Christmas
is essentially an occasion of joy and
merriment, but I have noticed from the time
when at my mother’s knee, I made my first
acquaintance with Christmas stories, that
these incidents of the gladsome festival are
frequently tinctured with so much sadness that
the impression they leave is not easily
effaced. The story I am about to tell is of
this melancholy variety. I warn the reader in
advance, so if he is a person whose appetite
for the seductive Christmas turkey might be
impaired by a pathetic narrative, he may turn
to the pleasanter descriptions, which he will
undoubtedly find from other pens in the
Christmas Journal.
While I was in the company of the lamented
Edwin Booth we were traveling one Christmas
morning on the express from Cleveland to
Pittsburgh, where we were billed for Hamlet.
The great tragedian was then
in the very height of his success, holding his
immense audience spellbound by his wonderful
power, and achieving nothing short of a
triumph in every place where we visited. I was
an exceedingly young man then, not even past
the boundary of my teens, and, as I had been
assigned to fill the important role of Laertes
in Pittsburgh, the magnitude of the task
crowded my heart with a nervous fears, which
did not diminish a particle while we sped
along our journey, gradually nearing the city
where I was scheduled to make my trembling
debut as the brother of the unfortunate
Ophelia.
Neither the rumbling of the
car wheels nor the chatter of my histrionic
companions in adjoining seats could divert my
mind from Laertes. I was particularly
concerned about the duel scene, looking
forward to facing the eminent actor in mortal
combat with the same degrees of trepidation
that is experienced by the small boy, who has
been invited by his stern teacher to stay
after school to taste the stinging qualities
of his ferrule.
The man who inspired me with
all of this worry was sitting in the smoker
ahead of our car, contentedly puffing his pet
pipe, his thoughts probably a thousand miles
distance from either Laertes or Haworth.
Swiftly the train rolled on
its journey. Now it approached a station about
20 miles distance from Pittsburgh. We were
commencing to slacken our speed when suddenly
there was a shock which rudely interrupted my
contemplation of Laertes, knocked my nervous
fears into smithereens, and incidentally
hurled me against the seat in front. Our car
launched from side to side, with difficulty
retaining its position on the rails.
Consternation was the
immediate and general result of this
disturbance. The passengers, all of whom like
myself had been forced to part company with
their seats, showed by their blanched
countenances the mental distress they were
undergoing.
As soon as everybody was
satisfied that no bones were broken, there was
a universal desire to know what had caused the
shock. To satisfy the curiosity, we left the
car, which had made no effort to proceed since
the accident. A rapid survey of the scene left
no doubt as to the origin of our trouble. Our
train had been smashed into from the rear by
another express, which on account of a
misplaced switch had dashed on our track and
had collided with the last car of our train
before the brakes had performed their duty.
The last car, shattered and
derailed, was quickly surrounded by the
passengers from the other cars. It lay on its
side, a shapeless mass of broken wood, glass
and iron.
Heartrending shrieks issued
from the ruins, proving all too plainly that
the passengers of the ill-fated car were
imprisoned there. As long as I live I shall
never forget the groans of those poor
sufferers and their piteous appeals for
assistance. It was not a time to idly stand
with awe-struck countenances. The work of
rescue had to be commenced and quickly too.
All of the male passengers cheerfully lent
their aid to the train hands with so much
alacrity that in less than half an hour, 15
victims of the calamity, some dead, some
dying, and others only slightly injured, had
been removed. This was supposed to constitute
the entire number of passengers on the last
car, and we were about to abandon our search
when a feeble moan came from a pile of
splintered timbers at the end of the wreck.
Hastening to the spot, and
clearing away the debris, we beheld a sight,
the recollection of which even now brings a
tear to my eye. A little girl, not more than 9
or 10 years old, was at the bottom of the
heap; her delicate body pinioned and crushed
by the cruel timbers.
She was dying. Her breathing
was slow and faint, and her fair face, framed
by a cluster of golden ringlets, wore a
pitiful, Oh, such a pitiful expression, that
the horrible recollections of the other
victims were dwarfed by comparison.
It was a picture of a young
soul, agonized by moral torments, on its way
to a blissful eternity. One moment her
suffering was so intense that her pretty
features were distorted. Then they would wear
a look of eternal peace as if her pure spirit
was already catching a glimpse of Paradise.
While the struggle between
life and death was continuing I bent over her
to ascertain something regarding her identity.
"My child," I whispered,
"who are you? Where were you going?"
The first question evoked no
response, but as the second was asked her lips
trembled and formed themselves to make reply.
I bent still lower to catch her response which
came slowly and almost inaudibly.
"I am going" – there was a
long pause, during which all traces of mortal
agony passed forever from her countenance,
leaving in its place a seraphic light. "I am
going" – There was a last tremble of the lips,
a last flutter of the eyelids- "home."
As I turned my head from
this sublime spectacle, I beheld a figure at
my side, with head bowed low upon his breast
and tears, trickling down his cheeks. It was
Booth.
"Indeed you have gone home,
you angle child," I heard the great tragedian
say, "and may God keep you in His arms for all
eternity."
A solemn amen was echoed
from all our hearts."
