Punch, or The London Charivari | Page 6

somehow, I fancy; but, bless yer, I soon put that
straight. Gals is wonderful touchy on togs! Covent Garden piled high
on a plate With a blue hostrich-feather all round it, mayn't be man's
hidea of a tile, But I flattered her taste a rare bat, and soon 'ad her again
on the smile.
Well, "Venice the Bride of the Sea," is wuth more than one visit, old
pal, And I've got a hengagement next week to go there with the same
pooty gal. I'm going to read up the subjeck, I'll cram for it all I can
carry, For I'm bound to be fair, in the know if young POLLY should
question

Yours, 'ARRY.
* * * * *
INNS AND OUTS.
NO. I.--"MISTER."
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.
[Illustration: "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.