Part 2

He is delighted when they exhibit no sort of emotion on being thus enriched. It shows, he says, that, as yet, they have no conception what money means.

The pair have toddled off towards a gathering of older children, and Pashley, who has brought a Kodak, wonders if he can induce them to stay as they are while he takes a snapshot. Shirtliff protests again. Only spoil them, make them conceited and self-conscious, he maintains.

But the children have seen the Kodak, and are eager to be taken. One of them produces a baby from neighbouring cottage, and they arrange themselves instinctively in effective group by a fence.

Pashley delighted. "Awfully intelligent little beggars!" he says. "They seem to know exactly what I want."

They also know exactly what _they_ want, for the moment they hear the camera click, they make a rush at us, sternly demanding five cents a head for their services.

Shirtliff very severe with them; not one copper shall they have from _him;_ not a matter of pence, but principle, and they had better go away at once. They don't; they hustle him, and some of the taller girls nudge him viciously in the ribs with sharp elbows, as a hint that "an immediate settlement is requested." Pashley and I do the best we can, but we soon come to the end of our Dutch coins. However, no doubt English pennies will---- Not a bit of it! Even the chubby infants don't consider them legal tender here, and reject them with open scorn.

Fancy we have compromised all claims at last. No; Marken infantry still harassing our rear. What _more_ do they want? It appears that we have not paid the baby, which is an important extra on these occasions, and which they carry after us in state as an unsatisfied creditor and a powerful appeal to our consciences. Adult Markeners come out, and seem to be exchanging remarks (with especial reference to Shirtliff, who is regarded as the chief culprit) on the meanness that is capable of bilking an innocent baby.

"What I like about Marken," says Pashley, when we are safely on board our sailing boat, to which we have effected a rather ignominious retreat, "what I like about Marken is the beautiful simplicity and unworldliness of the natives. Didn't that strike _you_, Shirtliff?"

We gather from Shirtliff's reply that he failed to observe these characteristics.

* * *

AT MUNICH.--_Mr. Joddletop_ (_to travelling companion at Bierhalle_). What they call this larger beer for I'm blessed if I know! Why, it's thinner than the Bass I drink at home!

* * *

_Mrs. Tripper_ (_examining official notice on the walls of Boulogne_). What's that mean, Tripper, "Pas de Calais"?

_Tripper (who is proud of his superior acquaintance with a foreign language)._ It means--"Nothing to do with Calais," my dear. These rival ports are dreadfully jealous of one another!

* * *

VERY MUCH ABROAD.--_Brown._ I say, Smith, you've been here before. Tell me where I can get a first dish of _Tête de veau?_

_Smith._ _Tête de veau?_ Let's see, that's "calf's head," isn't it? Well, I heard of a place where they ought to have it good, as they call it the _Hôtel de Veal_.

COURTESY À LA SUISSE

["The recent complaints of the rudeness shown to English travellers in Switzerland by the natives has been officially denied by the authorities of Lucerne."--_Daily Paper._]

_You are an idiot, a fool, and a rascal._ (_Official explanation._) Terms of endearment denoting feeling of the utmost friendship.

_Why do you come here? Why don't you stay at home?_ (_Official explanation._) Merely questions asked to stimulate pleasant conversation.

_You are a rosbif, a boule dogue, and plum-pudding._ (_Official interpretation._) Fine names intended to express the greatest possible admiration for British institutions.

_If you speak we will knock you down._ (_Official interpretation._) Merely a kindly expression of concern calculated to produce repose.

_You are one brutal, ugly-faced foreigner._ (_Official interpretation._) A jocular salutation.

_You sell your wife at Smithfield--Long live the Boers!_ (_Official interpretation._) A polite attempt to commence a courteous conversation.

_Are you English?_ (_Official interpretation._) The highest praise imaginable.

THE DAMSELS OF DIEPPE

_Or, The Legend of Lionel_

"Newhaven to Dieppe," he cried, but, on the voyage there, He felt appalling qualms of what the French call _mal de mer;_ While, when the steward was not near, he struck Byronic attitudes, And made himself most popular by pretty little platitudes. And, while he wobbled on the waves, be sure they never slep', While waiting for their Lionel, the Damsels of Dieppe.

He landed with a jaunty air, but feeling rather weak, While all the French and English girls cried out "_C'est magnifique!_" They reck'd not of his bilious hue, but murmur'd quite ecstatical, "Blue coat, brass buttons, and straw hat--c'est _tout-à-fait_ piratical!" He hadn't got his land-legs, and he walked with faltering step, But still they thought it _comme-il-faut_, those Damsels of Dieppe.

