE THROTTLE.

THE LIFE AND EXPERIENCES OF AN ENGINEER OF A LIMITED EXPRESS.

BY CLEVELAND MOFFETT.

"_See the huge creature with muscles of steel, his heart a furnace
of glowing coal, and the strength of a thousand horses nerving his
sinews. See him strut forth from his stable, and, saluting the
train of cars with a dozen sonorous puffs from his iron nostrils,
stand panting to be gone. He would drag the pyramids across the
Desert of Sahara if they could be hitched on._"

The average New Yorker who rides to Chicago in twenty hours on the World's Fair flyer does an easy day's work, in fact, does no work at all. He rests comfortably at night, enjoys well-served meals, and reaches his destination almost before he knows it. Having paid the price, such is the arrogance of money, he takes all that is done for him quite as a matter of course, and knows no more of the workings of this wonderful train than a school-boy, while he cares rather less. An engine pulls the cars, steam works the engine, and as for the engineer, the New Yorker never thinks of him except to growl at him when the train is late, and to advocate hanging him if there is an accident.

Meantime, what is the engineer of this fastest train in the world doing for the passenger? In the first place, the Chicago flyer is not driven by one but by many engineers. In order to cover the nine hundred and sixty-four miles between the two cities in twenty hours, including nine stops, there are required seven huge engines in relays, driven by seven grimy heroes. A run of less than one hundred and fifty miles is the limit per day for each engine, while three hours of the plunging rush wears out the strongest engineer. Sixty, seventy, eighty miles an hour--what does that mean to the man at the throttle? It means that the six and a half feet drivers turn five times every second and advance one hundred feet. Tic-tic-tic, and the train has run the length of New York's highest steeple. The engineer turns his head for five seconds to look at the gauges, and in that time the terrible iron creature, putting forth the strength of a thousand horses, may have shot past a red signal with its danger warning five hundred feet away. Ten seconds, and one thousand feet are left behind--one-fifth of a mile. Who knows what horrors may lie within that thousand feet! There may be death lurking round a curve, death spreading its arms in a tunnel, and the engineer must see and be responsible for everything. Not only must he note instantly all that is before him, the signals, switches, bridges, the passing trains, and the condition of the rails, but he must act at the same moment, working throttle, air-brakes, or reversing-lever, not as quick as thought, but quicker, for there is no time to think. His muscles must do the right thing automatically under circumstances where a second is an age. In the three hours of his vigil there are ten thousand eight hundred seconds, during each one of which he must watch with the mental alertness of an athlete springing for a flying trapeze from the roof of an amphitheatre, with the courageous self-possession of a matador awaiting the deadly rush of a maddened bull; and far more depends upon the engineer's watching well, because, if he fails by a hair's breadth in coolness or precision of judgment, there may come destruction, not only to himself, but to hundreds of passengers, who, while he stands guard, are perhaps grumbling at the waiters in the dining-car or telling funny stories in the smoker.

In addition to this constant mental tension the engineer on this hurling train has to endure material discomfort, often bodily suffering. The air sweeps back in his face with the breath of a hurricane, blowing smoke and cinders into his eyes. Most people know the intense pain a cinder causes in a man's eye, particularly a hot cinder. The suffering is almost unbearable, and yet, suffering or no suffering, the engineer who gets a cinder in his eye can have no relief until the end of his relay. They shut their lips, these unflinching men, keep looking ahead, and bear it. Long after they leave the cab, the burning sensation in their eyes and eyelids continues, and even persists after hours of sleep. "It seems as if nothing would rest my eyes, sir," said one of the new men after his first week on the flyer. No wonder the eyesight of engineers fails rapidly, no wonder many of them are removed from their positions every year because the examining doctors find them unable to distinguish the signals. The engineer suffers also from the plunging and tossing of the monster locomotive, which bruises his whole body with its violent rocking, and causes sharp pains in the back, particularly where there is any tendency to kidney trouble. One has only to watch these strong men as they stumble down from their engines at the end of a relay, has only to observe their white faces and unsteady gait, and see the condition of physical collapse which follows, to understand what it costs in vitality and grit to give the ease-loving public this incomparable train service.

