Long, long ago, in prehistoric times

Began the subject of these ill-form’d rhymes,

When some craz’d mind, which engines did disdain,

Conceiv’d a plan for an electric train.

Which like a street-car should by trolley run;

But heark! my reader, for my tale’s begun:

* * *

After the usual delay of years

Fraught with vain hopes & melancholy fears,

Which ever doth in Providence attend

All plans which seek to alter or amend,

We see the old N.Y.N.H. & H.

Bring this idea within its grasping reach

And seek to banish smoke and sable soot

By using lightning on the Bristol route.

No more the trains shall enter Fox Point station; 

The crowded streets shall be the destination

Of these new cars, by Osgood Bradley built,

With motors new, and fresh in paint & gilt—

One winter’s morn, when all man kind did shiver,

I took a train, directed toward Fall-River.

Well up in front a seat by chance I chose,

Then settled down, prepar’d for calm repose.

That noble string of freshly painted coaches

The foot of College Hill with speed approaches,

When all at once I’m waken’d with surprise;

From off the track my cumbrous chariot flies,

And giving forth a longing hungry roar

Attacks the front of Leonard’s Groc’ry store!

With thund’rous crash, the portal is destroy’d

But all the strength of train-men is employed

To set on rails the now dethronèd car

Which soon is done, with jack & iron bar.

Again we’re off, and headed down South Main;

Our speed increases and our spirits gain,

When suddenly a junction meets our view

And each car seeks its own way to pursue.

The motor-car inclines toward Wickenden;

The humble trailer seeks South-Main, and then,

Upon its side the rearmost partner slips;

The motor-car in dizzy fashion tips.

At last the o’erturn’d trailer’s left behind;

Whilst in its mate are all its load confin’d.

A smart conductor, clad in uniform,

Seeks fares from those who have surviv’d the storm.

Quoth one old man, “Take what ye will from me“, 

“But in my damage suit I’ll take from thee“!

And now the train essays the hill to climb,

The motors groan, and swiftly flies the time.

At Brook-Street’s switch the two trucks disagree

The front goes on, the rear aims diff’rently,

And though Fall River is the promis’d shore

This stubborn truck seeks Brook-Street to explore.

By firm yet gentle care we’re set aright

And once more try to wing our upward flight.

Just at the summit, as we’re slipping back

We’re tow’d to safety by a one-horse hack.

Soon on an ancient bridge our course is laid

(This bridge was in the middle ages made)

Beneath our weight it gives uncanny groans,

We groan no less from jarr’d & aching bones.

Dry land attain’d, we turn a sharp-laid curve

With little hope our safety to preserve.

The monstrous car our bodies threats to mangle,

For this strange curve resembles a right angle.

And now the railway track is in our sight,

But adverse fortune once more stays our flight.

For if the railway’s wires we would use,

Another trolley-wheel our crew must choose,

And here the Union Railroad Company,

In favour of New-Haven men must flee.

After a long and enervating wait,

We start once more, and only six hours late.

The railway track in comfort and with speed

Receives the wheels of our electric steed.

At Riverside the loafers ope their eyes;

At Crescent Park the vulgar rabble cries.

The Drownville rustics in confusion gape;

Nor can we Nayatt’s wond’ring gaze escape.

But as we near the streets of Barrington

Our coach grows cold, and starts to slowing down. 

Soon it is still’d, and after one brief hour

We’re told that Warren’s ceas’d to give us pow’r.

Frigid we rest, ’till later in the day

A locomotive bears us on our way.

We soon reach Warren, but are stall’d again

By some mishap to a far distant train

Which lies inert on single track ahead,

With crippled motors, and the wires dead.

But now a ray of hope pervades my mind:

I leave the car, and in the twilight find

A willing yokel with an ox-drawn cart

Who when with most of my spare change I part,

Consents to take me where I wish to go,

If I demur not at his progress slow.

At dawn we cross Slade’s Ferry and my guide

Bids me farewell and ’gins his homeward ride.

Worn and fatigu’d, I seek a good hotel

Wherein I rest my body for a spell.

Next day by boat safe homeward I return’d,

And as I ’gan these lines, by chance I learn’d

That my staunch train, which I at Warren left

Was now no more of all its pow’r bereft

For though at first for old Fall-River bound

An ancient farmer heard the raucous sound

Of its triumphant, all-rejoicing whistle;

Safe home at last, the car had enter’d—BRISTOL!