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it so that the tourist may find it the the Strand, down to Chiavenna.



looked at the peasants with singular interest as descendants of Balbus and Cicero; but I am bound to say I have never yet seen an Italian, gentle or simple, who gave me the impression of


The gigantic

"We've taken to playing cricket with broomsticks (you know the Eton broomsticks) on the drying-ground behind the Kurhaus. It is so homelike to hear youth declare itself beastly sorry being able to build a wall, much less when it drops a very obvious catch.impeach a pro-consul. This afternoon they were so misguided hotel I found had many Londoners and as to give me a full-pitch to leg. I hit the usual boss. Every hotel in the Enit very hard, oh, very hard! and it gadine of any eminence has its boss. caught a young Russian lady sauntering You pick him out at once by the way across the ground whack in the ribs. I he comes in to table d'hôte, with a slight ran up white with alarm to find her look of surprise that they should have barking like a dog, which I take to be dared to begin without him. He has the Muscovite method of showing pain | been to the Engadine for at least the and fear. She speaks English perfectly, last fifteen years, and this year he is and I did my best to apologize, but I very much astonished that he can't fear she'll refuse to dance with me at my usual rooms.' I always the Victoria to-night. Never mind, I here,' he says, 'you see they got fifty-three, and they couldn't get know me;' as though that were any me out. sort of recommendation. But it is a good thing to know the boss yourself, for if you have any difficulty he takes you in mysteriously to see the manager, and says, 'This gentleman is a friend of mine,' which very properly settles it. And every year he says, 'I shan't come here again,' and every year he comes; sometimes, even, in the winter. Bosses would be perfect if only they had some sense of humor. But no king ever has a sense of humor, or he wouldn't be there stuck up on a throne. True, Charles II. had some; but then what a bad king he was !

"In the rooms up-stairs we've a couple of musicians staying. Quels drôles de gens, les artistes! They stop in all day playing; one braying at a massive symphony he's composing on the piano, a mixture of Wagner and Berlioz; the other sits on the edge of his bed twiddling scales on the fiddle. He's not well, I believe, as when he goes out of his room he's got his head wrapped up; I always know how he is in the morning by the intensity of pain he wrings from his instrument. They take their exercise mostly at night, bareheaded and smoking cigarettes. I saw one of them in knickerbockers, leaning against the post of the electric light, gazing up at the luminary. I suppose he was seeking inspiration, as old-fashioned people used to from the moon. Quels drôles de gens!


"Farewell! Next year you must come to the Engadine; and may you have such weather as ours. They say there hasn't been so fine a summer known since '59. We are going to Pontresina as soon as we can get in there; at present our hard-worked friends at the bar are monopolizing most of the best rooms."

"We drove over to Maloya the other day, behind horses so white with dust that they looked like the pale animals Tuesday. - When the youthful Enof the Apocalypse. There the Enga- gadiner grows tired of driving an eindine struggles in good earnest with spanner in the summer, of doing a Italy, and I fancy that Italy gets rather little carpentering in the winter, he the best of it, so hot and siesta-like it makes up his mind to see the world, grew after lunch. We strolled down to and make his fortune. But, if he posthe gorge and sat in the delicious misty sibly can, he always comes back to his draught of the torrent; below twisted long, lean valley to die. If he has the white road like that detestable made a fortune, in nine cases out of fumigated ruban they sicken us with in ten as a confectioner, he builds him a

