distance, I arrive at a sharp curve round a
bend of the hill, and see an exhibition almost
as strange as any I have yet met with upon
the line. In the centre of the valley, between
the rails, there is a blazing wood fire,
over which is suspended an enormous gipsy-
kettle. Numbers of men in strange, stable-
looking dresses, are seated on each side of the
valley; many of them drinking, and nearly all
of them smoking. In the distance, beyond
the fire, are several four-horse stage-coaches,
fully horsed, harnessed, and appointed; and,
round the fire, dancing wildly with joined
hands to the rough music of some half-dozen
Kent bugles, played by old, half-resuscitated
stage-coach guards, are some dozen aged
stage-coachmen, dressed in the familiar garb
of former days. I see the meaning of this
unusual festival at a glance. It is a midnight
picnic from some adjacent country-
town, met to triumph over the fall, and to
dance over the ruins, of a paralysed railway.
While I am gazing at the spectacle, a number
of fresh roysterers, coming up from behind,
sweep me into the middle of the dancing,
drinking, shouting group, and I am
immediately questioned as to my sudden and
uninvited appearance. Almost before I have
considered my reply, the fact of my being a
ruined shareholder making the melancholy
pilgrimage of my sunken property, seems to
strike the whole company as if by inspiration,
and I am welcomed with the loudest
mocking laughter, and the heaviest slaps on
the back that the boisterous villagers are
capable of administering. One dozen of men
ask me in sarcastic chorus what has become
of my "foine carriges;" while another dozen
ask me, also in chorus, where my "sixty
moile a-hour be now?"

It is the morning of the second day when
I reach the grand London terminus; now
grand no longer, but showing its decay even
more glaringly than the rest of the line. Its
interior is vast, naked, and deserted, and its
exterior has long been given up to the mercy
of the bill-stickers. Its classical portico is a
mass of unsightly blistered placards; its
courtyard is silent and untrodden, except by
the footsteps of a few old servants of the
company, who yet live in the hope of seeing
the old busy days revived.

Turning my back upon the sad remains of
the Direct Burygold Railway, I proceed at
once to the rival Great Deadlock line, which
has now been taken under the permanent
management of Government. Here at least
is life, if not activity; and the great terminus
looks very different to what it did when it
was simply a public joint-stock undertaking.
The familiar policemen and guards are all
gone, and, in their places, are many fat
porters in leathern chairs, and messengers
in rather gaudy liveries. The chief booking
office, once all bustle and energy,is now as calm
and full of dignity as a rich Clapham
conventicle. Its hours are short, and strictly
adhered to, especially as regards the closing.
While its work is decreased two-thirds, its
clerks are increased one-half, and are dressed
in a much more elegant and correct manner
than they were during the days of its joint-
stock existence, Literature is now more
generally patronised; and the leading newspapers
and periodicals are not only taken in,
but diligently read during three-fourths of
the short business hours.

The forms of application for tickets are
much more elaborate than the old rude
method of simply paying your money,
obtaining a voucher, stamped instantaneously,
and walking away. Every man who wishes
to go to Burygold, or any intermediate
station, must apply for a printed form; such
application to be countersigned by at least
one respectable housekeeper. The form has
then to be filled up according to certain ample
printed directions, which occupy about a folio
page and a half. The man who wishes to go
by rail to Burygold, or any intermediate
station, must state his age; must say
whether he is a Dissenter or a Church of
England man; must state whether he is
a housekeeper or a lodger; if the first, how
long he has been one; if the second, of what
degree; must state whether he has been
vaccinated; whether he has had the measles;
whether he has any tendency to lunacy, or
whether his parents have ever exhibited that
tendency; must say whether he has ever been
to Burygold, or to any intermediate station,
before, and if so, how many times, and upon
what dates, and upon what business; must
state what is his present object in going to
Burygold, and how long he is likely to stay;
must state the exact weight of luggage he
intends to take, and what the nature and
contents of such luggage may be; must state the
number of his family (if any), and the ages
of his wife and children respectively; and
must send this return in, accompanied by a
letter of application, written upon folio foolscap
with a margin, and addressed to the Right
Honorable the Duke of Stokers, Governor-
General of the Great Royal Deadlock Railway.
Having allowed three clear days, for
verification and inquiries, the passenger may
attend at the chief office of the Great Royal
Deadlock Railway, between the hours of one
and three, p.m., and receive his ticket upon
payment of the fare authorised by Act of
Parliament. If there be any informality in
his return, he is sent back by the unflinching
clerks. He has to go through the same
form over again, and to wait another three
clear days, before he again applies for a
ticket.

With much exertion, the Government
managers of the Great Royal Deadlock Railway
are enabled to start two trains during
their working-day, at an annual cost to the
country, of about eight thousand pounds per
mile.

A number of grants and privileges have