A WET NIGHT IN LONDON 



OPAQUE from rain drawn in slant streaks by wind and 

 speed across the pane, the window of the railway 

 carriage lets nothing be seen but stray flashes of red 

 lights the signals rapidly passed. Wrapped in thick 

 overcoat, collar turned up to his ears, warm gloves 

 on his hands, and a rug across his knees, the traveller 

 may well wonder how those red signals and the 

 points are worked out in the storms of wintry London. 

 Rain blown in gusts through the misty atmosphere, 

 gas and smoke-laden, deepens the darkness; the 

 howl of the blast humming in the telegraph wires, 

 hurtling round the chimney-pots on a level with the 

 line, rushing up from the archways; steam from the 

 engines, roar, and whistle, shrieking brakes, and 

 grinding wheels how is the traffic worked at night 

 in safety over the inextricable windings of the iron 

 roads into the City ? 



At London Bridge the door is opened by some one 

 who gets out, and the cold air comes in; there is 

 a rush of people in damp coats, with dripping um- 

 brellas, and time enough to notice the archaeologically 

 interesting wooden beams which support the roof of 

 the South-East ern station. Antique beams they are, 

 good old Norman oak, such as you may sometimes 

 find in very old country churches that have not been 

 restored, such as yet exist in Westminster Hall, 

 temp. Rufus or Stephen, or so. Genuine old wood- 

 work, worth your while to go and see. Take a 

 sketch-book and make much of the ties and angles 



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