châlet of glistening pine, with a pious | motto carved under the eaves, in Latin or Romanisch; the garden is brilliant with flowers stacked in pots (seeing they won't grow in the ground), and decked with large silver balls on tripods that make your eyes ache in the sun. All the windows on the ground floor have flower-pots in them, too; and, up above, the trimmest white blinds; while the electric light hangs in the broad balcony, and a great globe of it on a tall pole in front of the hall door. At the gate he plants a board with a notice in German, Italian, and French that entrance is prohibited, which seems to have the contrary effect as well, for I never yet saw any one coming out. My impression is, the owner leaves his châlet early in the morning and spends his day visiting the hotel proprietors; at any rate, if by chance you penetrate into the sacred inner office of your hotel yqu are sure to find a prosperous middle-aged gentleman making decently merry with the proprietor, the manager, and sometimes the head waiter. There's an open box of cigarettes and a slim bottle of Rhine wine, and you may be sure they are discussing the chances of the vintage in Italy, and making arrangements to go down and see after their purchases of it in November. But if the Engadiner makes no fortune as confectioner, then all his days he remains a waiter. Oh, my brothers who dine in restaurants (Gatti's, Monico's, the Café Royal, according to our means), let us always duly remember the waiter; that tall, supple, dark man who seems Italian, but is in reality an Engadiner. Let us remember that anything we give him brings him nearer home, is added to the pile in the greasy leather purse on which he sleeps; one day to carry him, via Flushing, home to S.. Moritz or Samaden, to the squat white house with the heavy roof and the deep-set windows, down whose dark stairs he paddled bare-footed as a child, up which he hopes one dayyou understand? then pauca verba. Now I have told you, you have no excuse for ever giving him less than threepence.

Saturday, August 27th. Pontresina.

- So we don't unpack, but take an evening walk instead along the river, past the Sansouci towards the Morteratsch glacier; and there, almost under the monster's sullen lip, we find a very honest fellow milking a cow and talking to a friend. "No, mein Herr," he says, looking up with a broad sunburnt smile (charming contrast to the dark scowl of the glacier), he has no cup, but if we please he will give us a drink out of the pail - of shallow pinewood, clean, wholesome, sweet wood-milk smelling. The milk is frothing with deep and creamy bubbles; there is a gentle, seething, hissing murmur in it. Indescribable, the beneficent warm sense as it creeps downwards, wrapping the inner man round like a blanket. Over the high mountain ridge swings the slender hammock of the new moon, as though the evening star were resting there, after the mighty heat of her skyclimb.


As we stand on the bridge, the cold grey glacier water tumbling along below, a man comes out of the inn and blows a small curved bugle. Some plaintive Swiss air of sorrow at leaving the mountains, it seems to me. girls who are clearing away the tea and coffee of the afternoon from the little zinc tables, come down towards the bridge to listen; a guide or two from the inn puff their pipes approvingly; while a loose-boned German, scarlet from the sun, pulls himself past with his alpenstock. You can only hear a note of the bugle every now and then, for the noise of the water. It is ten minutes to seven, and in a moment the peaks above the glacier, just now a warm and sunny white, fade ghastly pale. They look as though they had suddenly seen a ghost; perhaps some one or two are walking there, now the sun has gone, killed years ago. As we stroll back towards Pontresina the church bell tolls heavily, heavily; behind us the peaks grow yet more terrifically white. Now it seems to me a funeral of some lost guide, and all those high snows the winding-sheet.

Sunday. I was looking at the En


tory bouquets, and stand bareheaded till the diligence is out of sight. Then they come lumbering back to the hotel with their hands in their pockets, and reply to their wives' expostulations,

