dripping with ink, and the stain on his body and face made. him look like a kind of two-legged zebra.

Many English and American tourists see all the sights in a perfunctory way, as if sent by a task-master and bound to get through in a certain time. I saw an Englishman in Santa Croce, Florence, who almost ran through the galleries and halls. In the quarter of an hour I spent examining a single frescoit was worth more time-he had stuck his nose into the cell of every monk, glanced at Savonarola's cowl and beads, and hurried out to "do" some other show-place of the city, probably so as to see Rome the next day, and leave for London the day after. Conversing with one of these lightning travellers, he said,

"Oh yes, I was in Florence a day. Saw all the sights-Santa Croce, and all the rest."

These tourists, however, are a blessing to the countries they rush through. They pay hotel bills and guides, and buy views, but it is difficult to see wherein they benefit themselves. The German tourist is at the other extreme. Precise, methodical, the German marks off the sights in his guide-book as he would check off a consignment of goods. He feels no emotion, no sentiment, no romance; he looks on the antiquities of Naples and Rome as he would look on the ruins of a house of yesterday. He is only careful to check off what he sees, that he may not mistake and waste time over the same sight again. The Frenchman flies rapidly from one point to another, obtains a superficial knowledge of everything, and in after-conversation makes a better and more brilliant display than the German, who is slow, yet really knows twice as much of the subject.

To an American accustomed in his own country to one language through an extent of four thousand miles, the variety of languages in Europe is a matter of curious interest. It is doubly so to the pedestrian, who is able to note the minutest changes. The traveller who is whisked by train from Milan to Paris or Vienna only knows that whereas yesterday it was Italian, to-day it is French or German. The pedestrian cross

ing the frontier can note the gradual change, the dovetailing, so to speak, of one tongue with another. In a three days' walk I encountered all shades of the three languages, French, German, and Italian.

At Simplon, the last town before reaching the Pass, we got a luncheon of milk and honey and black bread, and then pushed rapidly on. The wind was biting, the air was thin and keen. We kept warm only by the most vigorous walking. For twenty minutes the road runs through the Pass, neither descending nor ascending; then this level stretch passed, I noticed the drippings from the snow-banks had changed their course; a little more and we passed through a tunnel, over the roof of which a foaming torrent leaped, precipitating itself into the valley; then the long and winding descent began. The distance to Brieg, measured in miles, is a full day's journey, but it is all down hill; we made it in four hours.

We did it by running two-thirds of the way.

CHAPTER XIII.

A TWO-CENT TRICK.-MUSICAL SURPRISES IN GENEVA.-BOGUS HISTORICAL RELICS.-ADVENTURES ON GLACIERS AND AVALANCHES. -PEASANT LIFE IN SWITZERLAND.

GENEVA is very appropriately called le petit Paris-the little Paris. It is full of Parisians, and French is the language spoken. It is, in fact, a kind of lounging-place for Parisians, who jump on the cars and go there to rest and enjoy the cool breezes of Leman Lake. In the evening the Rue de Rhone is brilliant with a long line of lights. Almost every shop is a café, where bands of music-usually women musicians—play, attracting large crowds, who sit on the pavement and sip vermouth and listen to the music, the effect of which is not a little heightened by the surroundings-the rippling waters of the Rhone a few yards away, and beyond the clear waters of the lake shining like a silver mirror in the light of the moon. The music at one café no sooner ceases than the fiddles and harps of the next one take up the strain; the music sways from one end of the line to the other, and then back again. Fashionable people dash up in their carriages, newly married couples ride up on their " sociable" tricycles, and nine o'clock in the evening finds this brilliant avenue almost blocked with a crowd composed of all nationalities. One-third of the seventy-five thousand people in Geneva are foreigners.

I was interested in the Geneva Art Gallery, not on account of the paintings, but from the fact that the floor was of wood. It was the first wood floor I had seen in Europe. In art galleries it is forbidden to carry a cane or umbrella. Those articles must be deposited with the custodian, who, of course, expects a fee for his trouble. In Geneva I saw a man who avoided this regulation in an odd way. While I was looking at a

statue of Rousseau, the custodian came running in after a man who had entered without depositing his cane.

"Don't you see I am lame?" said the man, in a reproachful tone.

The custodian looked. Sure enough, the gentleman was limping-badly too. Of course a lame man could not be deprived of his staff, and the custodian left without the cane and without his fee. Then there was a transformation. The "lame" man winked at me, his limping ceased, and he walked as straight as a major! That was a small trick to save a twocent fee. In America we do not know how to save two cents. The average American is not up to two-cent economy. In Europe it is a matter of importance with the great body of the people. Housewives in Geneva buy ham, beefsteak, chickens, bread, soup, vegetables-everything ready cooked. In Italy the housekeeper buys the raw material, and carries it to a public "cookery," where a beefsteak or roast is cooked in the shortest possible time for a mere trifle of money. An European with an income of five thousand dollars does not live in a house detached from others, with lawn around it and plenty of fresh air. He lives in a flat, with stores underneath him, and above him a shoemaker or tailor shop, or perhaps even worse-revelling students and their mistresses. In Geneva I heard of several instances of this kind, the first floors of a flat being occupied by respectable, well-to-do merchants, and the top flat by carousing students. One can image the rencontres to which, under such circumstances, the pretty daughter of the merchant, or lawyer, or doctor on the first floor may be subjected.

Geneva is a great centre for music-boxes. Their manufacture is the chief industry of the place, affording employment to thousands of men, women, and children. I visited one of the largest factories.

"Take a seat," said the polite attendant. I did so. Instantly there were strains of delightful music. The chair was a music-box.

will leave your

And now,' "continued the attendant, "if you cane and hat here, I will take you through the workrooms."

I hung my hat on the rack and put my staff in the stand. Music began to issue from the hat and from the stand. Afterwards, in writing my name in the visitor's register, I dipped the pen in the ink. Music burst forth from the inkstand. If you sat down, the chair made music. I thought myself transported to fairy-land.

"Music - box making," said Mr. Conchon, of the "Star Works," "is a business that requires the utmost patience and nicety. The different parts are made by men, who become experts in those parts, and in those parts only. After the rough cylinder is made, the music is marked thereon by a man who has served years of apprenticeship. In every mark made by this man a peg is put by another man. That is the sole business of one set of men-putting pegs in their places. A fourth set of men file the pegs to a uniform length. The comb or set of teeth which strikes the pegs and makes the sound is now arranged, and the cylinder revolved to see that every peg produces a proper tone. Then comes the most delicate work of all. Each peg is revised by a workman whose ear for music must be good, and who must see that cach note is in its proper place, and that each peg is bent at the proper angle. The parts polished, the springs arranged, and the instrument in its case, all is then finally examined by an expert, to see that the movement is good and the time perfect. The music-box is then complete, ready for sale."

I inquired of Mr. Conchon how much his men received. "Oh, very good wages indeed," was the reply. "Many of the men average five francs ($1.00) a day."

Observing that I evinced no surprise at the vastness of the sum, he added,

66

'But there are some who earn eight and even nine francs a day. Those who mark the cylinders and adjust the pegs have to serve an apprenticeship of ten or twelve years, and they make fully nine francs a day."