IT IS BEST TO SPEAK ENGLISH IN ENGLAND.
You understand me, therefore, in England the knowledge of a little of the English language will do no harm, and not be de trop, and by it you may avoid another inconvenience, that of finding a teacher at the wrong time and place. Let me explain myself. The maid-servant who had the care of my room got it into her head that she would teach me to speak English, and she set herself to work to teach me with a method entirely her own. She seized hold of a chair and called it by name, then the chest of drawers, then the bed, then the looking-glass, &c., and she insisted that I should repeat these names after her in her language. The thing in itself was innocent enough, but foolish, as both she and I lost our time by it. For me it was not so much matter, but for her the neglect of her duties might have lost her her situation; and therefore, with the language common to all—that is, by gesticulations—I made her understand that she must stop her lessons. Let the reader not think, however, that I refused that good, and, let me add, beautiful teacher in a rough way; no indeed, I am not a satrap. I said to her—(beg pardon!) I gesticulated all this to her nicely, and with a good grace. One must always have every care to treat women in a gentle and respectful manner.
VISIT TO HAMPTON COURT.
Here is another story, always àpropos of the necessity there is of knowing at least a little of the English language. Hampton Court is a palace of the Queen's, about an hour's distance from London by rail. It is open to the public on holidays. The palace is beautiful, and contains many precious things; the country about is green, fresh, and pleasant: therefore, as can easily be imagined, there is always a large concourse of people. I wished also to procure myself this outing; so, betaking myself to the northern station, I took my ticket for Hampton Court, and got into the train. In that country one goes along at the pace of twenty kilometres an hour. Enchanted by the sight of the beautiful country clothed in its deep-green mantle,—so new to us who are accustomed to ours, so much more pallid, and burnt in streaks by the greater fierceness of the sun,—I forgot the pace we were going at, paid no attention when we stopped, and did not hear them call out the name Hampton Court. I suppose similar things must happen to the touristes who visit our Italy. Let us imagine one of them to have taken a ticket for Certaldo, desiring to visit Boccaccio's house; the train stops, and the guard, with a stentorian voice, more calculated to slur over than pronounce the name, calls out, "Who is for Certaldo?" (chi è peccettardo). Naturally the touriste does not understand, and allows himself to be carried on maybe even as far as Siena. But this is not so bad as my case, for I ran the risk of being taken on to Edinburgh. Fortunately I began to suspect that I had passed by the station where I ought to have got out, and asked. The answer was, that we had passed Hampton Court some time since.
AM CARRIED ON BEYOND HAMPTON COURT.
"What must I do?" I asked.
"Stop at the first station; and this evening, by the Edinburgh train, you can return to London."
"Are there no other trains before this one, that I may return to London during the day to dine?"
"No."
"Many thanks!"