Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,

For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!

OME men are born to be madmen; some to be idiots; and some to be hanged; but I was born to be a shareholder. Some men spend their money like noblemen and princes; some lose it at the gaming-table; some on the turf; some hide it in gardens, in wells, in brick walls, and die forgetting to reveal their secret; but my property is securely sunk for the benefit of my country in the Direct Burygold and the Great Deadlock Railways. While on one hand I am lowered to the condition of a beggar, on the other I am elevated to the rank of a patriot. What I have done would, in the ancient days, have earned me a statue; but now, under unheroic forms of business, it is silently accepted as a matter of course. If I had sunk my property in endowing a hospital, I might have secured the immortality of a tablet, and the gratitude of a committee; but my prodigal generosity has only taken the form of an investment. I sign a deed of settlement, pocket my liability, see my name recorded in a ledger of shareholders-and that is all.

Having no faith in reformers, I have joined no committee of investigation; I have subscribed to no society for improving our prospects. I have quietly accepted my position as a melancholy and accomplished fact. I have sold my withered shares for the trifle they would fetch; and, having no family or kindred depending upon me for support, I have taken to opium-eating.

my

I am surprised that I never turned my attention to this agreeable investment before. Like former ventures, it pays me no dividends, except in dreams; but then those dreams are of the most varied and amusing kind. They come to me withnut effort; they cry to me for no food; they make no calls. When they leave me, I feel no regret; for I know that a few pence will, at any time, call them back. Beggar as I am, I recline in all the

state of kings, with no painful memories of yesterday; no care for to-day; no thought for tomorrow. Relieved from the dull checks and surroundings of active life, my fancy runs riot in a shadowy world, where all distinctions are reversed; and those things that were once my sorrow and my dread have now become my pleasure and my toys.

The long, silent panorama of the Direct Burygold Railway passes before me the whole line in Chancery, choked and stiffened by the icy, relentless hand of legal death. The Bury gold station, once so full of life, is now an echoing, deserted cavern; its crystal roof is an arch of broken glass; its rails are torn away; its rooms and offices are empty, or boarded up; and its walls are defaced with old ghastly time bills, the mocking records of its former wealth and activity. The long refreshment corridor is dusty and bare; its fixtures are rudely torn from the walls, its floor is strewn with remnants of placards and broken china; and nothing living is now left except a wild, halffamished cat, ravenously gnawing a bone as smooth as glass.

Passing out of this ruined station to the open line, I find no signs of traffic. Carriages are not to be seen, and the rails in places have been torn up by the roots. Rank grass has spread across the once busy way, and sheep are calmly browsing, with no fear of coming danger. Breaking through a narrow cutting between two lofty hills, whose passage, once open and bare, is now grown over with underwood and brambles, I emerge into a broad amphitheatre of landscape, saddened with ruins, like the plains of ancient Greece. Standing at the extreme verge, upon the ragged edge of what was once a smooth, lofty, curving viaduct, 1 gaze down far below into a winding stream whose course is broken and turned by the fallen arches which once spanned the broad, deep valley. Large iron girders, spreading masses of brickwork, and blocks of heavy masonry, lie helplessly in the clear, glassy stream. In the distance another ragged edge of tall, narrow, broken arches issues from a cleft in the opposite mountain. The blue misty hills close in the scene on every side; and

the solemn stillness of undisturbed nature reigns over all. Struggling down the steep sides of this chasm, I pick my way across the ruins to the divided limb of the railway on the further side.

Here I turn for one final look at the silent valley, and then pursue my course.

The first sign of life which I meet on the ruined line is a small side station, once bright, clean, and new, but now damp and mouldy. Seeing smoke ascend from the short chimney of this hut, I look through the window, and find an old woman in dirty

rags crouching over a wood fire, formed of parts of the building, rocking her bent body to and fro, and chanting a low wail. Before I can retire from the window, a dwarfed boy, whose huge head, with a long, pale, oval face and large watery eyes, forms onehalf of his withered body, rushes to the door of the hut, and draws the attention of the woman to my presence by uncouth gestures, and a wild, babbling noise. The woman rises quickly, and I see from her eyes and manner that her mind has sunk under the pressure of some heavy affliction. Something

tells me they are mother and son, and sufferers by the ruin which is before us, and behind us, and around us. A vague notion enters their minds that I have either come to molest them, or that I am a member of that class which has been the cause of all their misfortunes. Their actions become gradually more frantic and hostile; and their aspect is at once so melancholy and so hideous, that I fairly turn away, and run along the line. They do not attempt to follow me; but their voices, which at first were raised in triumph at my flight, become by degrees fainter and fainter, until at last they are lost in the distance at which I leave them behind.

