Part 3

_Tourist_ (_to manager, who knows English_). "There are two bottles of wine in our bill. We had only one bottle."

_Manager._ "Ach, he is a new waiter, and zee confounded echo of zee mountain must have deceived zee garçon."]

MRS. R. ON BOULOGNE-SUR-MER

Mrs. Ramsbotham, who has been staying at Boulogne for a short time, writes as follows:--

"Bullown-some-Air is, I am informed, not what it used to be, though the smells must be pretty much as always, which is not the scent of rheumatic spices. It's called Bullown-some-Air because if the sea-breeze wasn't too powerful for the smells, living would be impossible. Many of the visitors to the hotels on the Key told me the bedrooms were full of musketeers, who came in when the candle went out, and bit them all over. Such a sight as one poor gentleman was! He reminded me of the Spotted Nobleman at the Agrarian in Westminster. Then, on the Sunday I was there, a day as I had always been given to understand the French were 'tray gay,' there was actually no music, no band, no concert, and in fact no amusement whatever at the _Establishmong day Bangs_ (so called because there's a shooting-gallery next it, where they bang away all day at so much a head), which might as well have been closed, as there was no race-game (of which I had heard so much), no Tom Bowling[A] (they wouldn't get up a Tom Bowling unless there were nine persons present, which Mr. Hackson says is much the same as when magistrates meet and there isn't a sufficient number to make a jorum), and only one gentleman trying to produce another to play billiards with him.

"There was a theatre open. Not being a Samaritan myself, though as strict as anyone as to my own regular religious diversions at church, I let Mr. Hackson take myself and Lavinia to see _The Clogs of Cornwall_, which, I think, was the name of the opera, though, as I hadn't a bill, and didn't understand one quarter of what they were saying--not but what I was annoyed by Lavvy and Mr. Hackson always turning round to explain the jokes to me--I confess I did not see what either _Cornwall_ or _Clogs_ had to do with the story. The singing and the acting was worse than anything I'd ever met with at an English seaside theatre, because a place like Bullown ought to have a theatre as good as the one at Brighton. The customs worn by the actors were ugly, and when the lover, who was intended for a sailor--though his dress wasn't at all _de rigger_--said, confidentially, to the audience, alluding to an unfortunately plain young person who played the part of the Herring, "She is lovely!" there was a loud laugh, or, as Mr. Hackson, who speaks French perfectly, called it, a _levy de reedo_, all over the house, and this emulating from people who, I always thought, were remarkable for their politeness, was about the rudest thing I ever heard done to a public character in a playhouse.

"The place was hot, and the seats uncomfortable; so that after two acts, which was more like being in a penitentiary than a place of recrimination, we left, and went to our hotel, where, there being nothing more to do than there was anywhere else, Lavinia and myself retired to rest--that is, such rest as the musketeers would allow us. She slept in a back cupboard, called a _cabinet de Twilight_, because it was so dark and scarcely any veneration, there being no fireplace, and only such a window, as it was healthier to keep shut than open: but she had the advantage over me in not being troubled by any musketeers. There was only one of them in my room, and when I heard him singing away like a couple of gnats, I hid under the bedclothes, and he couldn't find me till I came up again for air, like a fish, and then he bit me on the forehead.

"Next morning we went to breakfast '_à la four sheets_' they call it, on account of the size of the table-napkins, at the _Rest-wrongs_ on the pier. The time they kept us! as there was only one _gossoon_ to about twenty persons. The best thing we had there was our own appetite, which we brought with us.

"After this there was nothing doing in the place till dinner-time (called _table doat_ because they're so fond of it), and after that there was a dull concert at the _Establishmong_, and as Mr. Hackson told us, who went there, a dull dance and poor fireworks at the Artillery Gardens in the _Oat Veal_. The '_Oat Veal_' is French for the high part of the town, but, judging from the smells on and about the Key, I should say that our hotel was situated in quite the highest part of the town.

