ove
on."

"As, however," said I, "we are not fortunate enough to figure in the
Estimates, may I ask what is the grand scheme you propose for our
employment?"

"I'm coming to it. I'd have reached it ere this, if you had not required
such a positive demonstration of your utter uselessness. You have
delayed me by what Guizot used to call 'an obstructive indisposition to
believe.'"

"Go on; I yield--that is, under protest." "Protest as much as you like.
In diplomacy a protest means, 'I hope you won't; but if you will, I
can't help it,' _Vide_ the correspondence about the annexation of Nice
and Savoy. Now to my project. It is to start a monster hotel--one of
those gigantic establishments for which the Americans are famous--in
some much-frequented part of Europe, and to engage as part of the
household all the 'own time' celebrities of diplomacy and letters. Every
one knows--most of us have, indeed, felt--the desire experienced to see,
meet, and converse with the noticeable men of the world--the people who,
so to say, leave their mark on the age they live in--the cognate
signs of human algebra. Only fancy, then, with what ecstasy would the
traveller read the prospectus of an establishment wherein, as in a
pantheon, all the gods were gathered around him. What would not the
Yankee give for a seat at a table where the great Eltchi ladled out the
soup, and the bland-voiced author of 'The Woman in White' lisped out,
'Sherry, sir?' Only imagine being handed one's fish by the envoy
that got us into the Crimean war, or taking a potato served by the
accomplished writer of 'Orley Farm'! Picture a succession of celebrities
in motion around the table, and conceive, if you can, the vainglorious
sentiment of the man that could say, 'Lyons, a little more fat;'
or, 'Carlyle, madeira;' and imagine the luxury of that cup of tea so
gracefully handed you by 'Lost and Saved,' and the culminating pride of
taking your flat candlestick from the fingers of 'Eleanor's Victory.'

"Who would not cross the great globe to live in such an atmosphere of
genius and grandeur? for if there be, as there may, souls dead to
the charms of literary greatness, who in this advanced age of ours is
indifferent to the claims of high rank and station and title? Fancy
sending a K.C.B. to call a cab, or ordering a special envoy to fetch the
bootjack! I dare not pursue the theme. I cannot trust myself to dwell
on a subject so imbued with suggestiveness--all the varying