entertained us.
They were followed next evening by a troupe of German-Swiss jodelers;
and oh, the difference to me--and, for that matter, to all of us!
It was just the difference between passion and silly sentiment--silly
and rather vulgar sentiment. The merry Swiss boys whooped, and
smacked their legs, and twirled their merry Swiss girls about, until
vengeance overtook them--a vengeance so complete, so surprising, that
I can hardly now believe what my own eyes saw and my own ears heard.
One of the merry Swiss girls sang a love-ditty with a jodeling
refrain, which was supposed to be echoed back by her lover afar in
the mountains. To produce this pleasing illusion, one of the merry
Swiss boys ascended the staircase, and hid himself deep in the
corridors of the hotel. All went well up to the last verse.
Promptly and truly the swain echoed his sweetheart's call; softly it
floated down to us--down from the imaginary pasture and across the
imaginary valley. But as the maiden challenged for the last time, as
her voice lingered on the last note of the last verse . . .
There hung a Swiss cuckoo-clock in the porter's office, and at that
very instant the mechanical bird lifted its voice, and nine times
answered 'Cuckoo' _on the exact note!_ "Cuckoo, Cuckoo, O word of
fear!" I have known coincidences, but never one so triumphantly
complete. The jaw of the Swiss maiden dropped an inch; and, as well
as I remember, silence held the company for five seconds before we
recovered ourselves and burst into inextinguishable laughter.

The one complaint I have to make of the Mediterranean is that it does
not in the least resemble a real sea; and I daresay that nobody who
has lived by a real sea will ever be thoroughly content with it.
Beautiful--oh, beautiful, of course, whether one looks across from
Costebelle to the lighthouse on Porquerolles and the warships in
Hyeres Bay; or climbs by the Calvary to the lighthouse of la Garoupe,
and sees on the one side Antibes, on the other the Isles de Lerins;
or scans the entrance of Toulon Harbour; or counts the tiers of
shipping alongside the quays at Genoa! But somehow the Mediterranean
has neither flavour nor sparkle, nor even any proper smell.
The sea by Biarritz is champagne to it. But hear how Hugo draws the
contrast in time of storm:--

"Ce n'etaient pas les larges lames de l'Ocean qui vont devant elles
et qui se deroulent royalement dans l'immensite; c'etaient des