glish graves, so pathetic always abroad | see groups and piles of luggage at half of the poor lady lost last September past seven in the morning, waiting in by the fall of the diligence in the Al- the road opposite the post-office for the bula pass; of the young man, son of Sir diligence from Poschiavo through the C. R., killed by a fall near this place ; " | Bernina Pass to pick them up. Their at the graves of the dead, at thirty-two, table d'hôte friends and acquaintances twenty-nine, and thirty-three years of come and see them off, and there are age, that mean, I fear, consumption — many regretful partings between the when I saw a woman in dark clothes, young men and maidens who have been not mourning (she was too poor for dancing and climbing and walking tothat), but the ordinary working clothes gether the month past. They hope to that all the peasants wear, sitting on meet again, but it's ten to one they the wall of the smaller graveyard be- never do; for if the world is, as people low, where the little graves all seemed say, very small, it is also very large. to mark the resting-places of children. At these farewells stout middle-aged At her feet was a miniature inclosure Englishmen develop an extraordinary fenced round with tiny, almost doll's- politeness; they turn up with valedichouse white wooden palings; there a little cross, too, perhaps six inches high, and hung on it a circlet of white beads. On the grass two children were sitting, arranging a few wild flowers; another, with a battered tin"Well, my dear, I don't suppose we bowl, went down to the hillside torrent and filled it; and all the while the mother never moved; her hand was over her eyes, her head bent over the little grave; so complete, so touching an attitude of lost dejection I have never seen. We could not understand each other's language, but every line of her bent figure told me far more eloquently than words of her sorrow and her loss. I turned again as I went into the wood and saw her just wipe her eyes with the back of her hand and then sink again into the same unutterable grief. And all the time the children played with the flowers, the little maid went piously watering out of her tin bowl. The children here are so pretty. Who can doubt that the poor mother's heart was buried there deep, deep with her brown-faced, quick-eyed darling whose tiny sunburnt hands were folded restfully under the diminutive cross. You heard the click of the alpenstocks against the stones, as people came down, close by the church, from their long day's climb up Piz Languard.

shall ever see them again; you didn't ask them to call, I imagine." The English are a fearless race; to that they owe the possession of India and the Suez Canal shares; but who ever heard of one of them asking a table d'hôte acquaintance to come and call?

Sunday, September 11th. Snow falling heavily, quietly, out of a sky densely charged with it. In the chilly English church I sit and watch it falling past Mrs. Bancroft's stained-glass window; the parson's saw is drowned in sneezings, as at home in January. What with the church and dining in the restaurant without a stove, I wake in the morning with a terrible sore throat that would have delighted me at school but distresses me at Pontresina. So I summon my small friend the waiter, and beg him to procure me an English doctor. No English doctor left, he says (as though he had been all eaten at table d'hôte), but he can get me a German one who talks English very fine. There enters then (after an interval, in which I imagine him to be reading up the subject) a young gentleTuesday. People are beginning to man in a sort of German covert coat, go home, to Portman Square and who bows low and regards me fixedly. Lower Seymour Street, and such-like At last he says, "You 'ave pain the irreproachable neighborhoods. You front 'ed. No? You 'ave feevre.

No ?"

Then he unscrews a small a large glittering disk on his eye, with thermometer, tucks it under my arm, a small hole in it; he looks something says, "old 'im goot, so; "walks to the like a diver and something like Cyclops; window, blows his nose lustily, and he takes a "box of water" and a long remains looking out of it. The wood penetrating-looking instrument with a


roars up the stove, the snow falls as in brush on the end, beckons me to the a pathetic Adelphi drama, and I feel window, and before I know what he is convinced I am going to die, to have doing he is rattling the instrument up a five-franc piece laid on each eye, and down my throat, exactly like a with only waiters for mourners. True chimney-sweep cleaning a chimney. enough, the thermometer shows I have What I suffered! I try to explain to feevre, and the young gentleman looks the friends who come and sit with me at it and smiles. He does that, I say what I have been suffering, but I can to myself, to reassure me, because the see from the look in their eye that they case is really grave. I am about to are not in the least interested. burst into tears and demand writing even wishes he was me to be laid up in materials, when he says, "Show troot, such beastly weather. My very travelpleass!" He opens his own mouth ling companion declares he has had all extremely wide, and, brandishing a that and worse done to him when he's toothbrush, gazes down into me with a been ill, and then breaks off into a startled expression. His mind is made long, uninteresting account of his chase up; now he knows what is wrong with that morning after chamois. I scarcely me; I have a sore throat and must listen to him - I am suffering too "gurgle." The treatment to be pur- much; for, upon my word, I know no sued is as follows: I must "a box of greater tragedy than not being allowed water take," and I must "goot gurgle." to talk about yourself. But I am bound Nothing will save me but that; "goot to say that the young gentleman cures gurgle every two, tree hour." For me, and that very cheaply. "Honor food "soup wiz eier in im," and I muss the charge he made !" if I may slightly not get out of bett. For the rest, paraphrase the Balaclava lyric to his "Yes, you have feevre," and he will advantage. send me the gurgle; with which he buttons up the covert coat and bows himself away. He will do all that human skill can for me, I know, and the little waiter, too; for whenever I ring the bell for soup, or more wood, he comes in triumphantly with another supply of "gurgle." It is a white substance; for myself, I should say it was table salt; and it is invariably inclosed in a small box which I observe bears the name of the leading Pontresina jeweller.