The Douane found him circled round by all the fairest fair, The while he said, in lofty tones, he'd nothing to declare; He turned to one girl who stood near, and softly whisper'd "Fly, O Nell!" But all the others wildly cried, "Give us a chance, O Lionel!" And thus he came to shore from all the woes of Father Nep., With fatal fascinations for the Damsels of Dieppe.

He went to the Casino, whither mostly people go, And lost his tin at baccarat and eke _petits chevaux;_ And still the maidens flocked around, and vowed he was amusing 'em; And borrowed five-franc pieces, just for fear he should be losing 'em; And then he'd sandwiches and bocks, which brought on bad dyspep- -sia for Lionel beloved by Damsels of Dieppe.

As bees will swarm around a hive, the maids of _La belle France_ Went mad about our Lionel and thirsted for his glance; In short they were reduced unto a state of used-up coffee lees By this mild, melancholic, maudlin, mournful Mephistopheles. He rallied them in French, in which he had the gift of rep- -artee, and sunnily they smiled, the Damsels of Dieppe.

At last one day he had to go; they came upon the pier; The French girls sobbed, "_Mon cher!_" and then the English sighed, "My dear!" He looked at all the threatening waves, and cried, the while embracing 'em, (I mean the girls, not waves,) "Oh no! I don't feel quite like facing 'em!" And all the young things murmured, "Stay, and you will find sweet rep- aration for the folks at home in Damsels of Dieppe."

And day by day, and year by year, whene'er he sought the sea, The waves were running mountains high, the wind was blowing free. At last he died, and o'er his bier his sweethearts sang doxology, And vowed they saw his ghost, which came from dabbling in psychology. And to this hour that spook is seen upon the pier. If scep- tical, ask ancient ladies, once the Damsels of Dieppe.

* * *

TO INTENDING TOURISTS.--"Where shall we go?" All depends on the "coin of 'vantage." Switzerland? Question of money. Motto.--"_Point d'argent point de Suisse._"

* * *

AT INTERLACHEN.--_Cockney Tourist to Perfect Stranger_. Must 'ave been a 'ard frost 'ere last night, sir.

_Perfect Stranger_ (_startled_). Dear me! Why?

_Cockney Tourist._ Why, look at the top of that there 'ill, sir (_points to the Jung Frau_). Ain't it covered with snow!

VENEZIA LA BELLA

[According to a correspondent of the _Times_, it is proposed to erect bridges connecting Venice with the mainland.]

One afternoon in the autumn of 1930, when the express from Milan arrived at Venice an Englishman stepped out, handed his luggage ticket to a porter, and said, "_Hotel Tiziano_."

"_Adesso Hotel Moderno, signore_," remarked the porter.

"They've changed the name, I suppose. All right. _Hotel Moderno, gondola._"

"_Che cosa, signore?_" asked the porter, apparently confused, "_gon--, gondo--, non capisco. Hotel Moderno, non è vero?_" And he led the way to the outside, where the Englishman perceived a wide, asphalted street. "_Ecco là, signore, la stazione sotterranea del Tubo dei Quattro Soldi; ecco qui la tramvia elettrica, e l'omnibus dell' hotel._"

"_Gondola_," repeated the Englishman. The porter stared at him again. Then he shook his head and answered, "_Non capisco, signore, non parlo inglese_." So the Englishman entered the motor omnibus, started at once, for there were no other travellers, and in a few minutes arrived at the hotel, designed by an American architect and fifteen stories in height. The gorgeous marble and alabaster entrance-hall was entirely deserted.

Having engaged a room, the Englishman asked for a guide. The hall porter, who spoke ten languages fluently and simultaneously, murmured some words into a telephone, and almost immediately a dapper little man presented himself with an obsequious bow.

"I want to go round the principal buildings," said the Englishman. "You speak English, of course."

"Secure, sir," answered the guide, with another bow; "alls the ciceronians speaks her fine language, but her speak I as one English. Lets us go to visit the Grand Central Station of the Tube."

"Oh, no," said the Englishman, "not that sort of thing! I'm not an engineer. I should like to see the Doge's Palace."

"Lo, sir! The Palace is now the _Stazione Centrale Elettrica_."

"Then it's no good going to see that. I will go to St. Mark's."

"San Marco is shutted, sir. The _vibrazione_ of the elettrical mechanism has done fall the mosaics. The to visit is become too periculous."

