For readers outside of Hamilton Ontario, nationally and internationally (Hello Russia!), a little context.
The railroad being described was the North and Northwestern Railway (originally the Hamilton and Lake Erie Railway.) The portion of the line described in the article ran from the small of town of Caledonia northwards to the city of Hamilton, the trip ending at a small station between King and Main streets in the city's downtown core.
The mountain mentioned is still locally known as the mountain, but it is really part of the Niagara escarpment as its runs through the city of Hamilton.
The railway right of way is no longer in use by trains, but still exists and is very much in use. The portion from the base of the escarpment in Hamilton to the summit at what is now the Mohawk Sports Park is designated the Rail Trail and is a popular site for joggers and walkers, year round. The rest of the line to Caledonia is also a rail trail also heavily used year round.
The last sentence of the article refers to the names of hotels in Hamilton in 1878 as called by taxi cabs drivers looking for fares.
Finally ... a personal note of appreciation across the years to the unnamed but very, very talented Hamilton Spectator reporter of 1878 for his wonderful piece of writing.
The article in full from the March 2nd 1878 issue of the Hamilton Spectator follows :
"Life on a Locomotive : Down the Mountain on the Julia M. Collier : The Heights Above and the City Below : A Dark Night and a Fearful Grade Before"
The races were over at Caledonia last evening as the train from Jarvis steamed in on its way to Hamilton. It was sharp on time and the platform was crowded by anxious, impatient body of people who soon thronged the cars and filled every seat, and even made the aisles impassable. Our reporter stepped aboard the locomotive and making his profession known and expressing his intention to sketch the run over the mountain, was cordially received by Engineer Henry Taylor, one of the best and most experienced drivers on the line. The locomotive was the Julia M. Henry, and she steamed up to the tank, she seemed to tremble with delight as Connolly, the fireman, poured a cool stream of water into the tender. He came back and heaved wood into the churning furnace below. Engineer Taylor took his seat, one hand on the rope connecting with the throttle valve, the other on the level. His eye ran swiftly over the nuts and steam gauges and cocks; he looked sharply ahead on either side, at the air gauges, and waited. The great engine shook and trembled as if impatient to be gone. The steam went hissing through the pipes like burning blood through the veins of some monster, and the furnace churned and roared like a volcano. All was ready. Conductor Dick stepped out upon the platform and glanced with pardonable pride along his train. Then he waved his lantern and gave a sharp, shrill whistle. The fireman looked at his boiler gauge and folded his arms, the engineer touched a lever, and the train drew out, quick, panting, impatient, restless. The night was very dark – the station seemed to leap spasmodically back into the gloom. The semaphores darted past, the lights of the village vanished, and we were thundering through the dark, lonely woods, at the mercy of the still, watchful, grimy man, with one hand on the bell rope, and the other on the lever. Faster and faster! With a noise that waked the echoes far and near, that set farm dogs baying by many a cottage door, and with a sound like the sift advance of an army of demons through an Arabian night. Faster yet! The engineer is not satisfied and the huge living machine under our feet leaps out passionately and with throbbing sinews that stiffen and twang every instant. Faster, faster! His hand is on the lever, his face sets harder, his head is bent forward, and his intelligent eyes peer sharply ahead into the night. And such a night! Black as a lie, and everywhere like liars, it hangs overhead like the wing of an evil spirit. But the headlight pierces it like fire darting through a paper wall, and illumines the sparkling rails and leaps on hopefully into the future of night beyond. Look out! A bridge ahead. But surely it has fallen. It seems to be lying on the rails before us. The train can never pass under it! It leaps suddenly upwards into the gloom, stands firmly on oaken pillars, and the next instant is far behind, wreathed in a cloud of steam that clings to it fondly. Faster, faster! The locomotive rocks from side to side. The mighty wheels below clang and roar frightfully, and every fibre in the mighty machine quivers with a frenzied fury. Our reporter looks ahead on the shining track of two rails, and into the blackness ahead. He says, “Suppose a man were to tear up the track and we could live to see him captured?
