Chapter 2

In a "Grand Hôtel" again; abroad; never mind which or where; have experienced many Inns and many outings, but find all Grand Hôtels much the same. "Lawn-tennis, English Church in the Spa_t_ious Grounds, good station for friends of the _Fisch-Sport_."--But the quintessence of Grand-Hotelism is "Mr." in his Bureau.

The main thing about "Mr." is his frock-coat ("made in Germany"). It is always buttoned; he is never without it; I believe he sleeps in it. Divest him of this magician's robe (so to speak) and he would be powerless.

The Hôtel omnibus clatters in; "Mr." confronts us, smiling and serene, with his two Secretaries of Legation. He discriminates the Inn-comers at a glance.--"Numero 10, 11, 12, _entresol_;" for Noah-like Paterfamilias with Caravan; "Numero 656, for se Leddy's med;" "Numero 80, for me, the _soi-disant Habitué_;" it's the room I'm _supposed_ to have always had, so I pretend to like it. One Unremunerative-looking Pedestrian, in knickerbockers, is assured that, if he waits half a day or so, he may get an attic--"Back of se house; fine view of se sluice-gate and cemetery."--U.-L.P. expostulates; he has telegraphed for a good room; it's _too_ bad.--"Ver' sawy, but is quite complete now, se Hôtel." U.-L.P., furious; "Hang it," &c. "Mr." deprecates this ingratitude--"Ver' sawy, Sor; but if you don't like," (with decision), "se whole wide wurrld is open to you!" Pedestrian retires, threatening to write to the _Times_. Preposterous! as if the Editor would print anything against "Mr."! "Mr.'s" attitude majestic and martyred; CASABIANCA in a frock-coat! Bless you! he knows us all, better than we know ourselves. He sees the Cook's ticket through the U.-L.P.'s Norfolk-jacket.

When "Mr." is not writing, he is changing money. The sheepish Briton stands dumb before this financier, and is shorn--of the exchange, with an oafish fascination at "Mr.'s" dexterous manipulation of the _rouleaux_ of gold and notes. Nobody dares haggle with "Mr." When he is not changing money, he is, as I have said, writing, perhaps his Reminiscences. It is "Mr." "What gif you se informations;" and _what_ questions! The seasoned Pensionnaire wants to know how she can get to that _lovely_ valley where the Tiger-lilies grow, without taking a carriage. The British Matron, where she can buy rusks, "real English rusks, you know." A cantankerous tripper asks "why he never has bread-sauce with the nightly chicken." And we all troop to "Mr." after breakfast, to beg him to affix postage-stamps to our letters, and to demand the precise time when "they will reach England;" as if they wouldn't reach at all without "Mr.'s" authority. It gives the nervous a sense of security to watch "Mr." stamping envelopes. It is a way of beginning the day in a Grand Hôtel.

"Mr." gives you the idea of not wishing to make a profit; but he gives you nothing else. You wish to be "_en pension_"--"Ver' well, Sor, it is seventeen francs (or marks) the day;" but you soon discover that your room is extra, and that you may not dine "apart;" in a word, you are "Mr.'s" bondsman. Then there is the persuasive lady, who perhaps, _may_ be stopping a week or more, but her plans are undecided--at any rate six days--"Will 'Mr.' make a reduction?" "Mr." however, continues his manuscript, oh ever so long! and smiles; his smile is worse than his bite! I, the _Habitué_, approach "Mr." with a furtive clandestine air, and observe cheerily, "I hope to remain here a month." "Certainly, Sor; is better you do; will be se same as last year; I gif you se same appartement, you see."--This with an air of favour. I thank him profusely--for nothing. My bill turns out to be higher than if I had been overcharged separately for everything. "Mr." is the Master of the Arts of extras. He does not wish to make a profit; oh no! but--ahem--he makes it. As for the outsiders who straggle in casually for luncheon and want to be sharp with "Mr." afterwards, they are soon settled. One who won't be done, complains of a prince's ransom for a potato-salad.--"If you haf pertatas, you pay for pertatas."--TALLEYRAND could not have been more unanswerable.

