GENEVA.

On my arrival I found, keeping order on the way outside the station, the
drollest policeman that ever stepped out of a comic opera. At home we
should have had to protect him against the boys; here he protects others.

Well, it shows that I am really abroad.

I have only two hours to spare in this town. What shall I see? The
country; that is always beautiful, whereas many so-called "sights" are
not. I will make for the shores of the lake, for the spot where the Rhone
leaves it, to flow toward France. The Rhone, which is so muddy at
Avignon, is clean here; deep and clear as a creek of the sea. It rushes
along in a narrow blue torrent compressed between a quay and a line of
houses.

The river draws me after it. We leave the town together, and I am soon in
the midst of those market-gardens where the infant Topffer lost himself,
and, overtaken by nightfall, fell to making his famous analysis of fear.
The big pumping wheels still overtop the willows, and cast their shadows
over the lettuce-fields. In the distance rise slopes of woodland, on
Sundays the haunt of holiday-makers. The Rhone leaps and eddies, singing
over its gravel beds. Two trout-fishers are taxing all their strength to
pull a boat up stream beneath the shelter of the bank.

Perhaps I was wrong in not waiting to hear what M. Plumet had to tell me.
He is not the kind of man to gesticulate wildly without good reason.

ON THE LAKE.

The steamer is gaining the open water and Geneva already lies far behind.
Not a ripple on the blue water that shades into deep blue behind us.
Ahead the scene melts into a milky haze. A little boat, with idle sails
embroidered with sunlight, vanishes into it. On the right rise the
mountains of Savoy, dotted with forests, veiled in clouds which cast
their shadows on the broken slopes. The contrast is happy, and I can not
help admiring Leman's lovely smile at the foot of these rugged mountains.

At the bend in the banks near St. Maurice-en-Valais, the wind catches us,
quite a squall. The lake becomes a sea. At the first roll an Englishwoman
becomes seasick. She casts an expiring glance upon Chillon, the ancient
towers of which are being lashed by the foam. Her husband does not think
it worth his while to cease reading his guide-book or focusing his
field-glass for so trifling a matter.

ON THE DILIGENCE

I am crossing the Simplon at daybreak, with rosepink