[Major MARINDIN, in his Report to the Board of Trade on the railway collision at Eastleigh, attributes it to the engine-driver and stoker having “failed to keep a proper look-out.”  His opinion is, that both men were “asleep, or nearly so,” owing to having been on duty for sixteen hours and a-half.  “He expresses himself in very strong terms on the great danger to the public of working engine-drivers and firemen for too great a number of hours.”—­Daily Chronicle.]

Who is in charge of the clattering train?  The axles creak, and the couplings strain.  Ten minutes behind at the Junction.  Yes!  And we’re twenty now to the bad—­no less!  We must make it up on our flight to town.  Clatter and crash!  That’s the last train down, Flashing by with a steamy trail.  Pile on the fuel!  We must not fail.  At every mile we a minute must gain! Who is in charge of the clattering train?

  Why, flesh and blood, as a matter of course! 
  You may talk of iron, and prate of force;
  But, after all, and do what you can,
  The best—­and cheapest—­machine is Man! 
  Wealth knows it well, and the hucksters feel
  ’Tis safer to trust them to sinew than steel. 
  With a bit of brain, and a conscience, behind,
  Muscle works better than steam or wind. 
  Better, and longer, and harder all round;
  And cheap, so cheap!  Men superabound
  Men stalwart, vigilant, patient, bold;
  The stokehole’s heat and the crow’s-nest’s cold,
  The choking dusk of the noisome mine,
  The northern blast o’er the beating brine,
  With dogged valour they coolly brave;
  So on rattling rail, or on wind-scourged wave,
  At engine lever, at furnace front,
  Or steersman’s wheel, they must bear the brunt
  Of lonely vigil or lengthened strain.
  Man is in charge of the thundering train!

  Man, in the shape of a modest chap
  In fustian trousers and greasy cap;
  A trifle stolid, and something gruff,
  Yet, though unpolished, of sturdy stuff. 
  With grave grey eyes, and a knitted brow,
  The glare of sun and the gleam of snow
  Those eyes have stared on this many a year. 
  The crow’s-feet gather in mazes queer
  About their corners most apt to choke
  With grime of fuel and fume of smoke. 
  Little to tickle the artist taste—­
  An oil-can, a fist-full of “cotton waste,”
  The lever’s click and the furnace gleam,
  And the mingled odour of oil and steam;
  These are the matters that fill the brain
  Of the Man in charge of the clattering train.

  Only a Man, but away at his back,
  In a dozen ears, on the steely track,
  A hundred passengers place their trust
  In this fellow of fustian, grease, and dust. 
  They cheerily chat, or they calmly sleep,
  Sure that the driver his watch will keep
  On the night-dark track, that he will not fail. 
  So the thud, thud, thud of wheel upon rail
  The hiss of steam-spurts athwart the dark. 
  Lull them to confident drowsiness.  Hark!