Morning after morning I find myself staring at the notice on the wall at the foot of my bath. From that I gather that I am a "titulaire." My bath-cell is No. 17. So as Titulaire I am Number Seventeen,—like a convict. My Gaoler, the bathman, does not know me perhaps by any other name than "Monsieur &c., Dix-Sept." Ah, well, I never thought I should be seventeen again. But I am—at Royat. How it must be re-juvenising me!
I have been looking over a list of excursions to various "Salubrities Abroad." Among them I find this:—"De Lyon en Savoie et en Dauphiné par Saint-André-le-Gaz, et retour."
"St. Andrew-the-Gas" sounds a novel name in a calendar. He was evidently a Saint much in advance of his time. An excellent man of course "according to his lights."
I saw a subject here for Mr. Marks, R.A. A bearded Franciscan Monk in his brown habit, with cord and rosary at his waist, sending a telegram at the telegraph office. Imagine the surroundings. Mr. Marks might call it an Anachronism.
When abroad, I make notes of the names of any new dishes. The following one was new to me as a name, not as a dish, which was simple enough, "Culottes de bœuf à la fermière." What next? "Caleçons de veau à la baigneuse?" "Gilets de mouton à la bergère?" "Culottes de veau à la Brian O'Lynn?" "Chapeau de volaille à la coq?"