In the centre of circulate movement there is one mathematical point which, although not absolutely still, approaches a state more akin to quiescence than to motion. Such is Weedon, not absolutely dead, but next door to it—“deadly lively”—sixty-nine miles from London. It is considered the centre spot of England, and it was, apparently for this reason, seriously suggested in the time of the great war, “when George III. was king,” that His Majesty should take up his residence at this tranquil spot, to be out of harm’s way, in case of invasion. The intention, however, was not carried out, and Weedon has ever since been lost to a fame and importance which even the passage of the London and North-Western line has failed to give it. It is almost the only town in the civilised world which the presence of the railway has failed to render even lively. No need then, for our engine and train to stop there, so they proceed on with undiminished speed through the rich pastures and glowing corn-fields of Northamptonshire and Warwickshire. Arrived at Crick, seventy-five miles from London, they are within a mile of the great Kilsby Tunnel just referred to; and its northern extremity has not been left behind more than a mile and a-half, when the elaborate system of signals necessary for the protection of the next station comes in sight. The first of them is passed at speed; but gradually, as the engine and train approach the second, the driver slightly lowers his regulator, and the guards, both at the fore and hinder parts of the train, take their breaks in hand; so does the fireman, at his powerful break on the engine. The second signal is passed; white takes the place of green at the third, if all be right; but if not, and there be any sudden obstruction at or near the station, vivid red lamps by night, bright red arms by day, appear from half a dozen places almost with the electric flash and speed of lightning. Two sharp, shrill, and sudden whistles from the engine tell the guards that danger is a-head—that is, should they not themselves have seen it; an unlikely circumstance, for they are as keenly alert in their break-vans as driver and fireman are on their engine. In a moment three powerful men are applying, with utmost energy, the immense break-power at their command—so powerful that the passengers often feel a concussion that awakes the dormant, and almost hurls them against their opposite neighbours, and the train is pulled up within a space varying from 200 to 400 yards.