rectitude, and an absence of all but strictly
honourable motives.

Nothing, too, more awkward than the entrance
into a gay inn at a watering-place on a bright
summer day, and a pleasant repast commanded
for your young cousin, handsomely done out
of the fulness of your heart; then to discover,
too late, that the capital you have brought
is quite insufficient; the horrible straits of
your position flashing on you, inflamed by a
sort of nightmare—a prospect half indistinct of
the infuriated landlord, the entry of the accoutred
executive of the law, and the degrading
consignment to a prison, strange, and even far
away from the recognised duress of one's own
parish. How the truculent landlord entered,
when sent for, when you have made up your
mind to throw yourself, almost abjectly on his
feelings, and in the hard lineaments of whose
face is already to be read suspicion of the
coming confidence, and a determination to show
no mercy; how, when with a ghastly merriment,
as if it were a sheer absurdity, you have got out
your halting story, and talk feebly about a Post
Office order the first thing in the morning (the
very first thing, even before the office has opened),
when, after this piled-up agony, the truculent
landlord, who has lines of greed and avarice
scored all over his face, interrupts you to say,
calmly, that it is no matter, that if you will
leave your address or send it as soon as
convenient—what an unspeakable relief, albeit
purchased at the sacrifice of all belief in human
physiognomy!

It would be a very different thing, though,
to be placed in such difficulties in the presence
of the superior of the Grand Magnifico Hotel
(limited), where I am at this present date
writing these lines. That official—almost an
abstraction, and who seems to deal with but
two sorts of abstractions, the numbers of guests
and the bills of guests, would, I am convinced,
at any such faltering appeal, beckon from his
glass-case to the eternal policeman who is always
kept—perhaps for such purpose in the outer
hall. That man, M. Kœnig, a being of vast
continental hotel experience, must have long
since found the inconvenience of carrying a
heart about him, and must have parted with
it. Responsibility has driven all feeling
out of him. For this is a company, limited
indeed as to liability, but unlimited as to greed
of dividends, who keep their eye on him. A
shareholder often drops in, and with the air of a
careless traveller asks about rooms. He sees a
rust on a plate, and forthwith writes indignantly
to his favourite journal to ask "if this be the way
the money of the shareholders is wasted? Yours,
sir, A SHAREHOLDER IN THE GRAND MAGNIFICO
HOTEL COMPANY (LIMITED)."

Where does the Magnifico stand? Be it
sufficient information to say that there are many
Magnificos in London; some, with a roof like a
mammoth iron-clad, turned keel uppermost, and
"pierced" for a couple of hundred or so of
guests; some in Italian style, and some of pale
unpleasant-looking yellow brick, as if built of                                                       monster blocks of Stilton. At these great
tabernacles no one will ever "take his ease,"
and whoever in future travels life's dull round,
will not meet his warmest welcome at the
Magnifico.

It is worth the human observer's trouble to
stand a little in the great hall and watch his
species receiving their welcome at the Magnifico.
There is the wonderful hall full of glass-cases
and ambuscades—ambuscades for porters,
ambuscades for the beings who must literally "have
an eye to the bells," and who live mysteriously
in an atmosphere of cabalistic numbers like a
gigantic draught-board. There is the wonderful
hall, which is full of luggage going and luggage
arriving, full of lounging waiters and lounging
porters, full of departing guests, who, with trouble
in their faces, are encountering the combined
obsequiousness of these ministers (an obsequiousness
with which they have rarely been troubled
during their stay); full of bewildered questioners
who have come with notes, and cards, and parcels
for "William Smith, Esq.;" full of that herd of
newly-arrived travellers, whose luggage waits
on cab-tops outside—being sternly denied
admission until the princess has given the signal.
These helpless men and women—men, let it be
observed, in other relations of life, perfectly
equal to any situation, but wholly unnerved by
this attitude of suspense—deserving of the
sincerest sympathy.

The princess is behind the glass screen with
the books. She sees her victims perfectly,
nay, is but a yard from them; but the fiction
is maintained that they are not yet in her
presence. A beautifully dressed princess, with a
gold chain and watch, and a fair face, and rather
fair hair; "a nice creature," not five-and-twenty.
She is at this moment busy with the tall and
handsome Englishman who has been abroad, and who
can take off his hat gallantly to persons of her
condition before he speaks. The princess has a
lively voice, and can do a good deal of badinage
with such gentlemen. Some of the herd, with the
luggage on the cab-tops, draw near, made
desperate by delay, and interrupt. The princess turns
on them with disdain, and waves them off.
Another dashing gentleman, who has driven up
in a Hansom, with light luggage, pushes past the
herd contemptuously, and with a gay manner,
succeeds in obtaining audience. Then, at last
growing mutinous, the herd crowd in, and are
attended to wearily, and as a nuisance.

First question. Did they write? No, they                                                                      did not; but they were told—. Sufficient.                                                                    They may go down. Utterly out of the question.
Wholly impossible. Not to be thought of for
a moment. They are hustled away. Did you
write? Yes. When? Day before yesterday.
Too late. We have a list here, for a week back.
Out of the question. Wholly impossible. Not
to be thought of. Some one did write, and at
the proper time, and in the proper way, or
asks with the proper deference, and rooms
are grudgingly found. So the inquisition goes
on. Wonderful princess! She has wisdom
beyond her years. Always voluble; clear and