The state journal., 1873-05-09
The Signal to the Wife--How En-
gineer Guild Died.

In the material chronicling of daily
events rs they occur, II is not expected that
much poetry or sentiment will manifest Il,
self. In the newspapers the chord vibrated
tho most frequently f. that Of horror. Fearful
accidents, riots and murders come In a
damp, inky way 10 the breakfast table,
and fasten one while the neglected coffee
coOls. But once IN q while, without de-
signing IL, flowers Of poetry will bloom
beneath the busy fingers of the telegraph
operator as he sends his dot-and,dash
story along the wires. He does not know
it, perhaps. for his brain is busy with the
translation of his copy into the mystic al
phabet of Morse.
Such a story comes as n sad sequel ~
the appalling catastrophe mt Pawcatuck
river. First we were thrilled to the heart
by the graphic recital of the rushing train,
speeding on through the black night to-
wards the yawning chasm, Just ahead.
Then came the fatal leap, the leap into the
clammy arms of death, and DER all the
crushed and broken cars and their living
freight, the flame king waved his crimson
banner. While reading the story we
could hear those agonised shrieks Of the
mon and women slowly roasting to death.
fhe picture was just rs vivid as that Civ
en- us of the noble Atlantic grinding upon
the cruel rocks at Marr's uea'ls But it
was all a picture Of horror. Running
through 1t, however, is silver thread OF
sentiment, touching little episode. as
fender in its effect as any wrought by the
loving hand of Dickens. ..y.
The engineer, Vim. d. Guild, lived in
that part of Providence known rs Elm
wood, his house being close to the rail-
road crossing. And IN that house were
his wife and bairns. So every time he
rushed by the loved spot, whether in night
or day. in storm or sunshine, he sounded
a short, peculiar signal upon the locomo-
tive whistle, as greeting to his wife.
Think Of hoarse shrieking locomotive
whistle uttering notes of love. This sig
nal meant he was there and "all right"
and we can easily imagine how eagerly
she list. ned for the sound. To her 1t was
sweeter music than ever dropped in n
golden stream from the pen Of Chopin
In time the people of Providence, and the
regular passengers along the line. came
to know the sound, and when they heard
it would say. 'That's Guilds signal to
his wife, On last Sunday night she
missed Il for the first time, and will never
hear it again.
Such ali incident as this, supplemented
by the noble character of the man and his
heroic death. round and I'LL out as pathetic
n story rs was ever told. lie was as gall
liant man as any that ever titled for n
bit OF ribbon in the rosy days of the
chvalric time. True he was an engineer,
smoky. begrimed engineer, always look
ing ahead to where the flaming eye of his
engine searched into the light; but he was
none the less hero. When the end
came at last de did not quail. They say
he could have jumped from the train, but
he preferred to die at his post. No doubt
his last thoughts were of the wife and
babies ut home. A prayer fluttcred up
from his lips to heaven, and then came the
crash. His burned body was found erect.
with his fice to the front and his hand
upon the throttle valve. That was death
to die, since die we must, one and all of
us. The "Black Sergeant" can come
in no better guise than when he relieves II
man from the post Of duty, and tells him
to turn in for the long sleep Of eternity
N. Y. telegram.