The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1884-11-15

Ri}adclphia .S"afGy Press.

Fati"dcipttu Sunday Press.
As Germantown is one Of the oldest
portions of Philadelphia, it Is hardly
likely that the region through which
runs the Germantown branch of the
Philadelphia and Reading Railroad
was materially less thickly settled TWEEN
ty years ago than it is to-day. And
yet, at the time Of which | speak, there
was surrounding very many Of the stat
ions an air of isolation which gave to
the road itself lonely and unfre-
quented appearance an air which now
except in the case Of one or two stat
ions, has disappeared. The station
buildings of those days, it is true, were
not the comfortable, well-lighted, and
handsome houses which one now finds
along the line Of the road, and perhaps
twenty years ago, It was the poverty of
accommodation for passengers and the
inferior service, both as regards the
number and the equipment of the trains
that produced the effect | have men
toned. Be this as it may, of all the
stations at that time by far the lone
Hest was one situated between German
town and Chestnut Hill, some miles
out of Germantown, the name of which
| have now forgotten. The station
building, a rough shed, fifteen feet long
by six feet deep with seat of unplaned
boards on each Of its three sides within
stood on the North side of the line,
just where lane, densely overhung by
the boughs of trees, crossed at a steep
dcClNity the railroad. The lane was
little travelled by day and at night
scarcely at all | do not know the
kind of foliage that lined its steep sides,
| only know that it must have been ex-
tremely thick, for on the brightest days
as you looked up Or down the lane
from the train in both directions the
eye was met a few hundred feet back
from the railroad by shadows SO deep
as effeCtually to cut off further vision.
The woods, which even to day lie
densely along portions Of the railroad,
were then thiCkest in the vicinity OF
this secluded station. | often used to
wonder what had induced the man
ayers of the road to place it there. |
believe it was on account of the exis-
tenCe, few miles from that point, OF
one of those old-fashoned country tav-
ems, 50 few OF which now remain in or
near the city. This one was at that
time a tavorlte resort among sportsmen
and promised, l think, to become still
more popular.
To proceed to my story: On Hal,
low Eve night, in 1864, the writer then
reporter on the staff of a prominent
Philadelphia newspaper, had been sent
to Chestnut Hill to interview at hi.
country-place a gentleman who haC
just done or said something that had
brought him prominently before the
public. 1t was quite late when | left
the city and, being detained longer
than | expected at the gentleman's
house, | found as l started for the sta
ton that | had just enough time tc
make the owl (midnigh0 train to
Philadelphia. The day, a typical No
yember one, had been raw and disa-
greeable, and, as l walked along, q
bleak wind which had risen since sun
set swept disnally through the leaAess
bouShs overhead. To me there is nc
more mournful sound than the soush,
ing Of the wind through the branche;
Of old trees or about the walls of old
fashioned dwellings q have never
heard the sound under other condi-
tions}. | always associate with it the
idea Of decay. The effect on the night
in question was depressing and it was
with feeling of relief that | reached
the Chestnut Hill station and entered
the lighted train. | have always had 4
fancy for solitariness in travel when il
could be procured. Looking about
the first carriage | entered, and finding
myself alone, threw myself down in a
seat few steps from the door, | had
hardly taken my seat when the train
started. Although | had anticipated
it with relief, found now nothing to
prefer in the change from the open all
of the inclement night to the closeness
and dim light of the passenger car. l
threw open the window, but it was
only to recall to my mind the gloomy
thoughts connected with the bleaknesS
of the weather and night. In vain
fought against the feeling of depression
and strove to throw it off. How strange
is the unfamiliarity existing between cur
everyday outer selves and our subtler
feelings and sympathies. Here was
a well-to-do reporter, enjoying a high
position on an influential paper, with a
delicate piece of work just satisfactorily
finished confronting me, and yet | felt
coming over me a morbid feeling OF
real melancholy which | was as utterly
unable to master as | was to explain.
1 began to curse the habit that had in
duced me to take an empty car, and |
half rose to my feet to look for fellow
passengers, but the doubt whether |
was not the only passenger on the train
restrained me. As | sat thus vainly
! struggling against the feeling that had