in contact with him are to be separately considered. So, after paying, in the first instance, a very heavy bill for what would seem to cover the whole indebtedness, there remain divers dues still to be paid, to no trifling amount, to the landlord's servants--dues not to be ascertained, and which you can never know whether you have properly satisfied. You can know, perhaps, when you have less than satisfied them by the aspect of the waiter, which I wish I could describe—not disrespectful in the slightest degree, but a look of profound surprise, a gaze at the offered coin. (which he nevertheless pockets) as if he did not see it, or did not know it, or could not believe his eyesight; all this, however, with the most quiet forbearance, a Christian-like non-recognition of an unmerited wrong and insult; and finally, all in a moment's space indeed, he quits you and goes about his other business. If you have given him too much, you are made sensible of your folly by the extra amount of his gratitude, and the bows with which he salutes you from the doorstep. Generally, you cannot very decidedly say whether you have been right or wrong, but in almost all cases you decidedly feel that you have been fleeced."

The ordinary services in your room at the hotel and attention at the table are not subjects for fees, which are only for extra services. Hence, tourists should exercise much caution in making extra demands upon servants, if they would escape the obligation for fees. If the tourist has only light hand-luggage he can carry it to his room himself. This will cut off expectations for fees. If a guide forces himself upon your attention, as he often will, tell him if he goes with you he must do it without fee, simply for the "honor

of enjoying your company," and then hold to the bargain. Be very careful about making what may be called half-bargains and then not finishing them, for it will be claimed that you agreed to do thus and so in order to compel pay from you. Instances of this are not rare.

It is curious to observe the disposition of the servants who are given fees. Give a porter in Paris a small fee for lifting a trunk to its destination, and he will hold it in his open hand right before you, and probably will give you to understand in some way that he is a deeply injured person and that you are a miser. Give a porter in London the same and he will probably take it in his closed hand and quickly slide it into his pocket without looking at it, and will thank you so politely that you will possibly feel abashed at the smallness of it. The Parisian claims his fee as a right, the Londoner accepts it as a gratuity.

The way in which some large buildings can be visited is a study. The tourist pays an admission fee; he goes to such a place; then he inspects another department, under another guide, for an extra fee. In time he gets through with the whole-building, guides and fees. Tourists so disposed can often gain access to forbidden rooms, and can open rusty doors, and can secure special favors, which other means fail to command from servants and officials, by means of fees timely introduced.

XXIII.-Spirit of the Tourist.

Before starting on a visit to Europe, the tourist should have a clear idea concerning what he proposes to accomplish, for he should not travel in uncertainty of purposes. If he goes for no one special object, but to note what he may, he should classify his purposed observations in some good order, so as not to enter upon his tour without some general lines about which to associate the individual objects that shall pass his view; it will be far better to have a poor classification than none. For instance, under the idea of general observations, suppose the tourist arrange something like the following classification : Hotels; the poorer classes of people; the wealthier classes; forms of government; railways; steamboats; methods of doing business; natural scenery; fine art; industrial art; comforts of life, the so-called luxuries; amusements; wages for labor; state of education; state of religion ; street scenes; holiday scenes, and the like. With some such classification, every thing seen will have some line of association, and travel will be far more profitable. Aimless travel is complimentary neither to the human intellect nor to the works of the Creator.

The tourist should have well-established habits of observation, by which is meant that he should have the vigorous and normal use of his senses which should be constantly on the alert for whatever new impressions may chance along. To travel in a strange country amid ever-passing

novel scenes, is to be constantly subject to marked and sudden impressions, thoughts and feelings, which arise because the scenes beheld are unfamiliar. These new ideas are precisely the measure of the difference between what is familiar and what is strange, The value of travel is to be estimated, not by the number of things in the outer world that have passed before one's observation, but by the number and importance of the new thoughts, new emotions, new relations and expansions of former views, which spring up and are noted within the soul of the traveler. The only place to search for a record of the value of travel is within one's own subjective self, one's own intellect and heart.

The importance that should be attached to anything observed by the tourist is not so much what the object is in itself, as what it is to him, to his own mind. To the end that the highest advantage may be derived from a tour in a strange land, the traveler should carry to the scenes of his visit as much information of these places, both general and special, as he may be able to command, because the more he takes with him to any given scene the more will the view yield to him in return. Yet on this point it is suggested that the common practice of viewing objects of interest simply through the medium of guide books is not a profitable one, for they point out the facts relating to a place, the main facts that can be readily grasped-beyond these the books are speechless. They should be put aside, out of mind almost, and the objects themselves in all of their spirit, their old history, their life, should be sought, and to the greatest extent possible, comprehended. The intellect and emotions of the tourist should be put into active

sympathy with the scenes amidst which he travels; the records of the visit should be made in the tourist's own mind; he should read within himself the narrative or the description which the outside scenes suggest. This is not sentimentalism, which is nothing but an artificial and overstimulated excitement of a weak intellect, and of a sickly, emotional being; rather is it the worthy feeling of the nobility of the human soul seeking to interpret the true spirit of the scene beheld. To secure this high purpose, the tourist must approach every new object in a state of mind which is neutral as to opinions and expectations, but which is powerfully active in its susceptibility for receiving impressions; the tourist should present himself before his object of study with no anticipation other than that he expects to be impressed in some way, but in what particular manner impressed must await experience. By this course he will scarcely ever be disappointed at beholding new objects, for disappointment is simply a consciousness that the object seen differs from the idea of it which had been previously formed in his mind. Who is to blame for this? Surely not the object, not this castle, this ruin, this mountain. Tourists are too prone to assume themselves the creators of the things they propose to inspect, and then grumble at the actual creations because the designer did not make them according to the ideas which they now bring. What a grand panoramic and kaleidoscopic state of mobility would the world daily be in! This hill would be higher, lower, greener, more wooded, less wooded, flatter, more peaked, all at the same time in order to meet the views of any given company of travelers. The only possible way in which objects can accommodate