LETTER II. I7 



but the first plunge into it is rather like your 

 first plunge in the sea ; it leaves you gasp- 

 ing. 



On the way from Montreal to Lake George, 

 the traveller must stay at Plattsburg, whence 

 the boat starts up the lake next morning 

 at a terribly early hour. Hotel life does not 

 suit men, my dear, and ten days on a steamer is 

 the worst possible prelude to it. They smoke 

 too many cigars and get thirsty too often, the 

 result being what they call ' liver/ Our three 

 ' lords of creation ' had been very good until they 

 got to Plattsburg. There they broke down. 



It was a very pretty hotel we stayed at, but 

 there was nothing to do but to sit in a row in rock- 

 ing-chairs and rock. At supper-time (our dinner) 

 the waiting was infamous ; that duty being per- 

 formed by women. I heard my husband declare 

 that Shamus O'Brien was the only one who could 

 get attended to, and he only because he had such 

 an Irish way of putting his arm round the wait- 

 resses' waists. ' No apollinaris, no soda, no 

 whisky, nothing to eat except pickles, and 

 nothing to eat them with except dessert-knives 

 which would not cut butter ; a sufficiency of 

 nothing except iced water, electric lights, and 

 brass spittoons as large as Lake Ontario.' So the 

 men grumbled, and when to console myself I 



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