"Oh, indeed! Well, we can go up the Grand Canal."

"The _Canal Grande_, sir, is now the _Via Marconi_. Is all changed, and covered, as all the olds canals of Venezia, with arches of steel and a street of _asfalto_. Is fine, fine, _è bella, bella, una via maravigliosa"!_

"You don't mean to say there isn't a canal left? Where are the gondolas then?"

"_An, una gondola!_ The sir is _archeologo_. _Ebbene!_ We shalls go to the _Museo_. There she shall see one gondola, much curious, and old, ah, so old!"

"Not a canal, not a gondola--except in the museum! What is there to see?"

"There is much, sir. There is the Tube of the Four Halfpennies, _tutto all' inglese_, as at London. He is on the arches of steel below the news streets. There is the bridge from the city to Murano, one span of steel all covered of stone much thin, as the _Ponte della Torre_, the Bridge of the Tower, at London. Is marvellous, the our bridge! Is one bridge, and not of less not appear to be one bridge, but one castle of the middle age in the middle air. _È bellissimo, e anche tutto all' inglese._ And then----"

"Stop," cried the Englishman. "Does anybody ever come to your city now? Any artists, for instance?"

"Ah, no, sir! _Pittori, scultori, perche?_ But there are voyagers some time. The month past all the Society of the Engineers of Japan are comed, and the hotels were fulls, and all those sirs were much contenteds and sayed the city was marvellous. She shall go now, sir, to visit the bridge?"

"No," said the Englishman, emphatically, "not I! Let me pay my bill here and your fee, whatever it is, and take me back to the railway station as fast as you can. There are plenty of bridges in London. I am going back there."

* * *

AT BRUSSELS.--_Mrs. Trickleby_ (_pointing to announcement in grocer's window, and spelling it out_).

_Jambon d' Yorck._ What's that mean, Mr. T.?

_Mr. T._ (_who is by way of being a linguist_). Why, good Yorkshire preserves, of course. What did you suppose it was--Dundee marmalade?

'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND

DEAR CHARLIE,--You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll be bound. Not for Parry alone, mate, this time--I've bin doing the Reglar Swiss Round. Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie--guess it's a sight you'd enjoy To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss Boy.

'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by rail. But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest scale; Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old chap; And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on the rap.

Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep, as you know. But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed Young Frow? I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came _much_ of a spill; But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer Primrose 'Ill.

But that's _ontry nous_, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper out 'ere. 'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel--no fear! When I slipped down a bloomin' _crevassy_, I _did_ do a bit of a 'owl, On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a cat on the prowl.

Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie--guide swore 'twas all my hown fault, 'Cos I would dance, and sing _too-ral-li-ety_, arter he'd hordered a halt. Awful gonophs, them guides, and no herror; they don't know their place not a mite, And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I looked sich a sight.

* * *

AT OSTEND.--_Biffles_ (_to Tiffles_). In this bloomin' country everyone's a prince or a marquis or a baron or a nob of some sort, so I've just shoved you down in the Visitors' Book as Lord Harthur MacOssian, and me as the Dook of FitzDazzlem!

_Tiffles._ Well, now, that is a lark! What'd our missuses say?

[_And what did their "Missuses" say when B. and T., held in pawn by the hotel proprietor (charging aristocratic prices), had to write home to Peckham Rye for considerable advances from the family treasuries?_

SUR LA PLAGE

_Sur la Plage!_ and here are dresses, shining eyes, and golden tresses, Which the cynic sometimes guesses are not quite devoid of art; There's much polyglottic chatter 'mid the folks that group and scatter, And men fancy that to flatter is to win a maiden's heart.

'Tis a seaside place that's Breton, with the rocks the children get on, And the ceaseless surges fret on all the silver-shining sand; Wave and sky could scarce be bluer, and the wily Art-reviewer Would declare the tone was truer than a seascape from Brett's hand.

And disporting in the waters are the fairest of Eve's daughters, Each aquatic gambol slaughters the impulsive sons of France, While they gaze with admiration at the mermaids' emulation, And the high feats of natation at fair Dinard on the Rance.

There are gay casino dances, where, with Atalanta glances That ensnare a young man's fancies, come the ladies one by one; Every look is doubly thrilling in the mazes of quadrilling, And, like _Barkis_, we are willing, ere the magic waltz is done.

And at night throng Fashion's forces where the merry little horses Run their aggravating courses throughout all the Season's height; Is the sea a play-provoker?--for the bard is not a joker When he vows the game of poker goeth on from morn till night.

