We tarried overnight at a summer hotel on the seashore near
Flushing--the Grand Hôtel des Bains. The word Grand means nothing in
this connection; it has no descriptive value. On the Continent, all
hotels, inns, taverns, hash houses and slop troughs employ it. It is
tiresome. This one was a good-enough hotel, and comfortable, but there
was nothing grand about it but the bill, and even that was not
extravagant enough to make the title entirely justifiable. Except in the
case of one item--Scotch whisky. I ordered a sup of that, for I always
take it at night as a preventive of toothache. I have never had the
toothache; and what is more, I never intend to have it. They charged me
a dollar and a half for it. A dollar and a half for half a pint; a
dollar and a half for that wee little mite--really hardly enough to
break a pledge with. It will be a kindness to me if Your Grace will show
the landlord some special attentions when he arrives. Not merely on
account of that piece of extortion, but because he got us back to town
and the station next day, more than an hour before train time.
There were no books or newspapers for sale there, and nothing to look at
but a map. Fortunately it was an interesting one. It was a railway map
of the Low Countries, and was of a new sort to me, for it was made of
tiles--the ground white, the lines black. It could be washed if it got
soiled, and if no accident happens to it it will last ten thousand years
and still be as bright and fine and new and beautiful then as it is
to-day. It occupied a great area of the wall, and one could study it in
comfort halfway across the house. It would be a valuable thing if our
own railway companies would adorn their waiting rooms with maps like
that.
We left at five in the afternoon. The Dutch road was admirably rough; we
went bumping and bouncing and swaying and sprawling along in a most
vindictive and disorderly way; then passed the frontier into Germany,
and straightway quieted down and went gliding as smoothly through the
landscape as if we had been on runners. We reached Cologne after
midnight.
But this letter is already too long. I will close it by saying that I
was charmed with England and sorry to leave it. It is easy to do
business there. I carried out all of Your Grace’s instructions, and did
it without difficulty. I doubted if it was needful to grease Mr. Cecil
Rhodes’s palm any further, for I think he would serve you just for the
love of it; still, I obeyed your orders in the matter. I made him
Permanent General Agent for South Africa, got him and his South Africa
Company whitewashed by the Committee of Inquiry, and promised him a
dukedom. I also continued the European Concert in office, without making
any change in its material. In my opinion this is the best material for
the purpose that exists outside of Your Grace’s own personal Cabinet. It
coddles the Sultan, it has defiled and degraded Greece, it has massacred
a hundred thousand Christians in Armenia and a splendid multitude of
them in Turkey, and has covered civilization and the Christian name with
imperishable shame. If Your Grace would instruct me to add the Concert
to the list of your publicly acknowledged servants, I think it would
have a good effect. The Foreign Offices of the whole European world are
now under your sovereignty, and little attentions like this would keep
them so.