Thus it is that while the New Yorker gets to Chicago with scarcely more discomfort than if he had remained at home, the same journey wears out seven engineers, all picked men; for many of them who have seen years of service on trains running forty miles an hour, break down entirely when put upon the flyer. So exhausted are these seven engineers by their comparatively short relays that they are obliged to lay off entirely during the following day to recover from the shock. They do not even take the opposite-bound flyer back over their stretch, but return with their engines to their respective starting-points, drawing slower trains. Thus, seven strong men do two days' work every time the flyer runs from New York to Chicago, and seven other men do two days' work every time it runs back. Each engineer works three hours on the flyer, returns home on an easy train, and then rests forty hours before his muscles and nerves and brain are in condition to repeat the operation.

So it results that twenty-eight engineers, one at a time, are required to run this wonderful train from New York to Chicago and back again. Fourteen veterans drive the great engines one way, and fourteen brother veterans drive them the other. Twenty-eight men for a single complete trip of a single train, and they the flower of American engineers, splendid fellows every one of them, with cool heads, stanch hearts, and the experience of years at the throttle. The fact is, these men of iron, who, after all, are made of flesh and blood, have been called upon of late years to bear a mental and physical strain which has increased steadily as the speed rates have advanced. Forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, and now eighty miles an hour, each greater velocity has meant greater pressure, not only on the boilers and cylinders, but on men's brains; has meant greater expenditure, not only of coal and dollars, but of nerve force, until now experts recognize with concern that the limit of human endurance has been almost reached. Science may remove the mechanical difficulties in the way of running a hundred miles an hour, or more, for such a rate has already been predicted; money may buy better axles, wheels, lubricators, and machinery, but where are the men who will run these trains of the future when they are built? Can science breed us a race of giants? Can money purchase an immunity against suffering or eyes that are indestructible? If twenty-eight engineers are required to-day on the Chicago flyer, how many, pray, will be necessary on a train running fifty or one hundred per cent. faster?

I gained a vivid impression of what it means to drive one of these monster engines, by actually travelling from New York to Albany, a few days ago, in the cab of Engine 870, which takes the Empire State express over the first stretch of its journey--one hundred and forty-two miles--at a rate rather faster than that of the Chicago flyer. At the throttle was Archie Buchanan, a silent man with gray eyes and earnest face, who comes of a family of engineers, and is one of the most trusted of the New York Central employees. Buchanan's brother John, a skilled engineer in his time, was cut in two some years ago in an accident near East Albany. His brother James is a master mechanic at the shops at West Albany, and his brother William, after serving for years as a New York Central engineer, was made Superintendent of Rolling Stock, a position he still holds.

Buchanan smiled quietly as I climbed upon the fireman's seat at the left. It was a perfect July morning, and at 8.39 the shrill whistle sounded, worked by the conductor's bell-rope, and we were off, nine minutes behind time on account of some trouble with the air-brakes.

"We must make up the delay, Al," said the engineer to his fireman, as the wheels began to turn. Those were the only words he spoke until we reached Albany, and, had he spoken, neither Al nor I could have heard him for the roar.

Now the slow, heavy pant of the engine quickens, and we shoot under bridges and streets, passing out of New York. For a few minutes Buchanan, working the reversing-lever, lets the pistons go the full length of the cylinders, but he gradually cuts down their stroke to eight inches, making the steam expansion do the rest. This lessens the noise from the exhaust, but the noise from the pounding of the mountain of iron on the rails increases in geometrical ratio. A shower of cinders blows in with black smoke, and a hot one settles in my neck. The smoke tastes of oil, the cinder burns--this is but a foretaste of things to come. I turn my head to avoid suffocation and get a scorching blast from the fire-box, whose door is swung wide open. The fireman's orders are to make up the lost time, and he proposes to do it. In goes coal at the rate of two shovelfuls a minute for the first half-hour. Before we reach Albany he has shovelled in more than three tons, and had the day been windy it would have taken more. In the intervals he rakes and prods the white-hot crater and rings the bell as we shoot past towns and cities. Buchanan tends to the whistle and air-brakes. The noise is dreadful, as if a thousand devils were dancing in one's head. The motion is so violent from side to side that we all have to hold on tightly. A little more and one would be seasick.

