orefathers. The
engine-driver, like the doctor of the new school, is determined not to
ruin his patient by over-indulgence, and will tell you severely enough
that "he will never be guilty of choking his engine with an over-supply
of steam." In the mean time, the character of the country we travel
through has changed. It has become more open, and there is a stiff
sea-breeze, which makes itself distinctly felt through the rush of air
produced by the speed at which we are going. We fly past idle streams and
ponds, and as the steam swirls over them are disappointed at producing
so little effect; but the ducks, their inhabitants, are well used to such
visitations, and hardly deign to move a feather. Suddenly we plunge into
a series of small chalk cuttings, and on emerging from them find
ourselves parallel with a grand line of downs. We speed by a curve or
two, and find ourselves on the sea-shore; one more tunnel, and with steam
off we go soberly into the last station. But there is one step more. The
breeze blows about our ears. Before us the rails are wet, for the sea
swept over them not many hours since, and to accomplish the last few
yards of our journey the lever controlling the sand-box must be used
liberally, to prevent slipping; the signal is given, and at a walking
pace we make our way to where the steamer is awaiting us. A gentle
application of the brake pulls us up, and the journey is over. It is
difficult to realize, as the engine stands quietly under the lee of the
pier while the driver examines the machinery, and the fire, burned low,
throws out a gentle warmth as we stand before it, that half an hour ago
we were tearing along the line at full speed, while the foot-plate that
is now so pleasant to lounge on throbbed beneath us. Nothing now remains
but to kill time as best we may till the return trip many hours hence. It
scarcely promises to be as comfortable as our morning ride, for the
weather has changed--it is blowing half a gale, and the rain comes down
in sheets. Our train is timed to start in the small hours, and the night
seems dirty and depressing enough as we make our way for a cup of coffee
to the refreshment room, where a melancholy Italian sits in sad state
eating Bath buns and drinking brandy. We walk past the train, laden with
miserable sea-sick humanity, and step on the engine, which stands in the
dark at the end of the platform. Time is up, and we pass from the dim
half-light of the station into out