Passing along the line, and under many broken arches, I come to more life, of a much more agreeable character. Beneath a lofty iron bridge, which spans the once busy Burygold Railway, I find a group of healthy country children, playing on a swing formed of ropes tied firmly in the open spaces between the girders. Other country children look down from the roadway on the top of the arch, and drop small pebbles upon the heads of the children beneath; aiming especially at the child in the swing, as the motion of the ropes sends him beyond the shelter of the arch. Sometimes those above raise a mocking cry of danger from a coming train, which is received with shouts of merriment below.

I proceed a little further, when I come upon the broken parts of an old, rotten locomotive engine, lying half-embedded in a side embankment. The boiler has been half-eaten away. Rats have made it their home. While I am gazing at this picture, an old man in mean clothing, leaning on a crutch, has joined me by climbing up the embankment on the other side.

"Ah!" he says, with a deep, heavy sigh, "Wenus isn't what she was when you an' me was younger, mate."

Exactly," I return, thinking he alludes to some romantic elopement.

"I took 'er hout o' the station at night," he resumes, "afore the brokers 'ad put 'er in the hinventory; got up 'er steam, an' bowled 'er here, when she bust her biler, an' sent me flyin' into the ditch-a cripple for life.”

Close to this spot is the entrance of a long tunnel, the mouth of which is covered with a dense cobweb, whose threads are thicker than stout twine. In the centre of this cobweb are several huge, overgrown spiders as large as crabs.

"Is there no passage through this place?" I ask of the old engine-driver.

66

'What! the haunted tunnel!" he answers, with horror and astonishment. "No man's dared to go through that for twenty year!”

Curiosity prompts me to advance nearer the great cobweb, and look through its open spaces into the dark cavern beyond. Perhaps the words of the old engine-driver have acted upon my excited imagination; but I think I see the outlines of smoke-coloured human monsters, who coil round each other, and seem hungry for prey. There is nothing fierce and active about their savagery, but it has that dreamy, listless, quiet, bone-crushing appearance of destructive power so fearful to contemplate in bears and certain monsters of the deep. Perhaps I am gazing upon the spirits of departed directors.

Declining to go through this passage of horrors, I ascend the sides of the cutting; and leaving the aged engine-driver mourning over the shattered remains of his Venus, I pass along the roads on the top of the haunted tunnel, and descend upon the line once more at the other side.

Here I again come upon life of a more genial kind. Squatters have taken possession of many side-stations. Some stations that I pass are more neatly kept than others, showing the different character of the tenants. Some are quite unoccupied; and one is in the temporary possession of a band of travelling showmen, whose caravans of wild beasts and curiosities are placed across the line. Pursuing the same route for some hoursalways with the same prospect on either side-I pass under rotten bridges, under lines of dangling clothes hung out to dry, and through groups of women and children assembled in the centre of the rails, until at last day dwindles into twilight, and twilight gives place to a cold, clear sky and a large moon. I come, after some time, to a deep cutting through a lofty wooded hill, the sides of which are rendered more gloomy by dark, overhanging fir-trees. Winding along this narrow, artificial valley for a considerable 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. 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 fourhorse 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 stagecoach 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 & 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 threefourths 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

191

respectable housekeeper. The form has then to bo 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 Honourable 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 been made to many members of the governing class who now hold positions, and reside upon the line. There are the Grand Ranger, the Deputy Grand Ranger, the Secretary to the Deputy Grand Ranger, the Lord Marshal, the Under Marshal; the Lord Steward of the Coke and Coal Department, the Deputy Lord Steward; the Grease Master, Deputy Grease Master, and the Keeper of the Oil Cans. These officers have the privilege (besides grants of land upon the line) of running special trains for themselves and friends without any formal notice to his Grace the Governor-General. This privilege has at present been sparingly used, and no particular accident has sprung from it, except the smashing of a ploughman who was crossing the line, and the running on one occasion through the end of t1