There St. Malo walls are frowning,--'twas immortalised by Browning, When he wrote the ballad crowning with the laurel Hervé Riel; With ozone each nerve that braces, pleasant strolls, and pretty faces, Sure, of all fair seaside places, Breton Dinard bears the bell!

* * *

COMPENSATION,--"Ullo, Jones! You in _Paris!_"

"Yes, I've just run over for a holiday."

"Where's your wife?"

"Couldn't come, poor dear. Had to stop at home on account of the baby!"

"Why, your holiday will be half spoiled!"

"Yes. Mean to stay twice as long, to make up!"

AT PARIS.--_Professed Linguist._ Look here! Moi et un otrer Mossoo--a friend of mine--desirong der go par ler seven o'clock train à Cologne. Si nous leaverong the hotel at six o'clock et ung demy, shall nous catcherong le train all right? Comprenny voo? Voo parly Français, don't you? You understand French, eh?

_Polite Frenchman_ (_who speaks the English_). I understand the French? Ah yase! Sometimes, monsieur!

WHAT TOURISTS NOTE

(_Supplementary Facts--omitted from the Times List_)

That everything is so much better on the Continent.

That the proverbially polite Frenchman never smokes before ladies in a railway carriage.

That not for worlds would he shut the window in your face and glare at you if you ask for a little air.

That no official ever seen through a pigeon-hole at a post bureau is dyspeptic and insolent.

That sanitary improvements in Italy do not mean typhoid fever.

That where your bed-room walls are of paper, and somebody on one side of you retires in good spirits at two, and somebody else on the other gets up lively at four, you have a refreshing night's rest.

That rambling parties of Cook's tourists add immensely to the national _prestige_.

That the discovery of what it is you eat in a _vol-au-vent_ at a "_diner à trois francs_," will please but not surprise you.

That it is such fun being caged-up in a railway waiting-room, and then being allowed to scamper for your life to the carriages.

That perpetual fighting to get into over-crowded hotels, crammed with vulgar specimens of your own fellow-countrymen, is really enjoyable and exhilarating work.

That a couple of journeys across the Channel, especially if it is blowing both ways, are at least always something pleasant to look back upon.

That when you once get home again, England, spite some trivial advantages, being without Belgian postmen, French omnibuses, and Swiss police-regulations, strikes you as almost unendurable.

* * *

AT MONTE CARLO.--_Angelina_ (_sentimentally_). Look, Edwin, how the dear palms are opening themselves instinctively to the golden air.

_Edwin_ (_brutally remembering his losses at the table and the long hotel bill_). If you can show me any palm in the place, human or vegetable, which doesn't open itself instinctively to the golden air, I'll eat my hat!

[_Angelina sighed profoundly, and Edwin opened his purse strings._

BEAUTIES OF BOLOGNA

Not those, along the route prescribed To see them in a hurry, Church, palace, gallery, described By worthy Mr. Murray.

Nor those detailed as well by whom But Baedeker, the German; The choir, the nave, the font, the tomb, The pulpit for the sermon.

No tourist traps which tire you out, A never-ending worry; Most interesting things, no doubt, Described by Mr. Murray.

Nor yet, O gastronomic mind-- In cookery a boss, sage In recipes--you will not find, I mean Bologna sausage.

Not beauties, which, perhaps, you class With your own special curry; Not beauties, which we must not pass If led by Mr. Murray.

I sing--alas, how very ill!-- Those beauties of the city, The praise of whose dark eyes might fill A much more worthy ditty.

O, Ladies of Bologna, who The coldest heart might flurry, I much prefer to study you Than Baedeker or Murray.

Those guide-book sights no longer please; Three hours still, _tre ore_, I have to lounge and look at these _Bellissime signore_.

Then slow express--South Western goes Much faster into Surrey-- Will take me off to other shows Described by Mr. Murray.

But still, _Signore_, there will be, By your sweet faces smitten, One Englishman who came to see What Baedeker has written.

Let Baedeker then see the lot In frantic hurry-scurry. I've found some beauties which are not Described by Mr. Murray.

* * *

OVERHEARD AT CHAMONIX.--_Stout British Matron_ (_in a broad British accent, to a slim diligence driver_). Êtes-vous la diligence?

_Driver._ Non, madame, mais j'en suis le cocher.

_Matron_ (_with conviction_). C'est la même chose; gardez pour moi trois places dans votre intérieur demain.