Then there is the English hotel. The landlord measures you as you come in. He inventories you. He says "this man will stand six pounds, or eight may be. That will leave him enough to get back to London, with a cab fare to take him to his lodgings." And so when he makes his bill he manages to make it to the exact amount of what he thinks you have about your person, irrespective of what accommodation you have received. In paying this enormous bill should you display more money than he supposed you carried, he gnashes his teeth and howls with rage. But he very seldom gnashes or howls. He is a very skillful person, and knows intuitively to a half-sovereign how much you will, or rather can, bleed. [Sidenote: AT AN ENGLISH HOTEL.] You contract for your room for so much a day--and the sum is always a round one--and it is explained to you that you may order your meals from a bill of fare, the price of each dish being set down opposite its name. Very good, you say to yourself, I know now what I am to pay, and you fall to work. Do you? Not much. There stands a waiter, who makes a frantic effort to appear like a man, but only succeeds in getting to where Darwin commenced the human race. But he rubs his hands, and smirks, and smiles, and brings you your orders, and still smiles and smiles, and would be a villain were there enough of him. He does all he can in this direction, however. When you are through, you rise and prepare to get out. The waiter stops you with an obsequious smile in which there is much determination, and remarks, "the waiter!" You are made to understand that he expects a shilling. You give it to him. Getting to your room you want a pitcher of water. A servant brings it, and waits till you give him a six pence. You take a drink--if you do drink--I know this from seeing other victims--you pay for the drink, and the servant who brings it to you expects and manages to get three pence. The boy who cleans your boots wants six pence, the chambermaid who sweeps your room wants a shilling, the boy who goes down to see if you have any letters wants six pence, and after paying for all this you get your bill. Understand you have already paid exorbitant prices for each and every bit of service you have received, but nevertheless, there in your bill is an item, "attendance four days, eight shillings." You pay it without a murmur, externally; and hope you are done with it. Not so. As you leave the hotel, there stands the entire retinue of servants, the boots, the chambermaid, the bar-man, the bell-boy, all with their hands extended, and every one expecting a parting shower of small coin. You pay it. There is no other way to do. You see how it is. You pay the servants for the performance of every possible duty when they perform it; you then pay the landlord for the duties already paid for, and then as you leave the house you pay the servants over again. Three times for the same service, and that whether any service has been rendered or not.