------------------------------------------------------------------------ _A POLYGLOT BARBER._ [Illustration] MY first tonsorial experience is in a barber shop of the old town of Prinkipo. Most of the barbers are polyglotically inclined. My particular barber is either a Greek, a Maltese, a Sclav, a Bulgarian, or a Montenegrin. It is impossible at first to tell his native tongue. He has French glibly. He speaks a “leetle Inglis,” and understands less. He is well up in Italian, as many of the families in this vicinage are. He had some knowledge of Spanish, as kindred to the Italian. This extraordinary learning always gives me a shudder, and especially when under his razor or shears. Being a stranger on the island, and having no very pronounced national features, it was equally difficult for him to ascertain my nationality, except by inquisition long and pitiless. All I could do was to arm myself with the affirmatives and negatives of various languages. With these I made myself complaisant, to save my face from bloodshed. My first conversation with this artist confirmed the general reputation as to the gossipy quality of the Barber of Seville. He had all the gossip of the isles, including its languages. The conversation ran somewhat after this style— Barber: “You have been here long?” I reply in Bohemian, “_Ne!_” He easily understood that. “You are here for your health?” I reply in Danish, affirmatively and negatively, “_Ja!_” “_Nei, minherre!_” “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir.” This puzzled him. “An army gentleman, perhaps?” I reply in German, “_Nein, mein herr_.” “Oh, then you are a navy officer?” Having in view my position as admiral of the launch, I reply in Hungarian; because, _lucus a non lucendo_, Hungary is an inland country, and, like our own, without a navy. “_Igen!_” “Yes.” “Your vessel is at Constantinople?” Remembering that there was an Italian emigrant named Christopher Columbus of naval renown, I reply: “_Si, signore_.” “You will bring your vessel to Prinkipo?” Ah! here was my opportunity. It is the modern Greek in which I reply: “_Nae vevayos_.” He is thunderstruck. It is evidently his mother-tongue. Likely he has a Polish father; who knows? When he asks me in French— “Will your vessel touch at Athens?” I respond in Polish, “_Tak!_” “No.” And then, with some hesitation, I add the French word, “_peut-être_.” “Perhaps.” “You will visit Egypt?” “_Sim, senhor._” This is Portuguese for “Yes, sir.” The gesture or the manner with which these responses are made encourages him, for he immediately asks whether I have ever been in Alabania. I have no negative or affirmative in any of the languages of the Adriatic. My Dalmatian servitor, Pedro, is absent, and my next best affirmative is in Russian. “_Do prawda._” Perhaps, being affiliated with the Sclav, he understands this language. “You have never been in Egypt?”