I am at Davos. Be careful about the pronunciation: put the accent
broadly on the second syllable, and you have it. With me, if I may say
so, it is a case of _Davos non vobis_, for I have come here not for my
own health, but to act as travelling-companion to one of the best
fellows in the world, who seeks health and strength in this quiet and
beautiful valley. God be with him, and with all his fellow-sufferers
here. Here are some notes taken on the way.
_Hall of the Grosvenor Hotel, 10.30 A.M._--A mixed crowd of anxious
French and English people: a sprinkling of Americans. Desperate
inquiries from an elderly French lady for her box. A moment ago the box
was visible, a monumental box peacefully reposing near the door. Now it
has vanished. Is the box to be added to the questions pending between
France and England? No; it is found--on a truck. The French Ambassador
may rest in peace. On a sofa reclines a magnificent Arab, tall, stately,
bronzed, aquiline, robed in a waving burnous and a turban of dazzling
white. How he casts our puny, ditto-suited, cloth-capped civilisation
into the shade. An almost irresistible impulse comes over me to change
my ticket, break every tie and make a dash with him for his native
desert, to live a free and untrammelled life, to head a successful
insurrection against the French oppressor, to be laid after death in a
splendid tomb with a cupola amidst the lamentations of thousands of
lithe and dusky warriors.
_11 A.M._--We are off; handshakings, wavings of handkerchiefs. Still
dreaming of Algeria, I am recalled to actuality by a stoppage at Herne
Hill.
_Calais._--The home of the _demi-poulet_, not forgetting the
_flageolet_. Perpetual entrances of imperturbable officials with chorus
"_Les voyageurs pour...._" Consequent series of shocks inimical to quiet
eating. At last our turn comes. Each of us has bagged a _demi-poulet_ in
record time. Why all this hurry? At any rate we are off.
_Laon, 7 P.M._--Dinner. English traveller wants whisky. "_Avez vous doo
visky?_" Lady of restaurant shakes her head. "_Visky Ecossais. Eau de
vie Ecossais._" A brilliant inspiration, but the landlady, protesting
she can supply _eau de vie_, denies all knowledge of the Scotch variety.
"Perhaps," says a helpful old lady, an English fellow-traveller, looking
at the tariff-board on which the word "_rhum_" figures, "perhaps they
call it 'room.'" Suggestion received with enthusiasm: "_Avez vous doo
room?_" Enter guard: "_Les voyageurs pour Bâle._" Only just time to pay.
Off we go again.
_Bâle, 5.30 A.M._--Train stops: consultation of watches. Can't be Bâle:
not due till 6.30. Another hour for sleep; turn over, when door opens
suddenly and an alarmed Swiss porter ejaculates "_Mais deshendez donc,
Monsieur, le drain fa bartir_." Out we go: the sky becomes dark with
hats, sticks, wraps, handbags. Have we got everything? Yes--no--where is
my waistcoat? Quite forgot I had discarded it at night: it contains
watch, money, everything. Approach of beaming porter carrying waistcoat
like a banner. Transference of silver from self to porter. He beams more
and more. Unduly early arrival explained by fact that we are now under
Central European time. Breakfast.
At Bâle I purchase the Paris _Temps_ of to-day's date. An article on the
Swiss Referendum. At last I am at close quarters with the Referendum.
Question for decision was, is the sale of matches to be a State
monopoly? The Swiss voter has said no by an overwhelming majority. The
_Temps_, analysing results, sees in this "a victory of the individualist
spirit, and of French tradition over the German spirit instilled in the
universities of Zurich, Berne, and Bâle, or brought home by Swiss
writers and politicians who have studied in Germany itself." Sédan is
avenged. It appears, too, that the Swiss voter is getting bored with
Referendums. He has had too many of them, and on this occasion barely
half of him recorded his vote. Merry Swiss voter, awaking on a Sunday
morning, inquires of his merry Swiss wife, "Any voting to-day, my dear?"
"Only those silly matches," replies M. S. W. "Oh, drat they matches,"
says merry Swiss voter (or words to that effect). "I'm not going to
trouble about _that_," and turns over to sleep again. Anyhow, matches
are not to be a State monopoly. Long live the Referendum!
_On the way to Landquart._--Sudden alarm of my companion. He clutches my
arm, and points to the roof of railway carriage, saying, in an
awe-struck voice, "What does that mean; why do they put that word
there?" Following with my eyes the direction of his finger, I notice
white dial, with moveable hand, let into roof. Plainly painted in bold
letters on one side of the dial is the word "hell." On the other side,
however, I see the German word "dunkel," which, of course, makes things
clear. Quite natural, though, that apparatus for turning light up and
down should, at first sight, be mistaken for a Salvation Army warning.
_Landquart, 1.16 P.M._--Lunch. Here the toy railway to Davos begins. We
have still more than 3000 feet to climb before reaching our destination.
Obtain beautifully-coloured little pamphlet with map. Learn that we are
about to travel on "highest adhesion railway in Europe." Prepare
ourselves to be as adhesive as possible by taking in immense amount of
ballast in the shape of lunch. On consulting map, presumably drawn to
scale, find that Davos is at least five times the size of London, which
figures minutely in upper left-hand corner. This is delightful. Delight,
however, dashed by observing that the distance from Landquart to Davos
is nearly three times as great as from London to Bâle. Still, after the
shock of finding ourselves under Central European time, we are prepared
for most things. At last the little toy engine puffs violently,
metaphorically takes off its coat, and, like _Mr. Snodgrass_, announces
in a very loud tone that it is going to begin. We start! Hurrah, we
adhere!!