"Mr." is immense at entertainments; it is "Mr." who organises "Se Spanish Consairt," "Se Duetto of se Poor Blinds," and, of course, "Se Bal"; he is very proud of his latest acquisition--the Orchestrion that plays the dinner down. To see "Mr." dispatch itinerant minstrels would do our County Council good.

"Mr." knows our compatriots _au fond_; he makes no extra charge for toast at breakfast, and you only pay half-a-crown for a pot of George the Third Marmalade, to lubricate it withal. Five-o'clock tea comes up at six, just as at home. He makes much of Actors, Peers, and Clergymen. Sunday is a great day for "Mr." He directs everyone to the English Church in "The Grounds"--(fifteen benches and one tree, with a fountain between them); and then goes off to play cards, but always in his frock-coat. The "Chaplain" gets his breakfast-egg gratis; and a stray Bishop writes, "Nothing can exceed the comfort of this Hôtel," in that Doomsday Book of Visitors.

When you depart--and, abroad, this is generally about daybreak--"Mr." is always on the spot, haughty, as becomes a man about to be paid, but considerate; there is a bouquet in petticoats for the Entresol--even, for me, a condescending word. "_When you see_ Mr. SHONES _in London, you tell him next year I make se Gulf-Links._" I don't know who the dickens JONES may be, but I snigger. It all springs from that miserable fiction of being an _Habitué_. "_Sans adieux!_" ejaculates "Mr.," who is great at languages; so am I, but, somehow, find myself saying "Good-bye" quite naturally. _À propos_ of languages, "Mr." is very patient with the Ladies who _will_ speak to him in so-called French or German, when they say, "_Où est le Portier?_" or "_Es ist sehr schön heute_," he replies, in the genuine tongue. I once overheard a lady discussing the chances of rest and quiet in the "Grand Hôtel." "_Oui c'est une grande reste_." said she. It only puzzled "Mr." for a moment. "_Parfaitement, Madame; c'est ravissant, n'est-ce pas?_" and then "Mr." sold her the little Hand-book, composed by the Clergyman, on which he receives a commission.

* * * * *

NEED I SAY MORE?

I loved--and need I say she was a woman? And need I say I thought her just divine? Her beauty (like this rhyme) was quite uncommon. Alas, she said she never could be mine!

My Uncle was a Baronet, and wealthy, But old, ill-tempered, deaf, and plagued with gout; I was his heir, a pauper young and healthy; My Uncle--need I say?--had cut me out.

I swore--and need I say the words I muttered? Sir HECTOR married KATE, and changed his will. Dry bread for me! For her the tea-cake buttered. I starved--and, need I say, I'm starving still!

* * * * *

"A CARPET KNIGHT"--Sir BLUNDELL MAPLE. Likewise that Sir B.M. is "a Knight of the Round Table." [N.B. Great rush to let off these. Contribution-Box joke-full of 'em. Impossible, therefore, to decide "who spoke first." Reward of Merit still in hand.]

* * * * *

SUGGESTION.--The Music-and-Hartland Committee will permit the performance of brief "Sketches" in the Music Halls. Wouldn't "Harmonies" by our own WHISTLER be more appropriate?

* * * * *

* * * * *

TIP TO TAX-COLLECTORS.

(_AFTER HERRICK'S "COUNSEL TO GIRLS."_)

A SONG OF THE EXCHEQUER.

Air--"_Gather ye rose-buds while ye may._"

Gather ye Taxes while ye may, The time is fleetly flying; And tenants who'd stump up to-day, To-morrow may be shying.

That annual "Lump," the Income Tax, Still higher aye seems getting; The sooner that for it you "ax," The nearer you'll be netting.

That payer's best who payeth first The Exchequer's pert purse-stormer: As the year wags still worse and worst Times, still succeed the former.

Then be not lax, but keep your time, And dun, and press, and harry; Tax-payers shirk, nor deem it crime, If long Collectors tarry.

* * * * *

"WHERE SHALL WE GO?" is of course an important subject in the holiday-time, and one to which _Sala's Journal_ devotes a column or two weekly; but a still more important one is "_How shall we go it?_" and having totted up the items there comes the final question, "_Where shall we stay?_" And the wise, but seldom-given answer is--"_At Home_." In any case, the traveller's motto should always be, "Wherever you go, make yourself quite at Home"--and stay there, may be added by the London Club Cynic, who wants everything all to himself.

