She. "Yes, but they're a horrid lot now arriving compared with those who have just left; doncha think so?"
He. "Really, Madam, I cannot say, as I reached here only this afternoon." Pause in conversation.
Friday.—There are compensations for everything. Weather has not permanently recovered earthquake-breaking-up on day of our arrival. Still sun occasionally comes out, making it worth while to be on foot at seven o'clock in the night, when the sky is an unclouded arc of blue, and the sun sparkles on dewy grass. Pleasant then at noon, or afternoon, to stroll about under the lindens in the Park, still full of leaves, or to lounge in Tennis grounds watching the play. Oftener it is cold and rainy, and here's where philosophic mind finds its recompense. Homburg perhaps most open-windowed town north of Alps. On sunny days not a window in any house closed. Every home has its piano, more or less in tune. Every piano has its relays of players. Pianist at No. 14A, Untere Promenade, cannot help hearing pianiste next door, and plays loud to hold the field. Next door hears practitioner on other side, and plays louder still; so it goes on all up and down the street. Here and there the uproar is pierced by the shrill voice of a singer. It is the same in the next street, and in the street after, till all Homburg becomes a Pandemonium of piano-pounding. Now I sit in my room, with windows closed, listening with gratitude to the pelting rain and the soughing of the wind through the dripping trees. All other windows are necessarily closed, and above wind and rain is audible undertone of universal piano-playing, like the sound of a barrel-organ in far-off back-street. Perhaps not quite worth while coming all the way to Homburg for; but I like to make best of things.
Monday.—His Serene and Blind Highness still here, dutifully taking waters, and pluckily striding forth to complete regulation-turns. No one would guess at his affliction, except upon close observation. A photographic portrait of him on view in one of the Studios here, in which he looks forth open-eyed as keenest-sighted of his subjects; a kindly, genial, brave-hearted gentleman. All unconscious, he is made the occasion for a little satire on Royalty which would have delighted Thackeray. To him ladies, entering into passing conversation, curtsey; gentlemen doff their hats; and Jeames de la Pluche stands bare-headed as he hands him glass of water from spring. It is horrible to think that Jeames might, with impunity—there being no on-lookers—shake his fist playfully in his Royal Master's face. Hope he never takes base advantage of his opportunities. But there is a look in Jeames's eye, as he hands the glass of water, which melikes not.
Tuesday.—Between one and two in afternoon of revolving days, great centre of life in Homburg is Madame Brahe's little shop in Louisen-strasse; little only on first glance: contains unsuspected recesses in rear, whither surplus population flows. A model place for light luncheon such as Dr. Deetz ordains: also for English visitors convenient exchange and mart for latest gossip and display of newest dresses. Whilst season in full tide, Madame Brahe's painfully reminiscent of Bourse at Paris. Evil communications have wrought proverbial effect; Germans feared throughout Europe by reason of their conversational shouting; but English ladies, and some gentlemen, met for luncheon chez Madame Brahe, might give them odds and beat them. Three or four girls, decently spoken at home one hopes, seated at small table here, carry on conversation at top of voice; many small tables, and as many friendly parties; one group not to be shouted down by a neighbour. British ladies never acknowledge defeat; competition kept up all round, till, dazed and deafened, the stray traveller gulps down luncheon and rushes into street.
Wednesday.—Homburg really not Bad at all, but best part of it lies outside. To the north are delightful walks through illimitable beech woods and pathless pine forests. Messrs. Blanc, who created the place, knew very well ruling passion of gamester. The green tables, the sound of the roulette ball, the pattern on the cards, and the brilliantly-lighted Casino, only ostensibly attractions for him. What his heart desires is opportunity for communing with Nature. The solemn silence of the beech wood, the fragrance of the pines, the modest beauty of the wild flowers that gem the edges of the wood, are what he really hankers for. So Messrs. Blanc took surrounding country in hand; planted splendid pine woods with delightful footpaths, with benches wooing the pensive and wearied traveller.
Walked to-day by devious shady ways to Friedrichsdorf, a few miles out; a quaint old-world village of charmingly-tiled houses, straggling down a villanously paved street. Only one street in Friedrichsdorf, but more in it than meets the eye. Houses have way of playing hide-and-seek; you look up passage that seems entry to back of premises, when, lo! there lurks a complete house, with tiny casement-windows, and graciously-sloped red-tiled roof. Jessie Collings ought to know Friedrichsdorf, and Right Hon. Ritchie would find in it encouragement for Amended Allotments Bill. It is, like many other villages hereabout, home of colony of small land-proprietors. All the rich and smiling country that lies around is theirs. Passed them working in the fields, men and women, comfortably dressed, sturdy, and apparently happy as day is long. Every man has at least his three acres, many more; the cow is also there, but is chiefly in shaft of cart or plough. As we picked way down awesome street, Friedrichsdorf, save for few children and old men, seemed deserted village; all able-bodied inhabitants at work in field. By-and-by, when sun goes down, they come trooping home, tramping down stony street, a jocund throng.
Thursday.—Rain departed; for days in succession Homburg been at its best; almost seems like early spring, save that we still have roses; sun shining in cloudless sky, trees still rich in foliage; grass thick and green, with here and there abundant crocuses. Still emptying process going on with increasing rapidity. "Lawn tennis," writes anonymous author of Miss Bayle's Romance, "has become the outdoor dissipation at Homburg, and Dutch Top the indoor one." Only stray couples are left to frequent the courts on the tennis-ground, and the rattle of the Dutch Top is happily silenced. Still the band plays thrice a day. Springs go on like The Brook, and the few who are left begin to think that, after all, Homburg more enjoyable without the crowd than with it.