suppose, the master being a consul,--sees me and my baggage
through the customs--"customs more honoured in the breach than the
observance,"--and in five minutes I am--that is, _we_ are, the pair
of us--at the Hôtel Frascati, which, whether it be the best or not
I cannot say, is certainly the liveliest, and the only one with a
covered terrace facing the sea where you can breakfast, dine, and
generally enjoy a life which, for the time being, is worth living.
_À propos_ of this terrace, I merely give the proprietor of Frascati
a hint,--the one drawback to the comfort of dining or breakfasting
in this upper terrace is the door which communicates with the lower
terrace, and through which everyone is constantly passing. We know
that _Il faut qu'une porte soit ouverte ou fermée_. But this is opened
and shut, or not shut, and, if shut, more or less banged, every three
minutes. If it isn't banged, it bursts open of its own accord, and
whacks the nearest person violently on the back, or hits a table, and
scatters the bottles, or, if not misbehaving itself in this way (which
is only when rude Boreas is at his rudest), it admits such a draught
as causes bald-headed men to rage, ladies to shiver, delicate persons
to sneeze, and, finally, impels the diners to raise such a clattering
of knife-handles on the different tables, as if they were applauding
a speech or a comic song. Then the _maître-d'hôtel_ rushes at the
door and closes it violently,--only for it to be re-opened a minute
afterwards by a waiter or visitor entering from the terrace below!
A mechanical contrivance and a light screen would do away with the
nuisance, for a nuisance it most undoubtedly is. The perpetual banging
causes headache, irritation, and indigestion, and those who have
suffered _n'y reviendront pas_, like several _Marlbrooks_. Let the
proprietor look to this, and, where most things are done so well, and
not unreasonably, don't let there be a Havre-and-Havre policy of hotel
management. _Allons!_