***
Up, up, and still up we climb, hanging on here and there by our eyebrows
to mountain precipices, and peering down into chasms on the other side.
Still we adhere and the gallant little engine puffs away like mad.
Amiable Swiss guard takes a paternal pride in it, in the train, in the
scenery, and (after usual transference of silver) in us. Have we ever
been at Davos before? No? In that case, it appears, we must prepare for
pleasures before which the overrated amusements of Paris and Vienna pale
and dwindle. Davos at last.
***
_Davos._--Wonderfully hearty reception at the Hôtel d'Angleterre. Mr.
DEMMER smiles, Mrs. DEMMER smiles, the boots, the waitress, the
housemaid all smile. We smile, too, and find everything prepared in
rooms of the most brilliant cleanness: dinner, and so to bed.
Conversation in Davos is of great simplicity. We are all either invalids
or the friends of invalids. At first hearing it would appear as if a
gigantic ball, at which nobody danced, was perpetually taking place.
"Have you been sitting out much to-day?" "Yes, I sat out nine hours."
"Ah, I only managed to get in seven," &c., &c. For the pure and perfect
air is the main element of the cure at Davos, and in nearly all weathers
the invalids are on the verandahs drawing in these draughts of new life
and vigour.
On the following morning I stroll. Remember that, curiously enough, I
haven't seen a single soldier since I arrived in Switzerland. Here,
however, is a photographic group of non-commissioned officers of the
Davos section of some infantry regiment. All their implements of warfare
are drawn, a martial defiance gleams from every eye. In the centre of
the group two of the most warlike cross their protecting swords in front
of a tall lady, allegorically attired in cloak and scale-armour to
represent Helvetia. I immediately abandon contemplated invasion and
annexation of Switzerland.
A band is playing under an arcade of glass in front of the _Kurhaus_.
They play really admirably--as good a band, as I have heard for a long
time. But they are all, to a flute, dressed in black frock-coats,
tightly buttoned, and black top-hats, for all the world like a
provincial British municipality out for a holiday. Everything, save for
the band, is wonderfully peaceful. A few cows browse in the valley,
their pleasant bells drowsily tinkling. The surrounding mountains have
donned their white crowns in our honour: the snowy, silent peaks glitter
in the brilliant sun. In front of our hotel a retriever puppy, with an
imperfect control over his paws, engages in a romp with a little white
dog. He bowls over the little white dog, and, before he has quite
recovered from the shock, bowls him over again. This is too much for the
white dog's dignity: he bites the retriever violently in a tender part
of the back. Woe, woe, the game is over, and the puppy flies homeward.
In the afternoon the colony sits out again; it sits out finally after
dinner. And so the quiet days proceed, for the time of toboggans and
skates is not yet. It is a peaceful, a delightful spot, and on every
hand are to be met hale and hearty folk who drifted hither, derelict
wrecks, to be towed into haven and made sound for many a voyage. The
tales of complete cures vary the conversational record of hours of
sitting out. St. Luke, the good physician, is the patron saint of the
little English Church here, and might well be the patron saint of Davos
itself.
* * * * *
A COUNCIL OF WAR.--The pugnacity which tradition tells us was the chief
characteristic of the Kilkenny Cat Conferences finds a parallel in a
recent meeting of Aberdare District Councillors, at which, among other
compliments, such as members bluntly accusing each other of falsehood,
the chairman advised a counsellor to go to the ---- gentleman whose name
is usually omitted in polite converse. The seconder of a motion proposed
by a Justice of the Peace, had the following remarkable and withering
invective hurled at him from the chair: "You know _nothing_ about it,
Mr. GEORGE knows but little, and _you know less_," while another
counsellor observed, "I should show at least that I had a little
brains." This gentleman is to be congratulated upon his consciousness of
superior cerebral strength, and if the council possesses but "little
brains" this deficiency is amply supplied by a corresponding wealth of
choler and a copious flow of wrathful language.
* * * * *
"BONNIE DUNDEE."
[Illustration: Bonnie Dun-dee!]
There was something exceedingly pretty in the doings at Dundee the other
day when the burghers assembled to do honour to their old Member Mr.
ARMITSTEAD. In the Parliament of 1880-5 Mr. ARMITSTEAD'S commanding
presence was a familiar and welcome feature. Since then, having piloted
Mr. GLADSTONE in successive journeys about the continent, his
personality has obtained a wider field of recognition. When, at Biarritz
and elsewhere, the population, tracking Mr. GLADSTONE, came upon this
tall, straight figure, with flowing beard and kindly honest eyes, they
thought he must be the Grand Old Man of whom they had heard so much.
They, it is said, cheered him accordingly, leaving Mr. GLADSTONE free
from embarrassing attention. That is probably a fable. Certainly, in
Dundee, where Mr. ARMITSTEAD lived and worked for forty years, there is
no chance of his being mistaken for any other G. O. M. Having retired
from public life, Dundee wanted to have a portrait of its most honoured
citizen. That was very nice, but as acceptance of the suggestion would
have involved his presence at the installation of the portrait, and the
making of a speech in response to all the kind things said, Mr.
ARMITSTEAD modestly shrank from the ordeal. But he managed, after all,
to gratify Dundee. He sat for his portrait at his own expense, gave it
to the city, and, represented to the life on canvas, felt at liberty to
absent himself from the public meeting at which the Lord Provost
accepted the picture on behalf of Dundee. Thus beyond the timorous Tweed
do Merit and Modesty dwell together.
* * * * *