We make a great many stops. "Fourteenth street," shouts the man at the gate, and there is a rush of people to get off, and a rush of people to get on, and away we go; and in almost less time than it takes to get our breath, Twenty-third street, or some other, is shouted, and we stop again. At last Forty-second street is called, and we hurry off; everybody in New York is in a hurry. Yet we have reached a quiet place; the New York Central Depot. "A railroad depot a quiet place!" That astonishes you, does it? Still it is the truth; I am not sure but you would think yourself in a great public library, where people move quietly, and speak low. There is no rush, nor bustle; and the room which we have entered is so large that there can hardly be a crowd, even when many people are there. Many doors line one side, and large clock-faces are set over them; but they keep curious time; no two are alike. If you watch, however, you will discover that the doors and the clocks are all named. One is "N. Y. C. & H. R." another is "N. Y. & N. H." and another is--something else. The hands of the clock point to the hour and moment that the next train on that particular road will be ready to leave the depot. All we have to do is to look for the name of the road on which we want to travel, and then study the clock over the door. Here is ours, "N. Y. & N. H." We have still fifteen minutes. Before that time, the door is quietly opened, and a man whose duty it is to see that we, by no possibility, make a blunder and board the wrong train, takes his station behind it, and looks carefully at our tickets as we pass; we are seated and away.