surgery for a doctor, in a very energetic
manner. I can allow my fancy full play in
looking at these signs; but to steady, patient
Tom Jones, the driver, they are as the leaves
of a book in which he often reads a lesson of
life and death to himself and his heavy
responsible charge— signal lessons of danger,
caution, and safety.

The roaring of the wind and the throbbing
of the engine increase as our speed increases,
until I— who am seated on the edge of the
coke-tender, with my head above the skreen
which protects the driver and stoker—
become buffeted and deafened, and find it difficult
to keep my seat. The whole country
lies under a thick veil of dark grey mist, and
the black trees and hedges rush past, casting
a momentary shade upon the vision. On
either side the white telegraphic posts pass
in rapid and regimental succession the whole
way through the journey. The small frail
stations seem to totter as they go by; and
we greet them with an additional roar, like
a tiger howling for prey. When we rush
through an arch we are covered for an
instant with a circle of fire, and we leave
behind us wreaths of light, white, curling
smoke. I look forward, and I see a faint
glimmer hovering round what my reason
tells me must be the funnel of the engine,
but what my imagination pictures as the real
driver of the train, a stout, round-shouldered
individual, with a short, thick neck, and a low-
crowned, broad-brimmed hat, like the stage
coachman whom I remember in my youth.
He sits up in front, as if upon a box, tooling
with a quiet dignity worthy of a whip of the
old school and the first water.

We dart across the country — between high
banks— through valleys of chalk and sand—
past trees— past roadside houses lighted up
with the fires of a November night— starting
away from twinkling villages like a skittish
horse, or rushing madly across the quiet
street with a roar and a whirlwind. While
I am watching and speculating, steady Tom
Jones and his mate, the stoker, have never
moved from their posts, looking through
their two large glasses in the skreen before
them for the various signals. Before me is
the shining brass, and steel, and iron of the
engine, a tin teapot with a long narrow spout
full of oil, a small bundle of cotton and wool,
the stops and valves, a hand lamp with a red
glass, and the partly opened doors of two
glowing, evercraving ovens— the bowels of
our steed— whose fiery hunger John Jones,
the stoker, is constantly trying to satisfy
with coke. When the doors of these ovens
are open it is useless to look at anything in
front, for the eyes are blinded with the glare,
and I, therefore, amuse myself by watching
the chromatic effects of the light upon my
garments as John Jones shovels in the coke
from the tender behind me. My brown
trousers turn green, and my reddish-brown
tweed overcoat turns first a whitish drab,
and by the time the ovens have become
nearly choked up with fresh coke, it has
changed again to a dark rifle green.

A shrill whistle is given and we enter our
first tunnel. The roar and clatter are louder
than ever, and the round-shouldered, thick-
necked driver in front sits in holy calm with
a halo of steamy glory round his head. The
light seems to fall in streams on each side
from the top of the arch; and when we
emerge with another whistle into the open
air, the sky spreads out suddenly before us
like a fan.

I cast a look back at our train and see a
sheet of light stretching out on each side like
a couple of wings, yellow as a field of ripened
corn, and divided by black bars— the reflection
of the spaces between the carriages—
falling as regularly as the oars of a state
barge. I fancy in that limekiln-shaped
shadow which is thrown across the light, and
which runs up the chalk cliff as we go through
the deep cuttings, I trace the familiar
outline of my friend the German Baron, who is
sleeping luxuriously in his warm carriage;
while the thin, uneven line that darkens the
cliff on the other side must represent the
form of the French banker, who is probably
dreaming of the Crédit Mobilier, and
forgetting, for a few moments, the memory of
the hateful sea. I turn to look again at
steady Tom Jones, the driver, and find
him wiping the steam off his glass, and
keeping his never-ceasing, vigilant look-out
a-head. At all hours of the day and night
he is ready to ride on the whirlwind and
direct the storm; to cast into the shade the
performances of the genii of Arabian fables,
and career through the air at the rate of a
mile a minute with tons of animate and
inanimate matter, for the very humble reward
of from forty to fifty shillings a week. The
unwavering faith of the public in Tom Jones
is something more than wonderful. They do
not know him— they do not require even to
see his face; but the mother trusts him with
her first-born, the children trust him with
their father, the brother trusts him with his
sister, the husband trusts him with his wife,
and, what is perhaps a greater mark of
confidence, trusts him with himself; and they
all believe that while they sleep he will
watch— that fog and rain and sleet will not
blind him— that fatigue and exposure will
never cause him to close his eyes— that frost
and snow will not benumb his faculties— that
desperation, excitement, or mental disease
will never shake the steady concentration of
his thoughts and senses— and that where the
swerving of a finger's breadth, or the
carelessness of an instant, would send the whole
precious freight to utter destruction, he will
steer safely through all difficulties, and
punctually deliver his charge at the appointed
place at the appointed time. And the
public confidence is worthily placed. As he
stands there before me in the glare of the