Canton Commercial Advertiser, May 4, 1926
When Beecher Rode With the Engineer
Back of Snow-Plow on First Railway Through Northern New York
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Paper of the 50s Found by George B. Dowling which has Interesting Description of a Northern New York Snow Storm.
Written by Great Preacher, Who has Thrilling Experience on Locomotive.
Written by Great Preacher, Who has Thrilling Experience on Locomotive.
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To the Editor Commercial Advertiser:
Probably never could it have been more truly said that "Winter lingers in the lap of Spring" than in this year of our Lord 1926. Snow fell in our most extreme southerly part of New York State on Friday last, the 23d. inst., and while this is being written - almost one week later - there is a snow chill in the air which seems to betoken need of heavy apparel for some time to come.
While spending a recent few leisure hours at the home of friends, the present day not unfrequent topic of conversation - our harsh winter and late spring - became more than ordinarily interesting from the fact that it finally developed into the reminiscent.
A certain old-time North Country resident listened with willing ears to some experiences of winter in the far west, at least half a century ago, to several well told stories connected with our 1888 blizzard in which he was caught, and with great difficulty reached home at last from a journey into New England. Much sickness and many deaths followed in the wake of this three days' unrelenting storm, and, as will be recalled among death's harvest was one of the most notable public men of his day - an ornament in his country, state and home city - ex- Senator Roscoe Conkling of Utica, who passed away from exposure in New York City to the piercing and incessant gale.
One of our party - a silver haired Westchester county lawyer of note - after saying that "Nothing is so new as that which has long been forgotten," stated that among the treasured relics of his business quarters was a very ancient copy of "The New York Independent" preserved for some legal purpose unnecessary to mention, and bearing a winter date of the year 1854.
He seemed positive that it contained a letter from Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, then about 40 years of age, who was not only a regular contributor to its columns, but also financially identified with the popular "Independent." He was equally positive that a good portion of what was in mind contained a story of personal experiences among winter scenes of that long ago time in the northern part of New York State.
Briefly stated, a promise made to loan this old copy to the now much aroused former day Cantonian, was a promise well, and truthfully kept in mind. It was one which in addition has enabled him to present you out of a shattered and much blurred old newspaper something worth while from the pen of one whose steel engraved portrait - at an age corresponding quite nearly to the date of this recital, is owned by the Canton Historical Society.
It is an excellent, well preserved likeness of one of the most famous Americans and pulpit orators of his day and generation - Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, whose recital of odd experiences while on a lecture tour into what is now known as the North Country follows in a necessarily rather condensed form; for reasons stated above:
A Ride Behind the Snow-Plow
"Among the things | have always longed to see is the snowplow, driven along the covered track and through heaped and drifted snows. This I have at length seen. The train came to Watertown from Cape Vincent, N.Y., with two engines and a snowplow. When we reached Pierrepont Manor the conductor kindly acceded to my wish to go forward and take a berth with the engineer. I was soon in position.
"For two days it had been storming. The air was murky and cross. The snow was descending, not peacefully and dreamily, but whirled and made wild by fierce winds. The forests were laden with snow, and their interior looked dreadful as a witch's den. Through such scenes | began my ride upon the plow shoving engine. The engineers and firemen were coated with snow from head to foot, and looked like millers who had never brushed their coats for years.
"The floor on which we stood was ice and snow half melted. The wood was coated with snow. The locomotives were frosted all over with snow - wheels, connecting rods, axles, and everything but the boiler and smokestack. The side and front windows were glazed with crusts of ice, and only through one little spot in the window over the boiler could I peer out to get a sight of the plow. The track was quite indistinguishable.
"There was nothing to the eye to guide the engine in one way more than another. It seemed as if we were going across fields and plunging through forests at random, and this gave no mean excitement to the scene, when two ponderous engines were apparently driving us on such an outlandish excursion. But their feet were sure, and unerringly felt their way along the iron road, so that were held in our courses.
"Nothing can exceed the beauty of snow in its own organization, in the gracefulness with which it falls, in the molding of its drift-lines, and in the curves which it makes when streaming off on either side from the plow. It was never long the same. If the snow was thin and light, the plow seemed to play tenderly with it, like an artist during curious things for sport, throwing it in exquisite curves that rose and fell,quivered and trembled as they ran.
"Then suddenly striking a rift that had piled across the track, the snow sprang out as if driven by explosion; 20 or 30 feet in jots and bolts, or like long-stemmed sheaves of snow - outspread fan-like. Instantly when the drift was past, the snow seemed like an instinct of its own to retract, and played again the exquisite curves that rose and fell about our prow. 'Now you'll get it,' said the engineer, ‘in that deep cut!’ We only saw the first flash, as if the plow had struck the banks of snow before it put on its graces, and shot it distracted and headlong up and down on either side, like spray or flying ashes. It was but a second, for the fine snow rose up around the engine, and covered it in like a mist, and sucking around, poured us in sheets and clouds, mingled with the vapor of steam, and the smoke which, from impeded draft, poured out, filling the engine room, and darkened it so that we could not see each other a foot distance except as filmy specters glowing at each other.
"Our engineers had on buffalo coats, whose natural hirsuteness was made shaggy by tags of snow melted into icicles. To see such substantial forms changing back and forth every few minutes from a clearly earthy form into a spectral lightness, as if they went back and forth between body and spirit, was not a little exciting to the imagination.
"When we struck deep bodies of snow, the engine plowed through them laboriously, quivering and groaning with the load, but shot forth again nimble as a bird the moment snow grew light and thin.
