Wiesbaden hotel, he would surely have fallen into a
speculation on the names of hotels—how they
fit their character, and have a fragrance of their
own, and we should, perhaps, have had one
delightful paper the more in Elia.

The name of our house is The Rose, or Rosenhaus,
or, prettier still, Hôtel de la Rose. Elia,
seeing it in his Bradshaw, would have driven
straight to it. A charming little settlement.
You like saying the word over many times in
the day, as if you were ringing a little silver
handbell. "I am at the Rose," "Just come from
the Rose," "Going to dine at the Rose," with
more to the like song. Yet we drive through
zig-zag streets, that twist like forked lightning,
that are no longer than some dozen yards,
where great houses are set down capriciously—
now with corners forward, now sides, now
fronts, now backs, like the little toy towns of
delightful memory, bought for us when
children—consisting of a dozen solid little houses,
which we could set up just as we pleased, building
a new town every day with inexhaustible
variety. Emerging from one of these little lanes,
we drive up right into our settlement of The
Rose.

Our settlement—that is, our Rose—consists
of many houses, as it were, of many leaves: part
of it is over the way, part to the right, part to
the left. All these rosebuds, however, are
grouped about a delightful and most inviting
garden, with bowers, and arbours, and alcoves,
where the guests, filled with good things, are
fond of wandering. At breakfast and dinner
times, when the bell rings out, you see the
company trooping from the scattered houses—from
these out-settlements—across the garden.

Our Rose is bright cream colour, and every
window has its cream-coloured eyelids, or
"jalousies," which sometimes flap noisily all
together. Yet it does not glare; for as you look
up, it seems to lie at the foot of a green bank
just overhead, which is well furnished with more
yellow houses: all as bright and festive looking
as can be conceived. Just over our garden we
can see a walk covered in with light iron-
work, the light work hidden away by vines and
creepers, and people pass and repass on this,
pausing now and then to look down into our
garden; while we who are smoking languidly, like
Moslems, with our ladies busy with work, look
up in our turn and see gentlemen in grey hats
with broad black bands, and moustaches—that
look as if swelled and inflamed, they stick out
so bluntly and pursy—and who carry little red
goblets out before them, as if wishing some one
else to drink it for them. Pass, too, ladies in
broad straw hats, also hospitably obtruding their
tumblers. In short, we see a patch of the
moving procession of drinkers, who are now on
their "beat," and trying to cool their liquor,
which the young lady of the fountain has drawn
for them raging hot.

I like everything about our Rose, it is so
white and clean, so spacious, with such a fine
dining-ball, like a convent refectory, with a
gallery at the top for musicians to play in.
There we dine a hundred and fifty strong.
There shaven boy-waiters, always gay and free
with you, yet not disrespectful, scud to and
fro, and proffer the welcome dish. There
Bullington—very hearty, and fresh as a sea captain
—talks loudly to the attendants in his native
tongue and is understood by them, and says to
his brother that they are really getting civilised
in these places. There our host, who must have
as much on his mind as a cabinet minister,
hovers about at all hours with a calm melancholy
on his face, which has all the shaven
blueness of one of the Spanish mucheros in Mr.
Philip's pictures. He is a gentleman; but his
life is one long dinner. Dinner in some stage
prevails the whole day long, and the guests rush
to the assault at one, and at five. There are
Britons among us whose whole soul is in this
meal, and who, from noon, are restlessly looking
at their watches, fearful of being surprised. I
like, too, our breakfasts—in their simplest
character: the freshest and coolest of butter, the
best of milk, and the delicious "close" white
little rolls, all of which in many a morning walk
I have seen; the cleanest and most comfortable
of peasants carrying in to the town from
neighbouring market gardens. And I like our little
eccentric brass-kettles in the shape of diving-
bells, with brass stands for spirit-lamps, which
are quaint to look at. Our host, too, has pleasant
ways about him, which makes him welcome,
and us sorry to leave him. Of a Monday, perhaps,
our hall is filled with huge trunks coming down,
and a great omnibus standing at the gate is
being loaded. Many guests are standing to see
other guests off, and very often a pleasant little
party is broken up and scattered. Then is our
host seen flitting about; and he has a pretty
little custom of his own which makes those who
go think hereafter of the Rose with pleasure.
Every departing lady finds on her table a
charming bouquet made artistically, in a pretty
little silver-looking holder. These little courtesies
take off the rude surfaces of bill-paying,
and remove the commercial sense of the
intimacy. And thus, hereafter, we think very
pleasantly of Herr Alten, and his "Rose Hotel,"
and his "Garten Haus," and gardens and
bowers where we had our after-dinner council, and
where in the morning the ladies sat and worked.

CHAPTER II. OUR GAMING-HOUSE.

THE pattern of this house of entertainment,
where the "game is made," is different from
that of other houses. By the law of gaming,
two parasites seem always to flourish under its
shelter, to be almost necessary, and absolutely
to adhere to its sides. These are: first, the
"Restoration"—the dinners, suppers, ices,
coffees, sorbets, and cognacs, with which a
gambling settlement must be supplied, just as a
regular city must be with wholesome water;
and, secondly, the long ranges of shops and
bazaars for jewellery and knick-knacks, whose only
claim to public support is that they shall be
strictly useless. Here we are sure to find the
Frankfort garnets and crystals, the rude brown