Mugby Junction; and then, sirs, not until we were at Crewe; and then, ladies and gentlemen, not until we came to Preston, where the welcome announcement was made of "twenty minutes allowed for dinner." Travelling from Paris to Vienna, you order your dinner, en route, from a carte which the guard brings to you; and at the station where you stop for dinner you find it ready and waiting your arrival, the guard having telegraphed your wishes an hour or so previously. We shall probably never arrive at so high a state of civilisation as this in England; but we travel rapidly and smoothly, and we get fresh footwarmers and civility on the way, and a real dinner to boot, which is an advance on ten years ago. The Caledonian Railway is not an interesting line, so far as scenery is concerned. Looking up from my book, the chief things I remember are certain highly-illuminated wayside references to "The Daily Telegraph Largest Circulation in the World." "Standard-Largest Paper." "Colman's Mustard." "Families Removing." "Tidman's Sea Salt." What enormous sums this thorough system of advertising represents! Writing home, the next day, to a paper, in which I had an interest, I said, "Advertise, advertise; newspapers ought to advertise, if only as an example to their clients." We had a hasty dinner at Preston, and I thought 2s. 6d. for the same exceedingly reasonable. An old Indian officer who travelled with me grumbled at it; but he was rich, and he grumbled at everything. He was rich, and had the gout. His blood was rich, like Bardolph's nose, and it blazed out all over his face. "Lord Derby has the gout," he said, "worse than I have." That seemed to comfort him immensely. He told me a lion story. All Indians tell lion stories: it is the thing. When I come home from India, I shall no doubt have slain as many That lions as other people. My Indian friend was a real hero, nevertheless. I have no doubt about it. He growled out some sanguinary incidents of the mutiny, tending to show how fiercely the British soldier can take his revenge. home blow of "Ernest to Magdalen" had just been struck in "Sooner or Later," and my friend the Indian had just blown twenty Sepoys from twenty guns, when the train ran into the railway station at Edinburgh, having done the journey, including stoppages and twenty minutes for dinner, in eleven hours. Within a quarter of an hour after my arrival I was behind the scenes in the northern city, and in time to hear the best modern representative of the fat knight declare, amidst a roar of laughter, that he was accursed to rob in that thief's company. "The manager," said my friend Bardolph, whispering Prince Hal; "the new manager!" A "super" overheard the remark, and I was duly installed. I peeped through a hole in the curtain, saw that there was a good house, went round to the front and announced myself to a member of the enterprising committee which had farmed the show, took a survey of the place, came back, shook hands with Falstaff in his armour, and went to the Waterloo, pleased with myself and everybody else. At night, when all was over, we had an actors' supper. Our company at the Waterloo consisted of Falstaff, Bardolph, Shallow, and Dame Quickly. The Prince, Poins, and the others had apartments elsewhere. They were the professional members of the company. We of the Waterloo were the amateurs, save and except Madame Quickly, who was professional and to the manner born-a clever actress and an excellent hostess, mark you. It was a rare evening. Having fought the battle of the day over again, we lapsed quietly into toddy and anecdote. Falstaff was himselfbright, genial, and witty, full of stories that belong to literary history. He had been amused with two incidents which had occurred on the other side of the border. The gentleman who was playing Chief Justice Shallow, for his own pleasure as well as the public's, hated Jews. It was in truth his favourite hobby to dislike "the chosen people." For my own part, let me confess it at once, I admire the race. Jews are amongst our most intellectual citizens. However, Shallow hated them. A few evenings prior to our chat at the Waterloo, he was in Birmingham playing at billiards. There was present a gentleman of undoubtedly Israelitish extraction, who very rudely offered opinions on the game. "Excuse me," he said, noticing one of Shallow's strokes, " 'you should have played for the cannon with the left side on your ball.” "Thank you," said Shallow; "that may be the style in Judea, but I assure you we play differently in Birmingham." On another oc |