When you have once made a start, eating on a railway journey is easy enough work; it is when you grow thirsty that the difficulty comes in.  You pour the sherry, claret, whatever you have (some take milk in a green bottle—­not a very tempting beverage to look at!) on to the floor, over your gown, on your neighbor’s foot (thereby eliciting a most unholy frown from the recipient of your bounty), anywhere, indeed, except in your glass.  Even if you are fortunate enough to catch a few drops, it is another Herculaean effort to take it to your mouth.  No, drinking in the train, while it is in motion, requires years of practice.

Then again, your fellow passengers are not always all that can be desired.  Often they are neither pleasant in themselves nor interesting as a study.  I traveled with an awful old lady the other day.  She had six small packages with her in the carriage, besides her hand-bag and umbrellas and half the contents of an extra luggage van.  The long-suffering porter who had looked after her boxes and finally put her in the train, was crimson with his exertions.  The generous lady, having searched several pockets before finding the necessary coin, bestowed on him a threepenny piece for his trouble!  “Thank yer, mum,” he went off muttering grimly, “I’ll bore a ’ole in the middle and ’ang it round my neck.”

This good dame never ceased to worry all through the journey.  She pulled her things from under the seat and put them up in the rack, and then reversed their locality.  At each station she called frantically to the guard to know where she was and if she ought to change.  Finally, when we reached our destination, it was proved that she had taken her ticket to one place and had her luggage labelled to another; and there she was, standing on the platform gesticulating violently, while the train was steaming off with her belongings.  What happened I do not know, for I was hurried off by my friends; but I should think it would be long before she and her luggage met again.

Fortunately she never knew how near she was to her death.  If ever I had murderous intentions in my heart, it was on that journey north.

You do not feel very affectionate toward the country on a wet day.  Indeed, it is a most mournful affair altogether, unless you have a particularly merry house party.  There is absolutely nothing to do.  The heavens weep at such inopportune moments too.  There is sure to be some large picnic, some delightful gathering on the “tapis,” when they choose to exhibit their griefs.  And they never notice how unwelcome such a display of feelings is, but go on weeping, weeping, weeping all day long, until at last you catch the malady yourself, and are obliged perforce to mingle a few of your own tears with theirs.