Holds me. Golf's charms can ne'er be spoken;
But late I'll sleep, and early wake,
Of loyalty be this my token,
To Tee, Tee, only Tee!
INNS AND OUTS.
No. II.—The Head-Wetter.
I entitle him as self-pronounced. If "Mr." is the Grand-Hôtel Jupiter, the Head-Waiter is its Mercury. Nothing modern is so versatile as the Head-Waiter. The first thing about the Head-Waiter is his cigars. These are covered with tinsel and colours: very gay—almost as gay as the Head-Waiter. They are of unpronounceable and unknown brands. They vary in price and size, but agree in flavour—liquorice, tempered by ink. Like the fabled fruit, they crumble to ashes in your mouth. If you are only a bird of passage, you will often find a box or so in your room. "Great opportunity—veritable Pestarenas of Nockudaun—one whole box for a sovereign English," the Head-Waiter assures you. The memory of that man is astounding; he remembers all the numbers, all the wines, all the names, and all the Lady's-maids. For he is a bit of a Leporello, is the Head-Waiter.
After dinner, where he takes a dozen orders, makes a dozen recommendations, and tells a dozen lies at once, you may see him philandering by the Lake with MARY ANN, JEANETTE, and KLARA, all jealous, and all adoring, teaching each the language of the other, and all the art of love. I have often envied him. The Head-Waiter's life is a "happy one." He is ubiquitous; Egypt, The Riviera, Switzerland, and Italy, see him by turns; in each he has a white waistcoat, of which Mr. CHAMBERLAIN might be proud, infinite occupation, and infinite diversion; his nimbleness, his light-heartedness, his languages, and his cigars, are inexhaustible.