that the country actors, pining for London,
knowing that a great body of town celebrities
were going down that day, might have
conspired to place a stone upon the rails. It
certainly was suggested during the journey that
there was an alarming degree of imprudence in
putting so many precious eggs into one frail
basket—but that was the suggestion of a
dramatic author, who was probably thinking of
his chest of drawers-ful of pieces.

I was not alone at the insurance office. Many
members of the "profession" were streaming
away with their sixpenny tickets. There was
just one left negotiating. It was the charming
lady with whom I have been platonically in love
these—I don't like to say how many years, for
my own sake as well as hers.

"What!" I said, "are you nervous, too?"
meaning that I was.

"No," she said; "but I must think of the
chicks at home."

They were all thinking of their chicks, of
those who were near and dear to them, and of
their poor brethren. This interest in their own
class was manifested in many ways. A comedian
who sat opposite me pointed out with evident
pleasure the country cottages of some of his
colleagues who had made an Arcadian colony
within easy reach of the midnight train.
Yonder smoked the chimney of Sir Toby Belch,
near by bloomed the roses of Laertes. Is that
Ophelia in the garden plucking them?

And so we rattle on, infringing the by-laws,
where we do not infringe the laws of politeness,
until suddenly emerging from a pine-wood,
which suggests to this writer, Scotland, and, to
a special war commissioner, Denmark, we come
in view of a bright-looking Gothic building,
situated in the midst of a garden gay with
rhododendrons, with many-coloured banners,
and with red coats. The Dramatic College!

We, who have not seen it before, exclaim in
a breath, "What a pretty place!"

I had heard in gloomy quarters that it was
not a pretty place; that it was situated on a
"blasted heath," and that the only village near
it was a village of the dead—a cemetery! I
saw at a glance that this was a libel. The
heath was thick with heather fast purpling into
bloom; there was a cluster of cottages within
a stone's throw; "first-class villas" were rising
on the right, promising a thickly-populated
neighbourhood; Woking station was within
three-quarters of a mile; and as to the cemetery,
why, I could not see it, and for precisely the
same reason that Tilburina could not see
the Spanish fleet—because 'twas not in sight.
That bugbear of a cemetery is about the same
distance from the Dramatic College as Kensal-
green is from Charing-cross. When the Prince
of Wales arrived, and just as he placed his
foot on the temporary platform, the college
clock, with proper regard for theatrical effect,
struck four. Bang, bang, went a park of real
guns, a real army presented arms, and then the
play began, all the actors present, whether
tragedians or comedians, carrying wands, and
playing Polonius to the husband of the Princess
of Denmark.

The plot and action of the drama may be
described in a few words. Preceded by a dozen
Poloniuses, the Prince marched up the garden
to the door of the central hall, where Mr.
Benjamin Webster, the master, presented him
with a golden key. With this he opened the
door—which, being a door intimately connected
with the stage, was not locked—and entered to
find the hall already occupied by a brilliant
assemblage of what I may call beauty and talent.
The Prince, having taken up his position under a
regal canopy, Mr. Webster advanced and read
an address, informing his Royal Highness that
the work in which his deceased father had taken
a great and special interest was now nearly
completed. The three objects contemplated in
the erection of the college were: a retreat for
aged and infirm actors; schools for the education
of the children of actors and writers for the
stage; and a central hall which should include
a library and a gallery of works of art. The
first of these was accomplished; for the second,
funds were in the course of accumulation; and
the third, which crowned the edifice, was then
about to be dedicated by his Royal Highness to
the uses for which it was designed. To this
the Prince makes a sensible and hearty reply,
showing by some earnest and solemn words that
he has a proper appreciation of the value of the
actors' art, as a means of conveying amusement,
and at the same time moral instruction and
intellectual culture. The hall is then declared
open, and Miss Louisa Pyne and Madame Grisi
celebrate the event with gushing notes of music
that make the walls ring again, and fill all our
hearts with a thrill of exquisite pleasure. Then
ladies advance to lay offerings of golden guineas
before the young Prince, and foremost among
them is the lady we all love and honour. I
think that if I were a Prince, I would step down
from that throne and ask permission to kiss her
hand—that hand which is ever full of charity
and blessing. This is the most touching part of
the play. It is soon over now. The Prince,
after supplementing the offerings of the ladies
with a purse of his own, containing the
handsome sum of fifty guineas, returns to the
platform of the railway with his attendant
Poloniuses, and presently we see him, while
waiting for the train, talking to that
excellent comedian, Mr. Toole. Of course his
Royal Highness is asking him if yonder fleecy
cloud is not like a whale; and of course Mr.
Toole, being Polonius with a wand, says it is
"very like a whale," or anything else his Royal
Highness pleases to call it. I think Mr. Paul
Bedford is sorry now that he was not a Polonius,
that he might be at hand to back up his
comrade, and say, "I believe you, my boy."

It was very pleasant to meet the old pensioners
sunning themselves in their pretty garden, and
greeting you with quotations from Shakespeare.
Ask where yonder road leads to, and it will be
replied to you, "Towards Chertsea, my lord."
Speak to one who scarcely remembers you, and