Further letters from Scotland during these months are lacking. The
next was written, in answer to an inquiry from his stepdaughter at
San Francisco, on the second day after his arrival at Davos.
_Hotel Belvedere, Davos, November 1880._
No my che-ild--not Kamschatka this trip, only the top of the Alps, or
thereby; up in a little valley in a wilderness of snowy mountains; the
Rhine not far from us, quite a little highland river; eternal snow-peaks
on every hand. Yes; just this once I should like to go to the Vienna
gardens[28] with the family and hear Tweedledee and drink something and
see Germans--though God knows we have seen Germans enough this while
back. Naturally some in the Customs House on the Alsatian frontier, who
would have made one die from laughing in a theatre, and provoked a
smile from us even in that dismal juncture. To see them, big, blond,
sham-Englishmen, but with an unqualifiable air of not quite fighting the
sham through, diving into old women's bags and going into paroxysms of
arithmetic in white chalk, three or four of them (in full uniform) in
full cry upon a single sum, with their brows bent and a kind of
arithmetical agony upon their mugs. Madam, the diversion of
cock-fighting has been much commended, but it was not a circumstance to
that Custom House. They only opened one of our things: a basket. But
when they met from within the intelligent gaze of _Woggs_, they all lay
down and died. Woggs is a fine dog....
God bless you! May coins fall into your coffee and the finest wines and
wittles lie smilingly about your path, with a kind of dissolving view of
fine scenery by way of background; and may all speak well of you--and me
too for that matter--and generally all things be ordered unto you
totally regardless of expense and with a view to nothing in the world
but enjoyment, edification, and a portly and honoured age.--Your dear
papa,