"Nothing seemed wilder than to be in one of the whirling storms of smoke, vapor and snow, you on one ponderous monster, and another roaring behind, both engines like fiery dragons harnessed and fastened together, and looming up when snow and mists opened a little, black and terrible. It seemed as if you were in a battle.There was such energetic action, such irresistible power, such darkness and light alternating, and such fitful half-lights, which are more to the imagination than light or darkness.
"Thus, whirled on in the bosom of the storm you sped across open fields, full of wild, driving snow; you ran to an opening of the black pine and hemlock woods, and plunged into their sombre mouth as if into a cave of darkness, and wrestled your way along through their dreary recesses, emerging to the cleared field again, with whistles screaming and answering each back and forth from engine to engine. For, in the bewildering obscurity, we have run past the station, and must choke down the excited steeds, and rein them back to the depot.
"We think that Maseppa's ride, lashed to a wild horse, and rushing through the forests wolf-driven, was rather exciting. if a man in a buffalo hunt, by some strange mishap should find himself thrown from a horse and mounted on the shaggy back of an old, fierce, buffalo bull, to go off with a rush in cloud and and dust among 10,000 tramping fellows pursued by yelling Indians - that, too, would be an exciting ride. But neither of these would know the highest exhilaration of the chase, until a wild storm on a scowling day in January, he rides behind a snow-plow to clear the track of banks and burdens of snow.
Waiting for the Cars
“About twelve of the day we reached Rome. All trains on the New York Central Road were behind time, but they were just about to arrive, and they were just a-goin' to arrive for five hours. The room in that station house was soon filled. Ladies there were, but in no proportion to the gentlemen. They were more patient - at least outwardly. Staying in the house was more natural to them. But the men were full of calculations - how long before the train must arrive? and how long now? When would it reach Syracuse and Buffalo, going west? What were the chances of reaching New York? Everyone took his turn in the calculation, and reckoned the matter over and over, and consulted with each newcomer as if some effect would be produced upon the tardy trains.
"There were seats in the gentlemen's room for eight, and were from 30 to 50 persons present. Some heaped up the indolent mail-bags and sat upon them. A roll of buffalo robes behind the door was a special luxury. Some mounted on trunks that had accumulated in one corner. Apparently they were not soft, as occupants seemed willing to exchange for the buffalo seat whenever it was vacated. Others stood about the outrageously hot stove.
"Everybody seemed to be seized with a desire to put in a stick, and when the thing could hold no more would occasionally open the door, look in, poke and kick with their feet to crowd the wood closer, and so it roared red-hot and terrible as a red dragon. But stout, full-blooded men sat about with great coats and mufflers in place, drinking in heat as if they had a salamander enjoyment of it. The only relief was in a frequent opening of the door to let in new-comers. They came pushing in with red faces and white coats, powdered with snow like a confectioner's cake. The first business of everyone, on entering, was to ask after the train, to which some gave quizzical answers, some downright truth. A few were always hopeful, and not a few sat silent and even sullen.
"The next resource of every one seemed to be in an attack upon the popcorn and apple baskets. It was a great day for the apple-boys. When the sale seemed to flat, they would fill up with fresh specimens, and one of them would come rushing in from the telegraph office - ‘Train only got to Little Falls.' ‘Little Falls!' exclaimed a score of westward bound passengers, ‘it won't be here for an hour!' At that they turned disconsolately to the apples again. By and by in plumps another boy. 'Express train only jest reach Syracuse - jest come from telegraph!’ This was a clap on on us eastward going passengers - going, but not gone - and we sighed, and remarked, and comforted ourselves with - Apples!
"Men gathered into groups and talked - at first produce, and then politics; next they told stories as long as memory held out, and then each would saunter up and down the room, with hands in pockets, or behind back. One great comfort was found in going to the ticket-office window and peering in - for questions were out of question - the ticket-master lying in a corner snoozing. At length he got up and shut his window. This was a great misfortune.
"Men now would walk up and look very solemnly t it, as if to be sure that it was shut, and then they would go disconsolately to the door or window, as if determined to look out of something. At least one pulled a sliver from the wood and began to whittle. In a few moments another followed suit, and before long half a dozen were constantly whittling. I envied them. At last they seemed consoled. I envied that fat man in the corner, who sat without winking - certainly without a single motion that I could notice - for a full hour. He seemed entirely occupied in breathing.
“I envied that old farmer who fell asleep sitting bolt upright, but gradually, like an apple roasting before a good old-fashioned fire, slept himself down to a heap. I envied the imperturbable content of that plump country girl who stood before the glass combing her hair with a fine-tooth comb, and dividing, and smoothing, and placing it as if she were in a summer afternoon chamber all along, fixing for a visit from her intended.
"The boys were the only utterly cheerful and happy set. Their sales over, they amused themselves with all manner of boyish tricks, giving each other a sly nip, or choking pull at each other's tippet, knocking off each other's caps, snapping apple-seeds, throwing cores, and performing besides all manner of monkey-tricks such as boys only and boys always know. We read all the show-bills, all railroad placards, all time-tables, and studied all the veracious railroad maps on which rams horn railroads were made to flow in straight lines or very gradual curves, while competing roads were laid down in all their vicious sinusitis.
"When I say that the boys were the only happy ones, I must except the happy old lady in the corner with her knitting. She has two younger women by her, and the three are talking and working just as placidly and contentedly as if in the great kitchen at home. Ah! blessed be knitting! Who ever saw a person other than quiet and peaceful that knits? If anger breaks out, the knitting is laid aside. When the needles begin again, you may be sure that all is right within.
"At length the five hours were accomplished; the train came thundering up with a double team of engines. The crowd poured forth eagerly, and in a few moments we were dashing off toward Albany, which we reached at ten o-clock Saturday evening -- too late for any train to New York that night."
Geo. Boyd Dowling.
1004 Warburton Ave., Yonkers, N.Y.
April 28, 1926.
