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
umbrellas, and time enough to notice the archaeologically interesting
wooden beams which support the roof of the South-Eastern 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.
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