His English was decidedly weak. Indeed, it
was not English at all. I do not know what you would call it. It was
not altogether his fault; he had learnt English from a Scotch lady. I
understand Scotch fairly well--to keep abreast of modern English
literature this is necessary,--but to understand broad Scotch talked with
a Sclavonic accent, occasionally relieved by German modifications, taxes
the intelligence. For the first hour it was difficult to rid one's self
of the conviction that the man was choking. Every moment we expected him
to die on our hands. In the course of the morning we grew accustomed to
him, and rid ourselves of the instinct to throw him on his back every
time he opened his mouth, and tear his clothes from him. Later, we came
to understand a part of what he said, and this led to the discovery of
his second failing.

It would seem he had lately invented a hair-restorer, which he had
persuaded a local chemist to take up and advertise. Half his time he had
been pointing out to us, not the beauties of Prague, but the benefits
likely to accrue to the human race from the use of this concoction; and
the conventional agreement with which, under the impression he was waxing
eloquent concerning views and architecture, we had met his enthusiasm he
had attributed to sympathetic interest in this wretched wash of his.

The result was that now there was no keeping him away from the subject.
Ruined palaces and crumbling churches he dismissed with curt reference as
mere frivolities, encouraging a morbid taste for the decadent. His duty,
as he saw it, was not to lead us to dwell upon the ravages of time, but
rather to direct our attention to the means of repairing them. What had
we to do with broken-headed heroes, or bald-headed saints? Our interest
should be surely in the living world; in the maidens with their flowing
tresses, or the flowing tresses they might have, by judicious use of
"Kophkeo," in the young men with their fierce moustaches--as pictured on
the label.

Unconsciously, in his own mind, he had divided the world into two
sections. The Past ("Before Use"), a sickly, disagreeable-looking,
uninteresting world. The Future ("After Use") a fat, jolly, God-bless-
everybody sort of world; and this unfitted him as a guide to scenes of
mediaeval history.

He sent us each a bottle of the stuff to our hotel. It appeared that in
the early part of our converse with him we had, unwittingly, clamoured