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 "bank," as the driver calls it) to Stoke Box, and gradients make all the difference in the running of the train. The stoker shovels coal into the furnace, and everything is done to assist the engine in performing the extra work which is now called for. Our speed gradually increases. The graceful spire of Grantham Church—a conspicuous landmark—is soon lost in the rear, as we bowl along at thirty-five miles an hour, now through a cutting, now under a viaduct, and now with a straight road before us. The tiny aperture in the distance the entrance to a tunnel, which appears so ludicrously small that it seems as though the funnel of the engine could not escape collision with the arch; but this delusion is quickly dispelled, for now we are rushing into the darkness of the subterranean passage, and can already see a glimpse of daylight at the other end.

The effect in the tunnel is weird and impressive, as the glare of the furnace, increased by the surrounding darkness, lights up the features of the fireman as he replenishes the flames, and illumines the cloud of steam and smoke that rushes over the train behind us. Out in the open once more we quickly reach Stoke Box, the summit of the Great Northern route, and directly we get over the brow of the hill, the train gathers fresh impetus, and away we go with a roar and a rattle, past signals and telegraph posts with a speed increasing at every mile. Corby (eight miles from Grantham) is reached in something like twelve minutes, and with a short whistle we fly through the little station with a velocity that hardly permits us to read its name on the board. Still descending the incline, our speed increases until Watson (desirous, no doubt, of exhibiting the best paces of his favourite engine) shouts in my ear, "You are now travelling as fast as anyone ever did travel, I think! Seventy-five miles an hour!!" This is really exciting; one feels exhilarated by such rapid motion, the engine leaping along as though endowed with life. Oscillation increases with speed, and, in order to preserve my balance, I find a friendly hook near the weather-glass convenient to hold on by. Away, with a roar and a rattle! No sooner are distant signals seen than we are upon them; no sooner do we realise that an object half-a-mile away is a wayside cottage than we reach it, rush by, and leave it far behind. Another whistle announces our approach to Little Bytham, and down the hill at a fearful pace to Essendine, near which is Crowland Abbey, immortalised in Kingsley's "Hereward the Wake." Although I find some difficulty in preserving my equilibrium, I endeavour to take notes, but under such circumstances even the late Anthony Trollope would have despaired, accustomed as he was to writing in the train. I watch the driver and fireman as they perform their respective duties;