[According to a correspondent of the _Times_, it is proposed to erect
bridges connecting Venice with the mainland.]
One afternoon in the autumn of 1930, when the express from Milan
arrived at Venice an Englishman stepped out, handed his luggage ticket
to a porter, and said, "_Hotel Tiziano_."
"_Adesso Hotel Moderno, signore_," remarked the porter.
"They've changed the name, I suppose. All right. _Hotel Moderno,
gondola._"
"_Che cosa, signore?_" asked the porter, apparently confused, "_gon--,
gondo--, non capisco. Hotel Moderno, non è vero?_" And he led the
way to the outside, where the Englishman perceived a wide, asphalted
street. "_Ecco là, signore, la stazione sotterranea del Tubo dei
Quattro Soldi; ecco qui la tramvia elettrica, e l'omnibus dell'
hotel._"
"_Gondola_," repeated the Englishman. The porter stared at him again.
Then he shook his head and answered, "_Non capisco, signore, non parlo
inglese_." So the Englishman entered the motor omnibus, started at
once, for there were no other travellers, and in a few minutes arrived
at the hotel, designed by an American architect and fifteen stories in
height. The gorgeous marble and alabaster entrance-hall was entirely
deserted.
Having engaged a room, the Englishman asked for a guide. The hall
porter, who spoke ten languages fluently and simultaneously, murmured
some words into a telephone, and almost immediately a dapper little
man presented himself with an obsequious bow.
"I want to go round the principal buildings," said the Englishman.
"You speak English, of course."
"Secure, sir," answered the guide, with another bow; "alls the
ciceronians speaks her fine language, but her speak I as one English.
Lets us go to visit the Grand Central Station of the Tube."
"Oh, no," said the Englishman, "not that sort of thing! I'm not an
engineer. I should like to see the Doge's Palace."
"Lo, sir! The Palace is now the _Stazione Centrale Elettrica_."
"Then it's no good going to see that. I will go to St. Mark's."
"San Marco is shutted, sir. The _vibrazione_ of the elettrical
mechanism has done fall the mosaics. The to visit is become too
periculous."
"Oh, indeed! Well, we can go up the Grand Canal."
"The _Canal Grande_, sir, is now the _Via Marconi_. Is all changed,
and covered, as all the olds canals of Venezia, with arches of steel
and a street of _asfalto_. Is fine, fine, _è bella, bella, una via
maravigliosa"!_
"You don't mean to say there isn't a canal left? Where are the
gondolas then?"
"_An, una gondola!_ The sir is _archeologo_. _Ebbene!_ We shalls go to
the _Museo_. There she shall see one gondola, much curious, and old,
ah, so old!"
"Not a canal, not a gondola--except in the museum! What is there to
see?"
"There is much, sir. There is the Tube of the Four Halfpennies, _tutto
all' inglese_, as at London. He is on the arches of steel below the
news streets. There is the bridge from the city to Murano, one span of
steel all covered of stone much thin, as the _Ponte della Torre_, the
Bridge of the Tower, at London. Is marvellous, the our bridge! Is one
bridge, and not of less not appear to be one bridge, but one castle
of the middle age in the middle air. _È bellissimo, e anche tutto all'
inglese._ And then----"
"Stop," cried the Englishman. "Does anybody ever come to your city
now? Any artists, for instance?"
"Ah, no, sir! _Pittori, scultori, perche?_ But there are voyagers some
time. The month past all the Society of the Engineers of Japan
are comed, and the hotels were fulls, and all those sirs were much
contenteds and sayed the city was marvellous. She shall go now, sir,
to visit the bridge?"
"No," said the Englishman, emphatically, "not I! Let me pay my bill
here and your fee, whatever it is, and take me back to the railway
station as fast as you can. There are plenty of bridges in London. I
am going back there."
* * *
AT BRUSSELS.--_Mrs. Trickleby_ (_pointing to announcement in grocer's
window, and spelling it out_).
_Jambon d' Yorck._ What's that mean, Mr. T.?
_Mr. T._ (_who is by way of being a linguist_). Why, good Yorkshire
preserves, of course. What did you suppose it was--Dundee marmalade?
[Illustration: 'ARRY IN 'OLLAND
"These 'ere cigars at three a 'na'penny 'as just as delicate a flavour
as them as we pays a penny a piece for at 'ome!"]
[Illustration: L'EMBARRAS DES RICHESSES. AT THE CAFÉ DES AMBASSADEURS
_The Garsong_ (_to Jones and Brown, from Clapham_). "But your dinner,
gentlemans! He go to make 'imself cold, if you eat 'im not!"]
'ARRY IN SWITZERLAND
DEAR CHARLIE,--You heard as I'd left good old England agen, I'll
be bound.
Not for Parry alone, mate, this time--I've bin doing the Reglar
Swiss Round.
Mong Blong, Mare de Glass, and all that, Charlie--guess it's a
sight you'd enjoy
To see 'Arry, the Hislington Masher, togged out as a Merry Swiss
Boy.
'Tis a bit of a stretch from the "Hangel," a jolly long journey by
rail.
But I made myself haffable like; I'd got hup on the toppingest
scale;
Shammy-hunter at Ashley's not in it with me, I can tell yer, old
chap;
And the way as the passengers stared at me showed I wos fair on
the rap.
Talk of hups and downs, Charlie! North Devon I found pooty steep,
as you know.
But wot's Lynton roads to the Halps, or the Torrs to that blessed
Young Frow?
I got 'andy with halpenstocks, Charlie, and never came _much_ of a
spill;
But I think, arter all, that, for comfort, I rayther prefer
Primrose 'Ill.
But that's _ontry nous_, dont cher know; keep my pecker hup proper
out 'ere.
'Arry never let on to them Swiss as he felt on the swivel--no fear!
When I slipped down a bloomin' _crevassy_, I _did_ do a bit of a
'owl,
On them glasheers, to keep your foot fair, you want claws, like a
cat on the prowl.
Got arf smothered in snow, and no kid, Charlie--guide swore 'twas
all my hown fault,
'Cos I would dance, and sing _too-ral-li-ety_, arter he'd hordered
a halt.
Awful gonophs, them guides, and no herror; they don't know their
place not a mite,
And I'm dashed if this cad didn't laugh (with the rest), 'cos I
looked sich a sight.
* * *
AT OSTEND.--_Biffles_ (_to Tiffles_). In this bloomin' country
everyone's a prince or a marquis or a baron or a nob of some sort,
so I've just shoved you down in the Visitors' Book as Lord Harthur
MacOssian, and me as the Dook of FitzDazzlem!
_Tiffles._ Well, now, that is a lark! What'd our missuses say?
[_And what did their "Missuses" say when B. and T., held in pawn
by the hotel proprietor (charging aristocratic prices), had to
write home to Peckham Rye for considerable advances from the
family treasuries?_
[Illustration: "'E DUNNO OÙ IL EST!"
_Passenger from London_ (_as the train runs into the Gare du Nord,
Paris_). "Oh--er--I say--er--garsong! Kel ay le nomme du set plass?"]