About an hour after midnight, on our journey from Boston to Albany, we came to a sudden pause where no station was visible; and immediately, very much to my surprise, the engine-driver, conductor, and several passengers were seen sallying forth with lanterns, and hastening down the embankment on our right. “What are they going to do now?” said I to a gentleman, who, like myself, kept his seat. “Only to take a look at some cars that were smashed this morning,” was the reply. On opening the window to observe the state of affairs, as well as the darkness would allow, there, to be sure, at the bottom and along the side of the high bank, lay an unhappy train, just as it had been upset. The locomotive on its side was partly buried in the earth; and the cars which had followed it in its descent lay in a confused heap behind. On the top of the bank, near to us, the last car of all stood obliquely on end, with its hind wheels in the air in a somewhat grotesque and threatening attitude. All was now still and silent. The killed and wounded, if there were any, had been removed. No living thing was visible but the errant engineer and others from our train clambering with lanterns in their hands over a prostrate wreck, and with heedless levity passing critical remarks on the catastrophe. Curiosity being satisfied all resumed their places, and the train moved on without a murmur of complaint as to the unnecessary, and, considering the hour, very undesirable delay. I allude to the circumstance, as one of a variety of facts that fell within my observation, illustrative of the singular degree of patience and imperturbability with which railway travellers in America submit uncomplainingly to all sorts of detentions on their journey. _Things as they are in America_, by W. Chambers, 1853. A WIDE-AWAKE CONDUCTOR. Dana Krum, one of the conductors on the Erie Railway, was approached before train time by an unknown man, who spoke to him as if he had known him for years. “I say, Dana,” said he, “I have forgotten my pass, and I want to go to Susquehanna; I am a fireman on the road, you know.” But the conductor told him he ought to have a pass with him. It was the safest way. Pretty soon, Dana came along to collect tickets. Seeing his man, he spoke when he reached him. “Say, my friend, have you got the time with you?” “Yes,” said he, as he pulled out a watch, “it is twenty minutes past nine.” “Oh, it is, is it? Now, if you don’t show me your pass or fare, I will stop the train. There is no railway man that I ever saw who would say ‘Twenty minutes past nine.’ He would say, ‘Nine-twenty.’” He settled. A KID-GLOVED SAMSON. A correspondent of the _Chicago Journal_ relates the following feat of strength, to which he was witness:—