Man and his Master.

There is one thing that the Anglo-Saxon does better than the “French, or Turk, or Rooshian,” to which add the German or the Belgian.  When the Anglo-Saxon appoints an official, he appoints a servant: when the others put a man in uniform, they add to their long list of masters.  If among your acquaintances you can discover an American, or Englishman, unfamiliar with the continental official, it is worth your while to accompany him, the first time he goes out to post a letter, say.  He advances towards the post-office a breezy, self-confident gentleman, borne up by pride of race.  While mounting the steps he talks airily of “just getting this letter off his mind, and then picking up Jobson and going on to Durand’s for lunch.”

He talks as if he had the whole day before him.  At the top of the steps he attempts to push open the door.  It will not move.  He looks about him, and discovers that is the door of egress, not of ingress.  It does not seem to him worth while redescending the twenty steps and climbing another twenty.  So far as he is concerned he is willing to pull the door, instead of pushing it.  But a stern official bars his way, and haughtily indicates the proper entrance.  “Oh, bother,” he says, and down he trots again, and up the other flight.

“I shall not be a minute,” he remarks over his shoulder.  “You can wait for me outside.”

But if you know your way about, you follow him in.  There are seats within, and you have a newspaper in your pocket: the time will pass more pleasantly.  Inside he looks round, bewildered.  The German post-office, generally speaking, is about the size of the Bank of England.  Some twenty different windows confront your troubled friend, each one bearing its own particular legend.  Starting with number one, he sets to work to spell them out.  It appears to him that the posting of letters is not a thing that the German post-office desires to encourage.  Would he not like a dog licence instead? is what one window suggests to him.  “Oh, never mind that letter of yours; come and talk about bicycles,” pleads another.  At last he thinks he has found the right hole: the word “Registration” he distinctly recognizes.  He taps at the glass.

Nobody takes any notice of him.  The foreign official is a man whose life is saddened by a public always wanting something.  You read it in his face wherever you go.  The man who sells you tickets for the theatre!  He is eating sandwiches when you knock at his window.  He turns to his companion:

“Good Lord!” you can see him say, “here’s another of ’em.  If there has been one man worrying me this morning there have been a hundred.  Always the same story: all of ’em want to come and see the play.  You listen now; bet you anything he’s going to bother me for tickets.  Really, it gets on my nerves sometimes.”

At the railway station it is just the same.

“Another man who wants to go to Antwerp!  Don’t seem to care for rest, these people: flying here, flying there, what’s the sense of it?”  It is this absurd craze on the part of the public for letter-writing that is spoiling the temper of the continental post-office official.  He does his best to discourage it.

“Look at them,” he says to his assistant—the thoughtful German Government is careful to provide every official with another official for company, lest by sheer force of ennui he might be reduced to taking interest in his work—“twenty of ’em, all in a row!  Some of ’em been there for the last quarter of an hour.”

“Let ’em wait another quarter of an hour,” advises the assistant; “perhaps they’ll go away.”

“My dear fellow,” he answers, “do you think I haven’t tried that?  There’s simply no getting rid of ’em.  And it’s always the same cry: ‘Stamps! stamps! stamps!’  ’Pon my word, I think they live on stamps, some of ’em.”

“Well let ’em have their stamps?” suggests the assistant, with a burst of inspiration; “perhaps it will get rid of ’em.”