never feel a bit the worse. I got drunk before you
were born, and I'll get drunk after you're dead.
And for why? Because I've always mixed my
liquors. The various spirituous liquors mercifully
given to man—and there are out four of
them, corresponding to the elements of which
all things are composed are—gin, whisky, rum,
and brandy, and each is a corrective of the
other. Each is a poison, I grant you, just as
each component part of the atmosphere is a
poison. It won't do to breathe nothing but
hydrogen; it won't do to drink nothing but
gin. With regard to liquor, this is my practice:
drink brandy for a week, then I correct the
evil tendency of brandy by drinking gin for the
next week. Following this out, I correct the
gin with rum, and the rum with whisky. In a
month I come round to the brandy again."

As a triumphant proof that his system is
infallible, my friend points to the fact that he has
seen all the companions of his life "go under"
both table and turf because they were faithful
to a foolish maxim, and wouldn't mix their
liquors.

I am a great believer in this theory as applied
to air. If you want to keep up a pleasant
state of exhilaration, and preserve your health,
mix your airs. For this reason I have faith in
the sanitary virtues of railway travelling.
John o' Groat's house or the Land's End may
be all very well, but the air may not suit you at
either place; and when you fix your quarters
you are apt to settle down into the habitual
easy-chair, and to live much as you do at home,
whereas on the railway you breathe a hundred
airs in a day. Believing in the inspiriting
influence of air with variations, I resolved to
spend my month's holiday, this autumn, in
travelling, and to visit as many places as
possible, never spending more than a day or a
couple of days at each.

So one morning, making a great effort, I dug
myself from my arm-chair, and transferred my
indolent and torpid person to the platform of
the terminus at Euston. (There is no necessity
to add "square," or to make mention of the
London and North-Western Railway; for
"Euston" is as big a word, and as well known a
place, as London. Indeed, if you wish your
luggage labelled at, say Bonar Bridge, further
north than which British railway goeth not,
you need only say, "Euston." For all railway
purposes in these distant northern regions, the
whole of the great metropolis is swallowed up
in "Euston" and "King's Cross.") The very
first step that one takes towards a railway
journey is exciting. The cab is at the door (you
see how modest I am; I don't say "carriage"),
and you have not a minute to spare. Then
comes that violent and bewildering collision of
thoughts, to which an indolent man is always
liable at such moments.

Is my luggage ready? Have I got everything
I want—my railway guide, the sandwiches,
the brandy-flask, my cigar-case, fuzees? Have
I locked up the valuables? Have I any
small change? With these unsatisfied doubts
tumbling over each other in your brain, you
scramble into the cab, and the excitement
begins.

There is certainly no more lively, bustling,
animated, and animating scene than the
terminus of a railway on the departure of an
express train. It does one good even to be an
on-looker; and I can imagine that a man, who
has few opportunities of travel, might give
himself a pleasant excitement every day, by visiting
the nearest terminus to witness the excitement
of others. In this ingenious manner I have
enjoyed some of the delights of travelling,
without the weariness of a journey, and without
paying a fare. It would be difficult to describe
what it is that renders this scene so invigorating.
There seems to be a sort of animal magnetism
at work. Every one is excited, though
there is no particular cause for excitement.
There are plenty of carriages, there are full
five minutes to spare, and yet every individual
on the platform is in an intense hurry—passing
and repassing, darting at the book-stall, plunging
into the refreshment-room, peeping into the
carriages, glancing at the clock, asking questions
of the guards (who are passing up and
down with their hands slyly formed into money-
boxes), giving directions to porters, shaking
hands with friends over and over again, and,
if addicted to tobacco, making the most
desperate efforts to avoid the company of ladies.
No doubt the snorting of the iron horse adds
to the excitement. He is not in the least
impatient to be off, and yet he seems so. And
what a sense of isolation and almost sadness
follows, when the train moves out of the station,
and you find yourself quietly seated with three
or four companions! Those whom you have
left on the platform feel no less isolated and
sad than you, who are gliding away, with the
elements of all the past bustle gathered into
silence. I am inclined to think that something
new might be said even on such a hackneyed,
every-hour subject as a railway journey
from London to Liverpool, if the thoughtful
passenger had the courage to reveal his
thoughts and his feelings. I often wonder
if the people who sit in the same compartment
with me are thinking what I am thinking, feeling
what I am feeling. Much as I am benefited
by railway travelling, I will confess at once that
I never enter a railway carriage without making
up my mind for sudden death. In an express
train I can never for any length of time abstract
myself from thoughts of danger. And yet I am
not agitated physically by this fear. My heart
beats as usual; there is no pallor on my cheek,
no moisture on my skin. I can speak without
a quaver in my voice; I can smoke placidly.
Nevertheless, at every variation of sound and
motion, every shriek of the whistle, every plunge
into the darkness of a tunnel, every swaying,
swinging rattle over the points at a junction,
thick-coming fancies of danger rush through
my brain and trouble me vaguely. I look into
the faces of my fellow-passengers for some
indication that they are feeling as I feel. I can