the way to Dover
without stopping.

We will start from Cannon Street this time, at ten minutes past eight
p.m. We could go at a quarter to eight or ten o'clock in the morning,
but it will be quite a new experience for us to travel on an engine by
night, and return from Folkestone, on another occasion, by daylight and
see the country as we fly along. Now let us start.

What a short train! Yes, it is, but then the Charing Cross portion with
the West-end passengers has not yet arrived. Before it comes in we shall
draw out to the bridge and back down upon the newly-arrived carriages.
Then the train will be complete, and we shall start punctually as
possible with "Her Majesty's Mails." Oh, what bags and sacks and vans
full of letters have been, and are being, thrown into the mail-train!
How roughly our poor little letters seem to be treated; tumbled out on
the ground, tossed into the carriage which seems already full, and then
hurriedly untied and sorted, by quick-fingered clerks, into the various
pigeon-holes, and tied up in the local bags, to be dropped, perhaps, as
the train flies past the various stations.

But the engine is waiting. We must turn away from the well-lighted
sorting-van, bright even in the gleam of the electric light, which
illuminates the great echoing station with its winking glare. On a
platform just outside are numerous arms and signals--one arm is lowered;
then another. The Charing-Cross portion of the mail is in now. It is
thirteen minutes past eight p.m.--no doubt the "official" time for
starting--and with a shriek we pass from the brilliant station to the
darkness of the river.

The Thames flows sullenly down in the lamplight, swirling under the
piers of the railway, and shimmering under the lights of London Bridge
as we curve round above Tooley Street; but we do not stop at London
Bridge Station on this occasion. We peep through the glasses in the
weatherboard and see such a number of red and green signals, that it
reminds us of the Crystal Palace devices in lamps, and even as we look
some turn green (is it with envy at our speed?) or red (is it with anger
at our passing on without saying good-night?) but our engine-driver, who
never moves his head or speaks to us, looks in front--we are nearly in
darkness now--and we look about us.

We feel warm about the feet and knees--the wind whistles around our
waist. We stand near the fireman, looking through his glass, and near a
hand-lamp, which sh