"Less than a week at Bullown was quite enough and too much for us. If Sunday here were only lively, it would be a nice change from London, or Dover, or Folkestone, or Ramsgate, as I do not know a pleasanter and easier way to go than starting by the London, Chatting and Dover train at 10 A.M. from Victoria or Holborn Viaduct, arriving at Dover at twelve. Then by one of the comfortablest boats I was ever in, called the _Inflicter_ or _Invigorator_, I couldn't catch which, but Mr. Hackson told me it was Latin for 'unconquered,' which takes you, if it's a fine day and wind and tide favourable, in an hour and a quarter to Callous (or Kally in French), and if you are only going on to Bullown, you have your luggage examined (as if you were a smuggling brigadier!), and you have more than an hour for lunch before you start again. The luncheon at the Kallyous buffy is excellent, and the buffers, who speak English with hardly any accident, are most attentive. Then, when you've finished, you start for Bullown by the 2.45 train, and are at your hotel by 3.30 or thereabouts, which is what I call doing it uxuriously.

"But Bullown, as Mr. Hackson said to me, requires some _ongterprenner_, which means 'an undertaker,' to look after it, as it has become so deadly-lively. I think this must be a joke of Mr. Hackson's, one of his _caramboles_, as they call them in French, as what Bullown wants is waking up. As it is now, Bullown is a second-class place, and will soon be a third-class one, which, as Mr. Hackson says, 'Arry and an inferior dummy-mong will have all to themselves.

"Yours truly,

"M. A. R."

[Footnote A: We fancy Mrs. R. means "_Tombola_."]

LINES ON (AND OFF) AN ITALIAN MULE

O dubious hybrid, what your patronymic Or pedigree may be, does not much matter; But if my own attire you mean to mimic, And flaunt the fact that you, too, have a hatter-- Well then, in self-defence I'll pick with you A bone or two.

Perchance you have a motive, deep, ulterior, In donning head-gear borrowed from banditti? You wish to show an intellect superior, (And hide a profile which is not too pretty? Or is it, simply, you prefer to go Incognito?

A transmigrated Balaam's self you may be, But still I bar your method of progression; For while I sit, as helpless as a baby, And scale each precipice in steep succession, You scorn the mule-track, and pursue the edge Of ev'ry ledge.

How can I scan with rapt enthusiasm These Alpine heights, when balanced _à la_ Blondin, While you survey with bird's-eye view each chasm? I cry _Eyupp! Avanti!_--_you_ respond in Attempts straightway to improvise a "chute" For me, you brute!

_Basta! per Bacco!_ I'll no longer straddle (With cramp in each adductor and extensor) This seat of torture that they call a saddle! _Va via!_ in plain English, get thee hence, or---- On second thoughts, to leave unsaid the rest, I think, were best!

_IN RE_ THE RIGI

From a recent letter in the _Times_ it would seem that tourists visiting the hotels on the Rigi have to secure entertainment at the point (or rather the knuckle) of the fist. If the fashion is permitted to become chronic (by the patient endurance of the British public), the diary kept by the visitor to the Rigi is likely to appear in the following form:--

_Tuesday_, 4 A.M.--Just seen the sun rise. Rather cloudy in the valley, but on the whole magnificent. Will stay until to-morrow, as I am sure the air is excellent.

5 A.M.--Going back to the hotel. The night porter is shouting at me.

8 A.M.--Just finished a three hours' fight with the night porter. He scored "first blood" to my "first knock-down blow." I was able to polish him off in forty-seven rounds, and consequently have an excellent appetite for breakfast.

9 A.M.--After some desperate struggling with half-a-dozen waiters, have secured a cup of coffee and a small plate of cold meat.

12 A.M.--Have been asleep on a bench outside the hotel for the last two hours and a half, recovering from my recent exertions.

1 P.M.--Have fraternised with five English tourists armed with alpenstocks. One of our party has opened negotiations with the hotel-keeper as to the possibility of obtaining some lunch.

2 P.M.--Our ambassador has returned with his coat torn into tatters, and one of his eyes severely bruised.

3 P.M.--By a _coup de main_ we have seized the _salle-à-manger_, and now are feasting merrily on bread and honey.

4 P.M.--Just driven from our vantage-ground by eight boots, ten waiters, the landlord and auxiliaries from the kitchen.

6 P.M.--Have spent the last two hours in consultation.

7 P.M.--A spy from our party (assuming the character of an English duke) is just leaving us for the front.

8 P.M.--Our spy has just returned, and reports that when he asked for a room the enemy attacked him with brooms and candlesticks.

