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 outer darkness.  A blacker night there could hardly be; looking ahead there is nothing to be seen but one’s own reflection in the weather-glass.  We are in the midst of obscurity, which suddenly changes to a rich light as the whistle is opened and we enter a tunnel.  The effect is far more striking than in the daytime.  The light is more concentrated, and the mouth of the tunnel we have just entered might be the entrance to Hades—­for there is no telltale spot of light to prove to our senses the existence of any opening at the other end.  The sound echoed from the walls and roof has a tremendous quality, and resolves itself into a grand sort of Wagnerian rhythm, making a vast crescendo, till with a rush we clear the tunnel, and are once more under