I had, perhaps, better make good use of
my time; for, in five minutes, the territory
vacated by the True Friends of the Belgian
Lion (who have simply changed their tavern
in search of fresh taps and barmaids new)
will, in all probability, be occupied by the
Society of William Tells, or by the
Worshipful Company of Football, or by the
Metropolitan or the Provincial Band of Bool-Bog
Players (I don't know what sort of a
thing the Bool-Bog is; but there are several
amateur societies in my vicinity whose
express business is to play with it); or by the
Voluntary Company of Arquebusiers, or by
the great Arblast men, or by the little
Arblast men, or by the United Belgian
Skittlers. All these societies exist in and about
the territory of Saint Josse-ten Noode, with
whom it is a day of high festival (as it somehow
generally manages to be about twice a
week); and I know the Saint and his ways.

I am indebted for the honour of so
distinguished an acquaintance, to the kindness of
Monsieur Blanc, the gentleman-like landlord
of the Sans Nom Hôtel, which, as all travellers
know, is situated on the right-hand side
of the Rue des Nuées, as you go up towards
the Place de Rien, in the city of Brussels.
I will tell you Monsieur Blanc's graceful
manner of introducing me.

I arrived in Brussels late on Sunday night,
fatigued with the charge of a wife, two
children, about ten times the number of
boxes I had ever dreamed of possessing—but
all of which I was assured were my legitimate
property—and the much more responsible
encumbrance of a genteel French bonne. We
had come with the intention of spending the
autumn and winter—and no money worth
speaking of—in the Belgian capital, to which
this was my first visit. We had been
recommended by a civil French bagman to the
Sans Nom, as an agreeable house of refuge,
where we might board economically. I
will dismiss the French bagman (who was
a very nice fellow, indeed), with the charitable
hope that his memory had failed him as to
the name of the hotel which he was desirous
of recommending, and that he was not
personally connected, by commission or otherwise,
with the Sans Nom establishment.

I confess some slight misgiving seized me
when the railway-omnibus put us down on
the marble steps of a palace. There were
more waiters than I cared about, assembled to
welcome us in the hall, and a great deal too
much chambermaid. The English language
moreover—always an expensive extra on the
continent—abounded ominously on the
premises. Still I was very tired; and, having
two days of exigent hard work before me,
was desirous of shutting my eyes to unpleasant
possibilities. We were shown into a
suite of rooms such as I had only seen in the
illustrated papers on royal progress
occasions. On my demurring at the unnecessary
splendour, I was informed that several
families would be leaving in the morning,
and I might have my choice of less sumptuous
apartments. I supped, gorgeously, upon one-
halfpenny-worth of chop to an intolerable
quantity of silver and fine linen, and slept
upon eider-down under crimson damask.

I have my own reasons for not being able
to sleep comfortably or long upon eider-down
under crimson damask, when those
luxuries belong to an hotel whereof I have
not been favoured with a sight of the tariff.
I was up very early—some hours before the
irresponsible members of my wearied family.
I entered a dazzling coffee-room, and ordered
breakfast—tea—for one, in good traveller's
French. A courteous waiter enquired, in
perfect English, if I would like anything
with it: eggs, ham, or a chop, for instance?

I was highly offended, of course, and asked
the waiter, rather warmly, if he were an
Englishman.

No. He was a Swiss, of German extraction,
but had spent a great portion of his life in
one of the Italian Cantons. He had been
"forward" in an English house in Paris.

So! I should evidently have to pay my
share towards the expenses of this polyglot
gentleman's education in at least four European
languages. With a sensible diminution
of appetite (which had been rather qualmish
to begin with), I told him to bring in what
he liked; eggs, ham, kidneys,—anything. I
was evidently in for a breakfast. I might
as well have a good one, and try to eat it.

"Beg pardon, sir. Did you say eggs, ham,
and kidneys?"

I noticed that the over-educated waiter
opened his eyes as he spoke.

"I said—anything you like. What does it
matter?"

"Nothing to me, sir. Only we charge for
everything separately. We generally mention
that, sir; especially to gentlemen coming
from England or France, where you pay the
same whatever you have."

Really a very well-spoken and fair-dealing
waiter! The arrangement sounded
economical.

"Eggs, by all means."

"Two eggs, sir?"

"Two eggs, certainly—à la coque."

"Yes, sir."

Come! if they are in the habit of stickling
about an egg, they cannot be accustomed to
do things on a ruinous scale. After all, why
did I come here? Was it not on account of
the notoriously cheap splendours of the
Belgian capital? Had I not been told I
could live here in a palace for the price of a
London second-floor, or a Parisian troisième?
Was not this the land of cheap government,
and, consequently, of cheap existence?

My two eggs à la coque were
unexceptionable. I ate them with somebody
else's appetite. It was certainly too good
to be my own. I could have eaten two
more; but I was not yet quite easy in my