9 P.M.--Have just matured our plan of attack.

10 P.M.--Glorious news! A triumphant victory! Our party, in single file, made a descent upon the _table-d'hôte_, seized a large number of _hors d'[oe]uvres_, and, after an hour's desperate fighting, secured a large room on the top floor, where we are now safely barricaded for the night! Hurrah!

* * *

AT DIEPPE.--_Edwin._ Awfully jolly here! Awfully jolly band! Awfully jolly waltz! Awfully jolly, isn't it?

_Angelina._ Quite too awfully nice!

_Edwin._ Waltz over. Awfully nice moon! Awfully jolly to be a poet, I should think. Say heaps of civil things about the moon, don't you know! Rather jolly, eh? Tennyson, and that sort of thing, don't you know?

_Angelina._ Yes, isn't he a perfect love?

_Edwin._ Yes--great fun. Next dance--square. Awfully stupid things--squares, eh? You're not engaged?

_Angelina_ (_archly_). Not yet!

_Edwin._ Then let's sit it out.

MUDDY MILAN

Once I thought that you could boast Such a perfect southern sky, Flecked with summer clouds at most; Always sunny, always dry, Warm enough, perhaps, to grill an Englishman, O muddy Milan!

Now I find you soaking wet, Underneath an English sky; Pavements, mediæval yet, Whence mud splashes ever fly; And, to make one damp and ill, an Endless downpour, muddy Milan!

Though you boast such works of art, Where is that unclouded sky? Muddy Milan, we must part, I shall gladly say good-bye, Pack, and pay my little bill--an Artless thing--and leave you, Milan.

* * *

AT BOULOGNE.--_Ted_ (_to 'Arry_). What's the meaning of "avis" on those placards?

_'Arry._ There's a question from a feller as 'as studied Latin with me at the Board School! 'Ave you forgotten all about the black swan? It's a notice about birds, of course!

THEN AND NOW

_Before the Holidays_ (_an Anticipation_)

Really nothing so pleasant as packing. Such fun to see how many things you can get into a portmanteau. Won't take any books as the "Continong" will be enough for amusement.

Capital carriages to Dover. Everything first-rate. Civil guards. Time-table not a dead letter. Splendid boats, smooth sea, and a first-rate _buffet_ at Calais.

Dear Paris! Just the place for the inside of a week. Boulevards full of novelties. Theatres in full swing. Evenings outside the _cafés_ perfect happiness. Splendid!

_En route._ Swiss scenery, as ever, lovely. Mountains glorious, passes, lakes. Delightful. Nothing can compare with a jaunt through the land of Tell.

Italy--dear old Italy. Oh, the blue sky and the _tables d'hôte!_ What more glorious than the ruins of Rome? What more precious than the pictures of Florence? What more restful than the gondolas of Venice?

And the people even! The French the pink of politeness. The Swiss homely and kindly. The Italians inheriting the nobility of the Cæsars.

And all this to take the place of hard work. Well, it is to come. Bless everybody!

_After the Holidays_ (_a Retrospect_)

What can be worse than packing? And after all the trouble of shoving things in anywhere, you find you have left half your belongings behind! And of course the books you half read during your weary travels are stopped at the Custom House.

Beastly journey from Paris to Calais, and as for the crossing afterwards--well, as long as I live I shall never forget it!

Dear Paris! Emphatically "dear," with the accent on the expense. Glad to be out of it. Boulevards deserted. Theatres playing "_relâche_." _Cafés_ deathtraps in the service of the influenza.

_En route!_ Who cares for Switzerland--always the same! Eternal mountains--yet coming up promising year after year! Sloppy passes, misty views. Beastly monotonous. The Cantons played out.

Italy! Who says Italy? Blue sky not equal to Wandsworth. Rome unhealthy. Art treasures at Florence not equal to collection in South Kensington. Mosquitoes at Venice.

And the people! Cheeky French, swindling Swiss, and dirty Italians!

And yet this is all to be supplemented by the same hard work. In the collar again. Oh! hang everybody!

ADVICE TO ENGLISHMEN ABROAD

Excepting for their money, English tourists are perhaps not highly valued on the Continent. We would therefore offer a few practical suggestions, which, now that the tourist season has returned, will be found, no doubt, invaluable to Britons when abroad:--

1. When you begin inspecting a foreign town or city, it is wise to stalk along the middle of the streets, and make facetious comments on whatever you think funny. Laugh loudly at queer names which you see above shop-windows, especially if their owners, as is frequently the case, are lounging by the doorposts.