The fireman opens the furnace door and flings a block of wood on the roaring hell of flames below, and then looks up with a glittering eye and compressed lips. Faster, faster! The very earth seems to be flying from under our feet; the trees on either side rush by, and – look behind! Sparks from the smoke stack rain down in a cataract behind. A fierce, hissing, fiery stream, whipping itself against the wind, and losing itself in an ocean of night, shining for an instant, and then dying like a good thought in a bad man’s brain. Faster, faster! The great volume of steam winds round the train like a transparent snake, crawling everywhere and licking the windows with its wet, hot tongue. We near the mountain. The train comes to a dead stop and the brakes are tried. The engineer and the fireman inspect the works and rapidly make preparations for the run down the terrible grade before them. The whistle is sounded, Taylor “lets her out,” Connolly looks into the furnace, and the next instant we are thundering through the quarries. The headlight of the locomotive illumines the hard, slimy rocks that tower far above with an unearthly glare, and as one looks into the deep cut, the mountain seems to open up and divide its stony bosom to receive the rushing demon of fire and iron that dashes into its midst. We are out of the cut and onto the edge of the mountain. The rocks tower far above on one side, and the city lies far below on the other. With the motion of the locomotive, its ten thousand lights seem to sway and move, to rise and fall like a sea of fire. The headlight divides the gloom like lightning, and the loud train, like faithful thunder, follows after, shaking the mountainside like an earthquake. The train swings round a great pile of rocks, and turns its burning face towards the city below. The houses seem to leap to one side and shrink into the gloom, leaving a clear, shining track. The mountain melts away like a dream, the rolling ocean of light suddenly lifts itself and is lost in the milky way, and in an instant we find ourselves gliding smoothly along a gas-lit street, aglow with commonplace shop windows, and thronged with pedestrians who do not seem in the least surprised to see us. The bell rings, the train pull up at the King street station, the engineer and driver shake hands with our reporter, and their words of “goodnight” are lost in the chorus : “First bus for St. Nicholas,” “This way for the Dominion Hotel,” “Take a ‘kerridge’ for the American,” etc. etc.
The fireman opens the furnace door and flings a block of wood on the roaring hell of flames below, and then looks up with a glittering eye and compressed lips. Faster, faster! The very earth seems to be flying from under our feet; the trees on either side rush by, and – look behind! Sparks from the smoke stack rain down in a cataract behind. A fierce, hissing, fiery stream, whipping itself against the wind, and losing itself in an ocean of night, shining for an instant, and then dying like a good thought in a bad man’s brain. Faster, faster! The great volume of steam winds round the train like a transparent snake, crawling everywhere and licking the windows with its wet, hot tongue. We near the mountain. The train comes to a dead stop and the brakes are tried. The engineer and the fireman inspect the works and rapidly make preparations for the run down the terrible grade before them. The whistle is sounded, Taylor “lets her out,” Connolly looks into the furnace, and the next instant we are thundering through the quarries. The headlight of the locomotive illumines the hard, slimy rocks that tower far above with an unearthly glare, and as one looks into the deep cut, the mountain seems to open up and divide its stony bosom to receive the rushing demon of fire and iron that dashes into its midst. We are out of the cut and onto the edge of the mountain. The rocks tower far above on one side, and the city lies far below on the other. With the motion of the locomotive, its ten thousand lights seem to sway and move, to rise and fall like a sea of fire. The headlight divides the gloom like lightning, and the loud train, like faithful thunder, follows after, shaking the mountainside like an earthquake. The train swings round a great pile of rocks, and turns its burning face towards the city below. The houses seem to leap to one side and shrink into the gloom, leaving a clear, shining track. The mountain melts away like a dream, the rolling ocean of light suddenly lifts itself and is lost in the milky way, and in an instant we find ourselves gliding smoothly along a gas-lit street, aglow with commonplace shop windows, and thronged with pedestrians who do not seem in the least surprised to see us. The bell rings, the train pull up at the King street station, the engineer and driver shake hands with our reporter, and their words of “goodnight” are lost in the chorus : “First bus for St. Nicholas,” “This way for the Dominion Hotel,” “Take a ‘kerridge’ for the American,” etc. etc.
