Sir Julian Pauncefote, the English ambassador at Washington, has a very fine house besides—­at no damage to his salary.

English ambassadors pay no house rent; they live in palaces owned by England.  Our representatives pay house-rent out of their salaries.  You can judge by the above figures what kind of houses the United States of America has been used to living in abroad, and what sort of return-entertaining she has done.  There is not a salary in our list which would properly house the representative receiving it, and, in addition, pay $3,000 toward his family’s bacon and doughnuts—­the strange but economical and customary fare of the American ambassador’s household, except on Sundays, when petrified Boston crackers are added.

The ambassadors and ministers of foreign nations not only have generous salaries, but their Governments provide them with money wherewith to pay a considerable part of their hospitality bills.  I believe our Government pays no hospitality bills except those incurred by the navy.  Through this concession to the navy, that arm is able to do us credit in foreign parts; and certainly that is well and politic.  But why the Government does not think it well and politic that our diplomats should be able to do us like credit abroad is one of those mysterious inconsistencies which have been puzzling me ever since I stopped trying to understand baseball and took up statesmanship as a pastime.

To return to the matter of house-rent.  Good houses, properly furnished, in European capitals, are not to be had at small figures.  Consequently, our foreign representatives have been accustomed to live in garrets —­sometimes on the roof.  Being poor men, it has been the best they could do on the salary which the Government has paid them.  How could they adequately return the hospitalities shown them?  It was impossible.  It would have exhausted the salary in three months.  Still, it was their official duty to entertain their influentials after some sort of fashion; and they did the best they could with their limited purse.  In return for champagne they furnished lemonade; in return for game they furnished ham; in return for whale they furnished sardines; in return for liquors they furnished condensed milk; in return for the battalion of liveried and powdered flunkeys they furnished the hired girl; in return for the fairy wilderness of sumptuous decorations they draped the stove with the American flag; in return for the orchestra they furnished zither and ballads by the family; in return for the ball—­but they didn’t return the ball, except in cases where the United States lived on the roof and had room.

Is this an exaggeration?  It can hardly be called that.  I saw nearly the equivalent of it, a good many years ago.  A minister was trying to create influential friends for a project which might be worth ten millions a year to the agriculturists of the Republic; and our Government had furnished him ham and lemonade to persuade the opposition with.  The minister did not succeed.  He might not have succeeded if his salary had been what it ought to have been—­$50,000 or $60,00 a year—­but his chances would have been very greatly improved.  And in any case, he and his dinners and his country would not have been joked about by the hard-hearted and pitied by the compassionate.