For three days, while the snow falls, I gurgle to the best of my poor abilities and drink soup. On the fourth it is evident that more drastic remedies are to be taken, since the young gentleman appears with a large wooden box under his arm, which he unfastens with his usual smile (delight in a new toy, I remark to myself), and which I am very much alarmed to see contains shining steel instruments. He fastens

From The Gentleman's Magazine.

IT is not given to all classes of song to be universal; some countries are rich in one particular style, some in another, but we may safely affirm that the lullaby is indigenous to every soil. There are mothers and babies in all lands; and therefore, as a natural sequence, we find the lulling song or lullaby. From China to Peru, from Spitzbergen to South Africa, motherhood in its primitive form is ever one of the best sides of complex human nature. The little cannibal, the embryo fire-eater, the untutored Aino baby, all turn with something like a spark of affection towards her who gave him birth; and although we shall probably find more melody, more beautiful poetic imagery amongst the lullabies of Euro

pean mothers, yet we must not fail to take into account the sincerity of such lines as these which the Chinese woman chants over her infant :

Snail, snail, come out and be fed,

Put out your horns and then your head, And thy mamma will give thee mutton, For thou art doubly dear to me.

The Arab tawny treasure seems to be easiest sent into dreamland with the following bucolic verse:

Sleep, my baby, sleep,
Sleep a slumber hale,

Sweetly rest till morning light,
My little farmer boy, so bright.

And the little Zulu goes to:

Hush thee, my baby,

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Bret Harte says that the American lullabies are the same as ours, with the exception of one or two Dutch ones which have become favorites. There is, however, one peculiar to Detroit: Hush, my baby, sleep my sweet, Father's trying to sell his wheat. Hush, little baby, don't you cry, You'll be an alderman by and by.

This is, I believe, the only instance where civic honors are held out in a slumber song.

France may arrogate to itself the honor of originating political lullabies. During the siege of Paris the nurses sang:

As-tu vu Bismark

A la porte de Chatillon ? Il lance les obus

Sur le Panthéon.

And then we must not forget the "Chanson de Marlbrouck," and how its strains lulled a royal infant to rest.

Some of the Greek lullabies are
charming, although they do not very
readily lend themselves to translation
into English. There is something very
wholesome and very pretty about this:
O slumber; washed on Saturday,
On Sunday dressed in clean array,
On Monday morn to school away,
As sweet as apple, bright and gay.
Sleep the mighty all has flown,
To Alexandria she has gone;
Nani, thou canary bright,
Who my brain bewilders quite.
And the following is also very sweet:
O sleep, who takest little ones,
Take to thee my darling;

A tiny one I give him now,
A big boy bring him to me,
As tall as any mountain grown
And straight as lofty cypress ;
His branches let him spread about,
From the West to Anatolia.

Amongst the most universal of lullabies are the two following. Thousands, nay, millions of little ones have been put to rest by their soothing cadences, all over the world :

Bye baby bunting,
Daddy's gone a-hunting;
To get a little rabbit skin
To wrap a baby bunting in.

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