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 express was discerned dashing onwards through the blinding storm. It was the work of a moment for the driver to sound his whistle, in token of danger ahead, the guard meanwhile waving his red lamp; but these signals were disregarded, and the engine of the Leeds express literally cut its way through the tender of the Scotch train. The increasing storm, the piteous cries of the wounded, and the shouts of others anxious to be released from the broken carriages were heartrending, while the lurid glare of burning wreckage, ignited by the furnace fire, produced a scene of painful interest never to be forgotten by those who witnessed it. Twelve persons were killed, among whom was the eldest son of the late Mr. Dion Boucicault, the well-known dramatic author and actor. In the Scotch express were Lord Colville, present chairman of the Great Northern Railway Company; Mr. Robert Tennant, then M.P. for Leeds; and Count Schouvaloff, Russian Ambassador at the Court of St. James's, all of whom happily escaped injury. The accident is supposed to have been caused by a blocking of the signals with snow. Fortunately for us, no danger threatens to night from such a cause, for the sky is cloudless, and the stars shine brightly. Another journey might afford a very different and much more unpleasant experience; as, for example, in foggy or snowy weather, or in blinding sleet, when exposure to the elements would not be enjoyable. A thunderstorm at any time has its disadvantages, but the effect as seen from an engine at full speed must be thrilling and impressive, when the lightning-flash suddenly illumines the country around, bringing instantaneously into view each feature of the landscape, only to plunge it the next moment into obscurity.

Away! With rattle and roar we speed down the bank to Huntingdon; there, a mile off, are the signals and station lights—a shrill whistle, and we are upon them, they flash by, and we are in the open country again. Here we notice a result of the recent heavy rains in the overflow of the Ouse and consequent submersion of the race-course; but, when bowling along at seventy miles an hour, it is not easy to take in every detail of this watery scene. In the distance ahead a curious light is seen, growing larger as it approaches, and looking uncommonly like a gigantic flaming squib, which presently resolves itself into a passing train, whose engine belches forth volumes of sparks—quite a brilliant display against the dark background. We make such a rattle ourselves that other trains rush by apparently without a sound, so this one disappears as mysteriously as it came, like a veritable fiery phantom. Now the station lights at Offord flash by, and we have accomplished half our journey in excellent time, the driver remarking that "we shall do it well to-night." We slacken speed as we ascend the slight incline to St. Neots, then entering level country in Bedfordshire we bowl along to Tempsford and Sandy (the residence of the Speaker of the House of