the second act of _La Belle Helene_--where,
if you remember, the unfortunate Menelaus is hustled off the stage, in
company with his portly umbrella and other belongings, in order to make
room for the advent of Paris, the "gay deceiver," the successful
intriguant!

Although my thoughts were wrapped up in memories of Min and her parting,
hopeful words, and my inner eyes still saw her standing at the window,
waving her handkerchief to me in mute adieu, my outward vision was
keenly watchful of each landpoint the train hurried by.

I remember every incident on the way.

Not a thing escaped me.

The outlook for baggage at Waterloo; the feeing of the obsequious porter
expectant of a douceur; the mistake I made in getting my ticket which
had to be rectified at the last moment; the confused ringing of bells
and clattering of trucks up and down the platform; the slamming of doors
and hurrying of feet to and fro:--then, the sudden pause in all these
sounds; the shrill whistle, betokening all was ready; the converting of
all the employes into animated sign-posts, that waved their arms wildly;
the grunt and wheeze from the engine, as if from a giant in pain; the
sharp jerk, and then the steady pull at the carriage in which I was
sitting; the "pant, pant! puff, puff!" of the iron horse, as he buckled
to his work with a will; and then, finally, the preliminary oscillation
of the ponderous train, the trembling and rumbling of creaking wheels
along the rails--as we glided and bumped, slowly but steadily, out of
the terminus--the distance signal showing "all clear" to us, and
blocking the up line with the red semaphore of "danger."

Past Vauxhall, once famed for its revelry--conspicuous, now, only for
its picturesque expanse of candle-factory roofs and the dead boarding
that is displayed skirting the railway:--Clapham, villa-studded and with
gardens laid out in bird's-eye perspective:--Surbiton, dainty in its
pretty little road-side station, all garnished with roses and shell-
walks:--Farnborough, where a large proportion of our passengers, of
military proclivities, alight en route for Aldershot, and celebrated of
yore for the "grand international" contest with fisticuffs between a
British Sayers and a Transatlantic Heenan:--Basingstoke, the great ugly
"junction" of many twisted rails and curiously-intricate stacks of
chimneys; until, at length, Southampton was reached--a town smelling of
docks and coal-tar, and dismal in the evenin