CORRESPONDENCE.
THE PETERSFIELD RAILWAY STATION.
‟Lights! Lights! Lights!”— Hamlet.
To the EDITOR of the Hampshire Telegraph.
Sir,—When, a few days ago, I found myself in this quiet and unpretending town it was by mode of conveyance by which I had never reached it before: the Rocket coach and its veteran driver were numbered ‟among the things that were;” and, by a fast train that argued well for the advancement of the inhabitants, I reached my destination. Imagine my horror and surprise to find myself almost in the dark. Lamps to be sure there were, but shedding such a ghostly apology for a light that they did not more than make darkness visible. Two hotels are rapidly springing into shape; a street is even talked of; the station itself is completed; and yet there is no gas. Surely, such a station as that of Petersfield should shine with a brighter lustre than its insignificant satellites on the line to Godalming. The road to town is as dark as two hedges can make it, and the unfortunate pedestrians who do not avail themselves of the conveyances to and from the station have no slight cause for alarm. The town, it is true, is not gorgeously illumined, but it is brilliant to the appearance of the station, even where the lamps are most scanty and most required. Instead of the gas being ready for the station, the station is waiting for the gas. To trudge through a road in the winter season, never in the most cleanly condition, with the usual paraphernalia of a traveller, and high hedges on either side, is not a consummation devoutly to be wished for, but when only lighted by an oil lamp that glimmers like a solitary star in the distance it is a persecution to
AN UNFORTUNATE TRAVELLER.