There are several private coaches at Pau, which turn out in grand style on race days; and balls, concerts, and kettledrums abound, with private theatricals occasionally.  We attempted to get up “Poor Pillicoddy,” but were very unlucky about it.  Firstly, when in full rehearsal, our Mrs. O’Scuttle became unwell, and we had to look for another, and when we had found her and were getting into shape again, her nautical husband put the whole ship on the rocks and wrecked our hopes by losing his voice.

However, our departure was very nigh, and packing is an excellent cure for disappointment, though we were interrupted in that one morning with a request to write “something” in the visitors’ book.  With the memories of our pleasant stay upon us, we do not think we can err in reproducing one contribution, which was styled

“IDYLLIC COLBERT.”

(With apologies to Mr. W. S. GILBERT.)

  If you’re anxious for to dwell in a very fine hotel
  By the mountain’s wide expanse,
  You at once had best repair to that house so good though
    chere
  Called the “Grand Hotel de France.” 
  Or if for food your craze is, you still can give your praises
  To the chef of its cuisine_. 
  Your taste you need not fetter, for ’tis said in Pau, no better
  Has ever yet been seen. 
  But this I have to say, you will not like your stay
  As much as if at Pension Colbert you the time had spent,
  And such a time, I’m very sure, you never would repent.

  If I’m eloquent in praise of those most peculiar days
  Which now have passed away,
  ’Tis to tell you, as a man, what awful risks I ran
  Lest my heart should chance to stray. 
  I never would pooh-pooh! ’tis cruel so to do,
  Though often weak and ill,
  For they my plaints would stop, with a juicy mutton-chop,
  Or a mild and savoury pill! 
  And this I have to say, you’re bound to like your stay,
  And never in your life I’m very sure will you repent
  The time in Pension Colbert’s walls and well-trimmed
    garden spent.

  And if a tantalizing passion of a gay lawn tennis fashion
  Should fire your love of sport,
  On the neat and well-kept lawn, a net that’s never torn
  Hangs quiv’ring o’er the court. 
  Or if your voice you’d raise in sweet or high-tun’d lays,
  You’ll find a piano there,
  And birdies too will sing, like mortals—­that’s a thing
  You’ll never hear elsewhere—­
  And then you’re bound to say that you have liked your stay,
  And never in your life I’m very sure will you repent
  The time in Pension Colbert’s walls and well-trimm’d
    garden spent.