264 THE OPEN AIll. 



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. Kain blown in gusts through the misty 

 atmosphere, gas and smoke-laden, deepens the dark- 

 ness ; 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 archseologically 

 interesting wooden beams which support the roof of 

 the South-E astern station. Antique beams they are,. 



