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Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1685, 15 July 1879, Page 4

When you see a train about three hundred and twenty yards down the track, with the rear end of the train pointed toward the station, and you also see a man on the platform with a valise in one hand and a ticket in the other, waving his burdened arms furiously, and encumbering the pure air ■with rude, ungrammatical, but evidently earnest expressions, you may depend upon it that that man and that train desire to effect a junction, no matter whether you can understand a word the man says or not. That is, the man wants to get to the train pretty seriously. The train doesn’t appear to care very much about getting to the man. If it did, it would reverse its motion. It is th : s cool, stolid, haughty indifference of tho train to the man’s anguish and his agonised appeals that is so maddening to the man. That is the gall of being left. You wouldn’t really mind being left, so much, if the train went away from you rather regretfully like. If it seemed to look back at yon longingly, as you stand wildly gesticulating and howling on the platform, if it seemed to be tearing the fibres of its heart to go away from you, you might endure it. But to have it get up aud dust, as it always does, to turn its back right squarely in your face and go off coughing and barking down the track just as completely and sublimely unconcerned about you as though you had no existence—that is what makes you rave. And this, also, is what pleases the rest of the people on the platform.