THE SOUTH DOWNS 231 



and the engine of the third, reared uj)on their wreck, 

 poured lire and steam and scalding water upon the 

 poor wretches who, wounded but not killed by 

 the impact, were struggling to free themselves 

 from the splintered and twisted remains of the two 

 carriages. 



The heap of wreckage was piled up to the roof of 

 the tunnel, whose interior presented a dreadful scene, 

 the engine fire throwing a wild glare around, but 

 partly obscured by the blinding, scalding clouds of 

 steam ; while this suddenly created Inferno resounded 

 with the prayers, shrieks, shouts, and curses of injured 

 and scatheless alike, all fearful of the coming of another 

 train to add to the already sufficiently hideous ruin. 



Fortunately no further catastrophe occurred ; but 

 nothing of horror was wanting, neither in the magnitude 

 nor in the circumstances of the disaster, which long 

 remained in the memories of those who read and was 

 impossible ever to be forgotten bv those who witnessed 

 it. 



XXX 



Fkom these levels at Stonepound the South Downs 

 come full upon the view, crowned at Clayton Hill 

 with windmills. Ditchling Beacon to the left, and 

 the more commanding height of Wolstonbury to the 

 extreme right, flank this great wall of earth, chalk, and 

 grass — Wolstonbury semicircular in outline and bare, 

 save only for some few clumps of yellow gorse and other 

 small bushes. 



Just where the road bends, and, crossing the railway, 

 begins to climb Clayton Hill, the Gothic, battlemented 

 entrance to Clayton Tunnel looms with a kind of 

 scowling picturesqueness, well suited to its dark 

 history, continually vomiting steam and smoke, like 

 a hell's mouth. 



Above it rises the hill, with telegraph-poles and 

 circular brick ventilating-shafts going in a long 



