It was after the last-named days that, whilst on tour with various dramatic combinations--more from necessity than art, as far as I was concerned--that the first principles of parlour cookery became impregnated in mine understanding. We were not all "stars," although we did our best. Salaries were (according to the advertisements) "low but sure"; and (according to experiences) by no means as sure as death, or taxes. The "spectre" did not invariably assume his "martial stalk," of a Saturday; and cheap provincial lodgings do not hold out any extra inducement in the way of cookery. So, whilst we endured the efforts of the good landlady at the early dinner, some of us determined to dish up our own suppers. For the true artist never really feels (or never used to feel, at all events) like "picking a bit" until merely commercial folks have gone to bed. Many a time and oft, with the aid of a cigar box (empty, of course), a couple of books, and an arrangement of plates, have I prepared a savoury supper of mushrooms, toasted cheese, or a _kebob_ of larks, or other small fowl, in front of the fire. More than once have I received notice to quit the next morning for grilling kidneys on the perforated portion of a handsome and costly steel fire-shovel. And by the time I had become sufficiently advanced in culinary science to stew tripe and onions, in an enamel-lined saucepan, the property of the "responsible gent," we began to give ourselves airs. Landladies' ideas on the subject of supper for "theatricals," it may be mentioned, seldom soared above yeast dumplings. And few of us liked the name, even, of yeast dumplings. But perhaps the champion effort of all was when I was sojourning in the good city of Carlisle--known to its inhabitants by the pet name of "Cannie Carle." A good lady was, for her sins, providing us with board and lodging, in return for (promised) cash. My then companion was a merry youth who afterwards achieved fame by writing the very funniest and one of the most successful of three-act farces that was ever placed upon the stage. Now there is not much the matter with a good joint of ribs of beef, roasted to a turn. But when that beef is placed on the table hot for the Sunday dinner, and cold at every succeeding meal until finished up, one's appetite for the flesh of the ox begins to slacken. So we determined on the Wednesday night to "strike" for a tripe supper. "Indeed," protested the good landlady, "ye'll get nae tripe in this hoose, cannie men. Hae ye no' got guid beef, the noo?" Late that night we had grilled bones for supper; not the ordinary _Grilled Bones_