summer flight; my flight is provided for by
the South Eastern, and is no business of mine.

The bell! With all my heart. It does
not require me to do so much as even to flap
my wings. Something snorts for me,
something shrieks for me, something proclaims to
everything else that it had better keep out of
my way,—and away I go.

Ah! The fresh air is pleasant after the
forcing-frame, though it does blow over these
interminable streets, and scatter the smoke of
this vast wilderness of chimneys. Here we are
—no, I mean there we were, for it has darted
far into the rear—in Bermondsey where the
tanners live. Flash! The distant shipping
in the Thames is gone. Whirr! The little
streets of new brick and red tile, with here
and there a flagstaff growing like a tall weed
out of the scarlet beans, and, everywhere,
plenty of open sewer and ditch for the
promotion of the public health, have been fired
off in a volley. Whizz! Dustheaps, market-
gardens, and waste grounds. Rattle! New
Cross Station. Shock! There we were at
Croydon. Bur–r–r–r! The tunnel.

I wonder why it is that when I shut my
eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel as if I were
going at an Express pace the other way. I
am clearly going back to London, now.
Compact Enchantress must have forgotten
something, and reversed the engine. No! After
long darkness, pale fitful streaks of light
appear. I am still flying on for Folkestone.
The streaks grow stronger—become continuous
—become the ghost of day—become the
living day—became I mean—the tunnel is
miles and miles away, and here I fly through
sunlight, all among the harvest and the
Kentish hops.

There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying.
I wonder where it was, and when it was, that
we exploded, blew into space somehow, a
Parliamentary Train, with a crowd of heads
and faces looking at us out of cages, and
some hats waving. Monied Interest says it
was at Reigate Station. Expounds to
Mystery how Reigate Station is so many miles
from London, which Mystery again develops
to Compact Enchantress. There might be
neither a Reigate nor a London for me, as I
fly away among the Kentish hops and harvest.
What do I care!

Bang! We have let another Station off,
and fly away regardless. Everything is flying.
The hop-gardens turn gracefully towards
me, presenting regular avenues of hops in
rapid flight, then whirl away. So do the
pools and rushes, haystacks, sheep, clover in
full bloom delicious to the sight and smell,
corn-sheaves, cherry-orchards, apple-orchards,
reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields that
taper off into little angular corners, cottages,
gardens, now and then a church. Bang, bang!
A double-barrelled Station! Now a wood,
now a bridge, now a landscape, now a cutting,
now a—Bang! a single-barrelled Station—
there was a cricket match somewhere with
two white tents, and then four flying cows,
then turnips—now, the wires of the electric
telegraph are all alive, and spin, and blurr
their edges, and go up and down, and make
the intervals between each other most
irregular: contracting and expanding in the
strangest manner. Now we slacken. With
a screwing, and a grinding, and a smell of
water thrown on ashes, now we stop!

Demented Traveller, who has been for two
or three minutes watchful, clutches his great
coats, plunges at the door, rattles it, cries
"Hi!" eager to embark on board of
impossible packets, far inland. Collected Guard
appears. "Are you for Tunbridge, Sir?"
"Tunbridge? No. Paris." "Plenty of time,
Sir. No hurry. Five minutes here, Sir, for
refreshment." I am so blest (anticipating
Zamiel, by half a second) as to procure a glass
of water for Compact Enchantress.

Who would suppose we had been flying at
such a rate, and shall take wing again
directly? Refreshment-room full, platform
full, porter with watering-pot deliberately
cooling a hot wheel, another porter with equal
deliberation helping the rest of the wheels
bountifully to ice cream. Monied Interest and
I re-entering the carriage first, and being there
alone, he intimates to me that the French are
"no go" as a Nation. I ask why? He says,
that Reign of Terror of theirs was quite
enough. I ventured to inquire whether he
remembers anything that preceded said Reign
of Terror? He says, not particularly.
"Because," I remark, "the harvest that is reaped,
has sometimes been sown." Monied Interest
repeats, as quite enough for him, that the
French are revolutionary, "—and always
at it."

Bell. Compact Enchantress, helped in by
Zamiel, (whom the stars confound!) gives us
her charming little side-box look, and smites
me to the core. Mystery eating sponge-cake.
Pine-apple atmosphere faintly tinged with
suspicions of sherry. Demented Traveller flits
past the carriage, looking for it. Is blind with
agitation, and can't see it. Seems singled out
by Destiny to be the only unhappy creature
in the flight, who has any cause to hurry
himself. Is nearly left behind. Is seized
by Collected Guard after the Train is in
motion, and bundled in. Still, has lingering
suspicions that there must be a boat in the
neighbourhood, and will look wildly out of
window for it.

Flight resumed. Corn-sheaves, hop-gardens,
reapers, gleaners, apple orchards, cherry
orchards, Stations single and double-barrelled,
Ashford. Compact Enchantress (constantly
talking to Mystery, in an exquisite manner)
gives a little scream; a sound that seems to
come from high up in her precious little head;
from behind her bright little eyebrows. "Great
Heaven, my pine-apple! My Angel! It is
lost!" Mystery is desolated. A search made.
It is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse him
(flying) in the Persian manner. May his