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Burdette and the Religious Brakeman from Wit And Humor Of The Age – Eli Perkins, editor,
1883
Railroads were a major part of life in
the last third of the Nineteenth Century and the early Twentieth Century.
Trains were the machines that could, and they produced many new additions
to the language, and many tales and metaphors. Airlines and airplanes
have had less emotional impact on us.
Burdette and the Religious Brakeman
On the road once more, with Lebanon fading away in the distance, the fat
passenger drumming idly on the window pane, the cross passenger sound asleep,
and the tall, thin passenger reading “”Gen. Grant’s Tour Around the World”
and wondering why Green’s August Flower should be printed above the doors
of a “Buddhist Temple at Benares.” To me comes the brakeman, and seating
himself on the arm of the seat, says:
“I went to church yesterday.”
“Yes!” I said, with that interested inflection that asks for more.
“And what church did you attend?”
“Which do you guess?” he asked.
“Some union mission church?” I hazarded.
“Naw,” he said. “I don’t like to run on those branch roads very much.
I don’t often go to church, and when I do, I want to run on the main line,
where your run is regular and you go on schedule time and don’t have to
wait on connections. I don’t like to run on a branch. Good enough,
but I don’t like it.”
“Episcopal?” I guessed.
“Limited express,” he said, “all palace cars and $2 extra for a seat; fast
time and stop at the big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for
a brakeman. All train-men in uniform; conductor’s punch and lantern
silver-plated, and no train-boys allowed. Then the passengers are
allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and easy.
No, I couldn’t stand the palace car. Rich road though. Don’t
often hear of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty
nice people travel on it too.”
“Universalist” I guessed.
“Broad gauge,” said the brakeman; “does too much complementary business.
Everybody travels on a pass. Conductor doesn’t get a fare once in
fifty miles. Stops at all flag stations and won’t run into anything
but a union depot. No smoking car on the train. Train orders
are rather vague, though, and the train-men don’t get along well with the
passengers. No, I didn’t go to the Universalist, though I know some
awfully good men who run on that road.”
“Presbyterian?” I asked.
“Narrow gauge, eh?” said the brakeman: “pretty track, straight as a rule;
tunnel right through the mountain rather than go around it, spirit-level
grade, passengers have to show their tickets before they get on the train.
Mighty strict road, but the cars are a little narrow, have to sit one in
a seat, and no room in the aisle to dance. Then there’s no stop-over
tickets allowed, got to go straight through to the station you’re ticketed
for, or you can’t get on at all. When the car’s full, no extra coaches,
cars built at the shops to hold just so many, and nobody else allowed on.
But you don’t hear of an accident on that road, it’s run right up to the
rules.”
“Maybe you’ve joined the Free Thinkers?” I said.
“Scrub road,” said the brakeman: “dirt road bed, and no ballast,
no time card and no train dispatcher. All trains run wild, and every
engineer makes his own time just as he pleases. Smoke if you want
too; kind of go-as-you-please road. Too many side tracks, and every
switch wide open all the time, with the switchman sound asleep, and target-lamp
dead out. Get on as you please, and get off when you want to.
Don’t have to show your tickets, and the conductor isn’t expected to do anything
but amuse the passengers. No, sir; I was offered a pass, but I don’t
like the line. I don’t like to travel on a road that has no terminus.
Don’t you know, sir, I asked a Division Superintendent where that road run
to, and said he hoped to die if he knew. I asked him if the General
Superintendent could tell me, and he said he didn’t believe they had a General
Superintendent, and if they had, he didn’t know anything more about the road
than the passengers. I asked him who he reported to, and he said ‘nobody.’
I asked a conductor who he got his orders from, and he said he didn’t take
orders from any living man or dead ghost. And when I asked the engineer
who he got his orders from, he said he’d like to see anybody give him orders;
he’d run that train to suit himself, or he’d run it into the ditch.
Now, you see, sir, I’m a railroad man, and I don’t care to run on a road
that has no time, makes no connections, runs nowhere, and has no superintendent.
It may be all right, but I’ve railroaded too long to understand it."
“Did you try the Methodist?” I said.
“Now you are shouting,” he said, with some enthusiasm. "Nice road,
eh? Fast time and plenty of passengers. Engineers carry a power
of steam, and don’t you forget it; steam gauge shows 100, and enough all
the time. Lively road; when the conductor shouts ‘all aboard!’ you
can hear him to the next station. Every train-lamp shines like a head-light.
Stop-over checks given on all through tickets; passengers can drop off the
train as often as they like, do the stations two or three days, and hop
on the revival train that comes thundering along. Good, whole-souled,
companionable conductors; ain’t any road in the country where the passengers
feel more at home. No passes; every passenger pays full traffic rates
for his ticket. Wesleyanhouse air-brakes on all the trains, too; pretty
safe road, but I didn’t ride over it yesterday."
“Maybe you went to the Congregational church,” I said.
“Popular road,” said the brakeman; "an old road, too, one of the
very oldest in the country. Good road bed and comfortable cars.
Well managed road, too; Directors don’t interfere with Division Superintendents
and train orders. Road’s mighty popular, but it’s pretty independent,
too. See, didn’t one of the Division Superintendents down East discontinue
one of the oldest stations on the line two or three years ago? But
it is a mighty pleasant road to travel on. Always has such a splendid
class of passengers."
“Perhaps you tried the Baptist?” I guessed once more.
“Ah, ha!” said the brakeman, “she’s a daisy, isn’t she? River road;
beautiful curves; sweep around anything to keep close to the river, but
it’s all steel rail and rock ballast, single-track all the way and not a
side-track from the round-house to the terminus. Takes a heap of water
to run it, though; double tanks at every station, and there isn’t an engine
in the shops that can pull a pound or run a mile with less than two gauges.
But it runs through a lovely country; these river roads always do; river
on one side and hills on the other, and it’s a steady climb up the grade
all the way till the run ends where the fountain-head of the river begins.
Yes, sir, I’ll take the river road every time for a lovely trip, sure connections
and good time and no prairie dust blowing in at the windows. And yesterday,
when the conductor came around for the tickets with a little basket punch,
I didn’t ask him to pass me, but paid my fare like a little man – 25 cents
for an hour’s run, and a little concert by the passengers throwed in.
I tell you, Pilgrim, you take the river road when you want --”
But just here the long whistle from the engine announced a station, and
the brakeman hurried to the door, shouting:
“Zionsville! This train makes no stop between here and Indianapolis.”
[End]
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