Puffing up hill as if it were short of breath the engine goes, and is suddenly swallowed up in a great tunnel! Oh, the roaring, the clattering, the clamp, clamp, clamp, the "dickery-dickery-dock" tune which the wheels play upon the metals and chairs and joints of the line! Suddenly we are out again under a starry sky; all the mist and fog and smoke are gone. The light which surrounded us in the tunnel, the flickering gleam which shone on us from roof and walls, is as suddenly dispersed and hangs now overhead in the white curling steam, as the fireman opens the furnace door, and the gleam dashes along with us like a halo.
From Sevenoaks our speed increases; the driver slackens off the steam, but we rush on faster and faster. Through another long tunnel, then into the open air round a curve, flying along an embankment until we think we must go over it. Rush, roar, and rattle! Speed slackens, bump, thump, whizz, a long whistle; green and red lights above and below, a big station, engines beside us, people like phantoms on the platforms, crash, bang! Tunbridge is passed, and we are running on level ground, in a straight line for full twenty miles, to Ashford. Ah, we can breathe again now. It did seem rather alarming just then.
So on we go towards Folkestone and Dover. Now the salt-laden breeze tells us we are near our destination. The sorting-clerks work harder and faster. The Continental mail-bags, Indian mail-bags, Mediterranean and China mail-bags, all are ready for transmission to the steamer. Into the tunnel through the
"... Cliff, whose high and bending head
Looks fearfully on the confined deep"—
known as the Shakespeare cliff, in consequence of that description in "King Lear."
We quickly reach Dover, so well known as the resting-place of Queen Elizabeth's "Pocket Pistol," twenty-four feet long, on which is the legend—
"Load me well and keep me clean
And I'll carry a ball to Calais Green."
The train glides down the pier, the carriage-doors are opened, mail-bags and muffled travellers are hurried on board. The lights are extinguished, the engine retreats into the darkness, then we jump off and go to bed.
Next time we meet our engine it is waiting for the Tidal train at Folkestone. This train starts from Charing Cross and from Paris daily, each way, at hours when the Channel passage can be accomplished at or near high water. We shall soon have a still faster service, and eight hours between London and Paris will be the usual time.
The run up to London need not be dwelt upon. The pace is not excessive, but punctuality is well observed, and the train runs in safety. We remember one bad accident, though, to the Tidal train.