As the hundred-ton engine pounds along with horrible din, a strange sense of exhilaration succeeds that of physical discomfort. One becomes indifferent to everything, and, courting now the smoke-laden hurricane, thrusts one's head from the window into the sweeping air-billows, which dash against the face like breakers and with the same strangling force. I was seized with a wild desire to go faster; seventy miles an hour was not enough, and I would fain have opened everything to its full capacity, stop-cocks, levers, throttle, and all, and taken part in a furious, splendid runaway. Strange thoughts chased through my mind; the houses of flying towns seemed to be rushing at each other in battle from either side, a long line of loose ties between the tracks suggested an endless procession of turtles, the trees seemed to be dancing down the hills, and the people who stared up at us while stepping away from the dangerous suction seemed to be creatures of another race. I have learned since that engineers often have that feeling of belonging to some other world, and it comes upon them particularly at night. A man of highly strung organization could easily go mad riding on an engine running seventy miles an hour.

These curious illusions of the senses were presently succeeded by a period of intense and perfectly normal curiosity. I counted the number of strokes made by the piston in a minute, and found there were about three hundred. I counted the number of puffs from the smoke-stack, and decided correctly that there were four times as many of these as there were piston-strokes, that is, about twenty to the second. Then I counted the oil-cans, the gauges, and made mental photographs of the inside of the cab.

From start to finish we made no stop and only slackened our speed twice to "pick up water," this important operation being accomplished with a great splashing by a scoop under the tender, which drops into a trough running lengthwise of the track for about twelve hundred feet, and always kept full to the brim. The scoop is controlled by a lever in the tender, which the fireman directs. In the winter, steam-pipes through the troughs keep the water from freezing. During the whole distance Buchanan scarcely changed his position, and never turned his head. For two hours and thirty-six minutes he stood at the right of the boiler, an immovable figure in gray overalls and black skullcap, his left hand on the throttle, while his right clutched the window to steady him. I never once saw his eyes, which were fixed on the track ahead as if held there by a magnet. No matter how the smoke and cinders poured in through the open windows in front, no matter the bridges and tunnels nor the mad rush of air, his eyes stayed forward always, sweeping the line before us anxiously, constantly on the alert for signals, for switches, for obstructions, for the long tunnel, for the train side-tracked near Poughkeepsie, for the water troughs, for a score of things, the missing any one of which might mean disaster. And, as he watched, silent and motionless, there was one thought in his mind and only one, whether we would make up the lost nine minutes and get into Albany on time. Al's thoughts were the same, and, like one of Dante's demons, he worked at the coal and the fire and the water, now oiling the drivers, now looking at the gauges, ever busy and ever growing blacker and oilier in hands and face.

Very proud we were as we ran into Albany at 11.15 A.M. on time to the minute, having made the run of one hundred and forty-two miles in one hundred and fifty-six minutes, an average of 53.8 miles an hour. This exceeds the average of the Chicago flyer, which is 48.2 miles an hour, although for a much greater distance. Several times our speed had reached seventy miles an hour, and with better coal and other conditions equally favorable, Buchanan has driven 870 up to the eighty-mile point. With the sound devils still dancing in my head, I watched the engineer as he rubbed down his iron horse after the hard run. He was tired himself, and his face was white, but he went over the rods and cylinders as tenderly and carefully as if he was refreshing the muscles and sinews of a living creature.