* * * * *

THE LOST JOKE.

(_A SONG OF A SAD BUT COMMON EXPERIENCE._)

Air:--"_The Lost Chord._"

Seated one day in my study I was listless and ill at ease, And my fingers twiddled idly With the novel upon my knees. I know not where I was straying On the poppy-clustered shore, But I suddenly struck on a Sparkler Which fairly made me roar.

I have joked _some_ jokes in my time, Sir, But this was a Champion Joke, And it fairly cut all record As a humoristic stroke. It was good for a dozen of dinners, It was fit to crown my fame As a shaper of sheer Side-splitters, For which I have such a name.

It flooded my spirit's twilight Like the dawn on a dim dark lake, For I knew that against all rivals It would fairly "take the cake." I said I will try it to-morrow,-- I won't even tell my wife,-- It will certainly fetch Lord FUMFUDGE, And then--I am made for life!

It links two most distant meanings Into one perfect chime-- * * * * * Here my servant broke the silence, And said it was dinner-time! * * * * * I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That great Lost Joke of mine, Which had slipped from my mind entirely When I sat me down to dine.

It may be that something some day May bring it me back again; But I only wish--confound it!-- I had fixed it with pencil or pen. It may be that luck--bright Angel!-- May inspire me once more with that stroke, But I fear me 'tis only in Limbo I shall light on my great Lost Joke!

* * * * *

MRS. R., who has been busy with her juniors, tells us that she has been horrified to learn from her Nephew, who has been fighting the Slave-hunters on the Congo, that in that country they "preserve" the bodies of their enemies. He writes to her--"I have 'potted' several Arabs."

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE SONG OF THE BAR.

Work, work, work! Sang HOOD, in the "_Song of the Shirt_," Of the seamstress slave who worked to her grave In poverty, hunger, and dirt. Work, work, work! The Bar-maid, too, can say, Work for ten hours, or more; Oh, for "eight hours" a day!

Is she a happier slave Where gilding and mirrors abound? Of what can she think when eternal drink Is the cry of all around? Stand, stand, stand! Serving sots from far and near; Stand, stand, stand! More whiskey! More brandy! More beer!

Possibly some one may say, "What can that matter to us? She is frail, frivolous, gay; She is not worth a fuss." Prig, all her life is a snare, You, so excessively good, Would pity her rather if there Once for ten hours you stood.

How would you feel at the end? You may not think she is fit, Quite, for your sister's friend-- Is she too wicked to sit? Stand stand, stand! In the smoke of pipe and cigar, Always to think of eternal drink; Oh, pity the Slave of the Bar!

* * * * *

BY A RIBBON GIRL WHO HAS BEEN TO FRANCE.--"Sure the town itself must be full of go-a-head young women that a decent female wouldn't be seen spaking to--else why is it called _Belle-Fast_?"

* * * * *

THE OPERA IN THE FUTURE.

(_AS SUGGESTED BY "MUSICAL PAUPERS."_)

SCENE--_Interior of Covent Garden on a Subscription Night. The house is filled in the parts reserved for Subscribers. The remainder of the Auditorium is less crowded. The Overture is over, when there is a loud cry for the Manager. Enter before the Curtain Courteous Gentleman, who bows, and waits in an attitude of respectful attention._

_Person in the Amphitheatre._ I say, Mister, look 'ere, after charging me sixpence for a seat, I'm 'anged if they don't want an extra penny for a bill of the play.

_Courteous Gentleman._ Highly improper, Sir. I will look into the matter to-morrow, and if you are kind enough to identify the attendant who has attempted this overcharge, I will have him dismissed. And now, with your permission, your Royal Highnesses, my Lords, Ladies, and Gentlemen, we will go on with the Musical performances.

[_The Opera continues. At the end of the Third Act there is another cry for the Manager. The Courteous Gentleman re-enters before the Curtain, as before._

_Very Stout Person in the Amphitheatre Stalls._ I say, look here--I paid two shillings for this seat, and the back's coming off.

_Cour. Gen._ Perhaps, Sir, you have been leaning with a weight it is unable to bear.

