FROM “The London Messenger.”

Coronation Festivities of the Blue Mountains.

(From our Special Correspondent.)

Plazac,
October 14, 1907.

As I sat down to a poorly-equipped luncheon-table on board the Austro-Orient liner Franz Joseph, I mourned in my heart (and I may say incidentally in other portions of my internal economy) the comfort and gastronomic luxury of the King and Emperor Hotel at Trieste.  A brief comparison between the menus of to-day’s lunch and yesterday’s will afford to the reader a striking object-lesson:

Consequence: Yesterday I was well and happy, and looked forward to a good night’s sleep, which came off.  To-day I am dull and heavy, also restless, and I am convinced that at sleeping-time my liver will have it all its own way.

The journey to Ragusa, and thence to Plazac, is writ large with a pigment of misery on at least one human heart.  Let a silence fall upon it!  In such wise only can Justice and Mercy join hands.

Plazac is a miserable place.  There is not a decent hotel in it.  It was perhaps on this account that the new King, Rupert, had erected for the alleged convenience of his guests of the Press a series of large temporary hotels, such as were in evidence at the St. Louis Exposition.  Here each guest was given a room to himself, somewhat after the nature of the cribs in a Rowton house.  From my first night in it I am able to speak from experience of the sufferings of a prisoner of the third class.  I am, however, bound to say that the dining and reception rooms were, though uncomfortably plain, adequate for temporary use.  Happily we shall not have to endure many more meals here, as to-morrow we all dine with the King in the State House; and as the cuisine is under the control of that cordon bleu, Gaston de Faux Pas, who so long controlled the gastronomic (we might almost say Gastonomic) destinies of the Rois des Diamants in the Place Vendôme, we may, I think, look forward to not going to bed hungry.  Indeed, the anticipations formed from a survey of our meagre sleeping accommodation were not realized at dinnertime to-night.  To our intense astonishment, an excellent dinner was served, though, to be sure, the cold dishes predominated (a thing I always find bad for one’s liver).  Just as we were finishing, the King (nominated) came amongst us in quite an informal way, and, having bidden us a hearty welcome, asked that we should drink a glass of wine together.  This we did in an excellent (if rather sweet) glass of Cliquot ’93.  King Rupert (nominated) then asked us to resume our seats.  He walked between the tables, now and again recognizing some journalistic friend whom he had met early in life in his days of adventure.  The men spoken to seemed vastly pleased—with themselves probably.  Pretty bad form of them, I call it!  For myself, I was glad I had not previously met him in the same casual way, as it saved me from what I should have felt a humiliation—the being patronized in that public way by a prospective King who had not (in a Court sense) been born.  The writer, who is by profession a barrister-at-law, is satisfied at being himself a county gentleman and heir to an historic estate in the ancient county of Salop, which can boast a larger population than the Land of the Blue Mountains.

Editorial Note.—We must ask our readers to pardon the report in yesterday’s paper sent from Plazac.  The writer was not on our regular staff, but asked to be allowed to write the report, as he was a kinsman of King Rupert of the Blue Mountains, and would therefore be in a position to obtain special information and facilities of description “from inside,” as he puts it.  On reading the paper, we cabled his recall; we cabled also, in case he did not obey, to have his ejectment effected forthwith.

We have also cabled Mr. Mordred Booth, the well-known correspondent, who was, to our knowledge, in Plazac for his own purposes, to send us full (and proper) details.  We take it our readers will prefer a graphic account of the ceremony to a farrago of cheap menus, comments on his own liver, and a belittling of an Englishman of such noble character and achievements that a rising nation has chosen him for their King, and one whom our own nation loves to honour.  We shall not, of course, mention our abortive correspondent’s name, unless compelled thereto by any future utterance of his.