"She's a beauty, isn't she?" he said, in a tone which bore witness to the love felt by the man for the machine. "You see, she has always been true to me, 870 has, and I've run her ever since she was built. She's never cranky or sick, and she makes her three hundred miles a day three hundred and sixty-five times a year, and does her duty every time. That's more than you can say of many men, or women either, isn't it?"

It seems that there are about fifty engines in constant use on the New York Central with the power and dimensions of 870, and only the peerless 999, with her heavier build and smoke-consuming device, can boast any points of superiority. The life of an engine like 870 is about twenty years, during which time she makes several visits to the hospital for new cylinders, new flues, and a new fire-box. Aside from that, the engine needs about an hour's care morning and night, and a washout and blowout of her boilers at the end of alternate weeks. Only at these periods is the engine's fire allowed to go out.

I asked Buchanan what were the principal qualifications for a first-class engineer, and what was the training necessary to become one. "To begin with," he said, "a man must be a first-class fireman, which is no easy matter. He must know just how much coal to put on the fire and when to put it on, so as to keep the steam at full pressure without burning too much fuel. The great secret of good firing is to put coal on often and a little at a time. You noticed Al did that on our run up. When a fireman has shown himself worthy of it, he is given a chance to drive an engine for switching work or on a freight train. The first years of his life as an engineer are very hard, for he has to run at all sorts of hours, day and night, winter and summer, and on the meanest kinds of trains. If this does not kill him he finally becomes engineer on an express and has a better time of it, but a good many of the boys prefer to remain firemen all their lives rather than stand such hardships. My man Al has tried driving an engine twice, and come back to me both times. You can be pretty sure that a man who gets to be an engineer on one of the fine trains to-day has earned his position. He must know his engine like a book, backwards and forwards, must know how to manage her when she is sick and well, and what to do if an eccentric breaks or a piston gets leaking or a valve-spindle is bent. He must know how to work the injector so as to keep water enough in the boiler without wasting any by the steam blowing off. He must be able to save power by working the steam expansively and yet keeping up his speed; he must know every inch of the road, the grades, bridges, switches, curves, and tunnels, and all the trains he has to pass or which may pass him. He must be able to control his train and engine at full speed, must understand the effect of the weather on the rails, must know how to use the air-brakes and the reversing-lever, and when not to use them."

I listened and marvelled.

"What would you do in a collision?" I asked.

The engineer pushed back the little black skullcap from his iron-gray hair and said, in the low tone which is usual with him:

"It is pretty hard to say what a man should do when he hears the whistle of danger ahead or sees that a crash is coming. Even the best of us are liable to get confused at such a moment. What would you do if you woke up in the night and found a burglar holding a pistol at your head? There are no rules for such cases. What I would not do, though, is to reverse my engine, although many engineers are liable to lose their heads at a critical moment and make that mistake. It is a curious thing that reversing your engine suddenly when going at high speed makes the train go faster instead of slower. The reason is that the drivers slip and the locomotive shoots ahead as if she were on skates. The only thing to do is to put on the air-brakes and pray hard."

The man's words, all the more impressive for their rugged simplicity, brought to my mind again the thought of danger, for in spite of the wonderful system by which these flying trains are run, in spite of the elaborate precautions taken and the many eyes forever watching to see that they are carried out, it is impossible to go through such an experience as mine without realizing that there is danger in these desperate dashes. Suppose something goes wrong on the track ahead while the train is making sixty or seventy miles an hour. Suppose, as the whirling caravan rounds a curve or plunges through a tunnel, another whirling caravan is seen blocking the path. Then what? Would there be time to stop? Could the engineer, with all his skill and bravery, prevent disaster? With the old trains running forty miles an hour, seven hundred and sixty feet of track was necessary to bring the locomotive and six cars to a dead stop from full speed. No one has ever made the experiment with the Chicago flyer or the Empire State express, but unquestionably it would take at least a thousand feet of track to stop either of them, and many things can happen in a thousand feet. There are never more than a thousand feet, and very often only a few hundred, between the three sets of signals, with their red, green, and yellow bars, which are shown at each station of the block system all along the route. As there are a hundred of these stations between New York and Albany, that gives three hundred sets of signals to be instantly recognized and obeyed on this relay alone, and a man had better die than make a mistake. Now there are two difficulties with these signals; in the first place, some of them are so close together that no human power could stop the train in the space between them; and in the second place, going at such a speed, it is almost impossible to distinguish the green signals against the background of foliage. Already it has been found necessary to substitute yellow signals for green ones in a number of cases.