_Very S.P._ Never mind about that. As I pay two shillings for my seat, I expect you to stop the show until it's mended.

_Cour. Gen._ As the show (as you call it, Sir) costs about two pounds a minute, I fear that would be rather an extravagant proceeding. If I may suggest, I would counsel you to change your seat to a more perfect one.

_Very S.P._ I like that! and get turned out by someone who had reserved it. No, thankee! But there, after all, I _am_ rather heavy, so let's say no more about it.

_Cour. Gen._ I am infinitely obliged to you.

[_Exit. The Opera continues until the commencement of the last Act, when there is a frantic cry for the Manager. The Courteous Gentleman again appears before the Curtain._

_Voices from the Cheaper Parts of the House._ Here, cut it short! Let's get to the end. Let's see how the story finishes!

_Cour. Gent._ I am at your disposal.

_Spokesman._ Well, look here, Mister. There's a lot of us here who want to catch the 11.40 train, so can't you cut the performance?

_Cour. Man._ Although your proposal, Sir, may cause some trouble and complications, I will honestly do my best. [_Bows and exit._

_Curtain._

* * * * *

TO THE ROLLER-SKATING FIEND.

O Boy!--O injudicious boy!-- Who, swayed by dark and secret reasons, Dost love thine elders to annoy At sundry times and frequent seasons, Why hast thou left thy tempting top-- Thy penny-dreadful's gory garble-- Thy blue-and-crimson lollipop-- Thy aimlessly meandering marble?

Thy catapult, so sure of aim, In cold neglect, alas! reposes, And even "tip-cat's" cherished game No longer threatens eyes and noses; Thy tube of tin (projecting peas) At length has ceased from irritating; But how much worse than all of these Thy latest craze--for roller-skating!

For, mounted on twin engines dread, Thou rushest (with adventures graphic) Where even angels fear to tread, Because there's such a lot of traffic. At lightning-speed we see thee glide, (With malice every narrow _shave_ meant), And charge thine elders far and wide, Or stretch them prone upon the pavement.

Round corners sharp thou lov'st to dart, (Thou skating imp! Thou rolling joker!) And hit in some projecting part The lawyer staid, or solemn broker. Does pity never mar thy glee, When upright men with torture double? Oh, let our one petition be That thou may'st come to grievous trouble!

* * * * *

* * * * *

ADVERTISING IN EXCELSIS.

SCENE--_Interior of the Universal Advertisement Stations Company's Offices. Managing Director discovered presiding over a large staff of Clerks. Enter Possible Customer._

_Possible Customer._ I see from the papers that it is proposed to turn the Suez Canal to account by erecting hoardings--have you anything to do with it?

_Managing Director._ No, Sir; but we do a very large cosmopolitan business of the same sort. Have you anything to advertise?

_Pos. Cus._ Well, yes--several things. For instance, I am bringing out a new sort of Beer. Can you recommend me good stations for that?

_Man. Dir._ Certainly, Sir. We have contracted for the whole of the best positions in the Desert of Sahara. If you get out a good poster in Arabic, it should be the means of furthering the trade amongst the Arabs.

_Pos. Cus._ Thanks. Then I have a fresh Pill. What about that?

_Man. Dir._ Well, Sir, pills (excuse the pleasantry) are rather a drug in the market; but I think we might try it amongst the Esquimaux. We have some capital crossroads in the Arctic Regions, and a really commanding position at the North Pole.

_Pos. Cus._ What can I do with a newly-patented Disinfectant?

_Man. Dir._ We have the Spire of Cologne Cathedral, and both sides of the Bridge of Sighs; in fact, if you like to push the sale in Venice, we would offer you the front of the Doge's Palace on the most advantageous terms.

_Pos. Cus._ Then I have an Everlasting Boot.

_Man. Dir._ I must confess, Sir, that boots (you will excuse the pleasantry) are rather worn out; but perhaps the Himalayas (where we have all the summits vacant) might suit your purpose.

_Pos. Cus._ Well, I will give your suggestions my best consideration.