2. When you go into a church, strut and stare about as though you were examining a picture exhibition. Display contemptuous pity for the worshippers assembled, and make in a loud voice whatever critical remarks you happen to think proper.

3. If, while you take your walks abroad, you encounter an unfledged and enthusiastic traveller, who daringly attempts to enter into conversation with you, do your best to snub him in recital of his exploits, and render him dissatisfied with his most active feats. Interrupt his narrative with pitying exclamations, such as "Ah, I see! you went by the wrong route;" or, "O, then you _just_ missed _the_ very finest point of view." You may discover, very likely, he has seen much more than you have: but by judicious reticence you may conceal this awkward secret, and render him well-nigh as discontented as yourself.

4. When you are forced to start upon some mountain expedition, let everybody learn what an early bird you are, and awaken them to take a lively interest in your movements. Stamp about your room in your very thickest boots, and, if you have a friend who sleeps a few doors off, keep bellowing down the passage at the tiptop of your voice, although there may be invalids in plenty within earshot.

5. Should you gallantly be acting as a _courrier des dames_, mind that your lady friends are called an hour sooner than they need to be. A pleasant agitation will be thus caused near their bedrooms. They will amuse those sleeping next them with an incessant small talk, and, as their maid will be dispatched on endless little errands, their door will be heard creaking and banging-to incessantly until they clatter downstairs.

6. When you come into a drawing-room or _salon de lecture_, make your triumphal entry with all the noise you can, so as to attract the general attention. Keep your hat upon your head and glare fiercely at the quiet people who are reading, as though, like Gessler, you expected them to kneel down and pay homage to it.

7. Should your neighbour at the _table d'hôte_ attempt to broach a conversation with you, turn your deaf ear, if you have one, to his insolent intrusion. If in kindliness of spirit he will still persist in talking, freeze the current of his speech by your iciness of manner, or else awe him into silence by your majesty of bearing.

8. If, despite your English efforts to remain an island, you find yourself invaded by aggressive foes to silence, strive to awe them by the mention of your friend Lord Snobley, or of any other nobleman with whom you may by accident have ever come in contact. For aught they care to know, you may be his Lordship's hairdresser; but the title of a lord is always pleasant hearing in the company of Britons, although benighted foreigners have not such respect for it.

9. Never give yourself the trouble to order wine beforehand for the _table d'hôte_, but growl and grumble savagely at waiters for not bringing it the instant you _have_ ordered it, even though you happen to have entered the room late, and find a hundred people waiting to be served before you.

10. In all hotels where service is included in the bill, be sure you always give a something extra to the servants. This leads them to expect it as a thing of course, and to be insolent to those who can't so well afford to give it.

* * *

UNPLEASANTLY SUGGESTIVE NAMES OF "CURE" PLACES ABROAD.--_Bad Gastein._ Which must be worse than the first day's sniff at Bad-Eggs-la-Chapelle.

AN ALPINE RAILWAY

Abominable work of man, Defacing nature where he can With engineering; On plain or hill he never fails To run his execrable rails; Coals, dirt, smoke, passengers and mails, At once appearing.

To Alpine summits daily go The locomotives to and fro. What desecration! Where playful kids once blithely skipped, Where rustic goatherds gaily tripped, Where clumsy climbers sometimes slipped, He builds a station.

Up there, where once upon a time Determined mountaineers would climb To some far _châlet;_ Up there, above the carved wood toys, Above the beggars, and the boys Who play the _Ranz des Vaches_--such noise Down in the _Thal_, eh?

Up there at sunset, rosy red, And sunrise--if you're out of bed-- You see the summit, Majestic, high above the vale. It is not difficult to scale-- The fattest folk can go by rail To overcome it.

For nothing, one may often hear, Is sacred to the engineer; He's much too clever. Well, I must hurry on again, That mountain summit to attain. Good-bye. I'm going by the train. I climb it? Never!

* * *

AT MONTE CARLO.--_First Briton._ One never sees any young girls here.

_Second Briton (brutally inclined)._ No! the ladies are obliged to be _trente et quarante_ to match the tables.

ROUNDABOUT READINGS