While we were talking, a trainman drew a dead chicken from between two bars of the cowcatcher, where its head was wedged. It had been struck so suddenly that the feathers were scarcely rumpled, and the lucky finder evidently proposed to have broiled poulet for dinner. I had noticed the poor fowl on the way up, scurrying along in front of the engine, and pitied its stupidity in refusing to leave the track, as it might perfectly well have done. Buchanan told me that they often catch chickens in this way, and find them excellent eating. Then he went on to describe the sensations of running over animals and men.

"It always seems to me, sir, that the engine hates to kill a man as much as we do. Of course, it's only a fancy, but once, up at Germantown, when the sheet-iron flange around the tender cut off a man's head clean as a razor, the fireman and I both felt the engine tremble in a queer way. Another time there was a man on the track who had just come out of a hospital, and, instead of killing him, old 870 just caught him gently on her cowcatcher and threw him off the track without doing him any injury except a broken arm. It's curious about animals. The ones we dread most are hogs. A fat hog will throw a train off the track quicker than a horse or a cow. When we see a cow or horse ahead we put on full speed and try to hurl them clear of the track. If we strike them going slow we are apt to get the worst of it."

There is a sympathy which draws together two men who have ridden side by side on an engine running seventy miles an hour, and I was glad to accept Engineer Buchanan's invitation to pay him a visit at his place up the Hudson. No contrast could be greater or more charming than that between the engineer at his post of danger and endurance, and the father and husband, in his pretty vine-covered home by the river. Mr. Buchanan in private life is a prosperous resident of Morris Heights, where he owns valuable property, and enjoys alternate days among the flowers, fruits, and vegetables of his garden. This garden is the pride of his life, and, next to bringing a train in on time, I believe he takes more pride in his roses, grapes, peas, and onions than in anything in the world. We sat for a long time on the engineer's favorite bench, under a cool grape arbor, with the river running lazily at our feet. Buchanan, looking like a different man in citizen's dress, talked unpretentiously of his life. There was no posing as a hero, no complaining about hardships, just a simple, straight-forward story of twenty-six years passed almost entirely on an engine--twenty-six years of constant danger. Surely that ought to have some curious influence on the human mind and character. In Buchanan's case this influence certainly has been for good, for he told me how, as a young man, he had come out of the war with shiftless, lazy habits, fond of wasting his time and money in Eighth Avenue saloons, and then how he had become steady and saving, when he began to run regularly on an engine.

"When I used to be away on long stretches," he said, "with nothing to do but think, I saw how foolish it was giving my money to a saloon keeper for him to put in the bank instead of putting it there myself. It used to come to me at night, as the engine ran along through the shadows, that the friends I had down in the city were not good for much, and that, if I lost my job or was hurt in an accident, they would be the first to turn their backs on me. At last I decided to get away from all my bad associations and from New York too; so I scraped together what money I could and bought this land, where I have lived ever since with my wife and children. That was the best day's work I ever did. It was a hard-looking place when I bought it, nothing but rocks and weeds, but I was proud of it, and put in all my spare time fixing it up until I have made it what it is to-day."

As he spoke the engineer's eyes wandered complacently over the gardens, the trim gravel walks, and the pretty house--everything as neat and spic-span as the kitchen of a Dutch house-wife.