_Man. Dir._ (_anxious to trade_). Can't I tempt you, Sir, with a million bills or so? We have all the best Royal Palaces in Europe, and the most frequented of the Indian Temples. There is scarcely a spot of any historical interest that we have not secured for our hoardings. Just added the Field of Waterloo, the Temple Gardens, and site of ancient Carthage to our list. We can do it very cheaply for you, Sir, if your order is a large one.

_Pos. Cus._ How about the papers?

_Man. Dir._ Well, we insert advertisements in them, too. Shall we begin with three columns in all the leading journals of the world?

_Pos. Cus._ No, thank you. I think I will commence on a somewhat smaller scale. (_Gives document._) Here is an order for three inches for one insertion on the leader-page of the _Pimlico Pump_.

[_Exit._

* * * * *

ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.

EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.

_House of Lords, Monday, August 15th._--Lords met to-day in charmingly casual way. Since they were last here, Government been defeated; the MARKISS out, Mr. G. in, and all that means or portends. Not many present, but the MARKISS in his place smiling in unaffected joyousness, just as Prince ARTHUR did in Commons when the end came.

"Very odd," said PICKERSGILL, pressing his hat to his bosom; "it seems nothing amuses the CECILS and their family belongings so much as a reverse at the Poll."

The MARKISS in such exuberant good humour at seeing KIMBERLEY opposite to him, could not resist temptation to try on little joke. It was not, he said, either desirable or usual that he, as outgoing Minister, should say anything on present occasion. But perhaps KIMBERLEY would oblige, and would give House full exposition of intentions of new Ministry with respect to foreign and domestic affairs. KIMBERLEY gravely answered, that not yet being Minister of the Crown, nor having had opportunity of consulting with his colleagues, he was unprepared to make statement on subject.

In this dilemma DENMAN came to front. "My Lords--" he said. What more he would have uttered is lost to posterity. MARKISS had moved adjournment of House, and HALSBURY, who has had long practice on this particular wicket, promptly bowled DENMAN out, by putting question and declaring it carried. DENMAN stood moment looking, more in sorrow than anger, at noble Lords hurrying out with unwonted agility.

"They made a mistake," he murmured; "especially HALSBURY. All I wanted was to propose vote of thanks to him for the grace and dignity with which he has presided over Debates in this House, and the manner in which he has, by his dispensation of patronage, preserved the highest traditions of his office, and even raised its lofty tone. Too late now, too late;" and the old gentleman putting his crumpled papers in his pocket, and wrapping his soiled pocket-handkerchief round the knob of his walking-stick, strode sadly forth.

Perhaps it was sight of this pathetic figure that sobered the MARKISS. Anyhow, as we walked out together, found him in subdued mood, more fitting the occasion than that assumed when addressing House. "All over at last, TOBY," he said; "and I may go down to Hatfield, take off my coat, and have a day's, or even a week's serene pleasure in my workshop. I'm nobody of any account now, _ni_ Premier, _ni_ Foreign Minister. Do you remember the lines written by an unknown hand on the ruins of Berytus, which TRYPHON, King of Syria, sacked a hundred and forty years before the Star rose at Bethlehem? I was thinking of them just now, even when I was chaffing KIMBERLEY:--

'Stay not your course, O Mariners, or me, Nor furl your sails--is not my harbour dry? Nought but one vast, forsaken tomb am I. But steer for other lands, from sorrow free, Where, by a happier and more prosp'rous shore, Your anchor ye may drop, and rest your oar.'"

"Not at all," I said.

Rather an inadequate remark, I see, when I come to write it down. I'd say something better if the MARKISS would repeat the lines.

_Business done._--MARKISS announces Resignation of Ministry.

* * * * *

_House of Commons, Thursday._--House seems to have been meeting all day. Began at three o'clock: Sitting suspended at half-past; resumed at 4.30; off again till nine; might have been continued indefinitely through night, only thunderstorm of unparalleled ferocity burst over Metropolis, and put an end to further manoeuvring. "Bless me!" tremulously murmured Lord SALISBURY's Black Man, as a peal of thunder shook Clock Tower, and lighted up House of Lords with lurid flame, "if these are home politics, wish I'd stayed in far-off Ind."

At first gathering in Commons, parties changed sides. "The sheep to the right, the goats to the left," as WILLIAM FIELD, Esq., M.P., said, daintily crossing the floor.