. JULY 377 



chance, and so, instead of fruitful victories, brilliant 

 blunders are all the upshot of what many a record of 

 distinguished lives has to present.' All this from a 

 night journey. It was broad daylight as we came 

 down the beautiful flowery slopes of the Cenis in a 

 luxurious French corridor carriage, so superior in every 

 way to the Italian one we had just left. 



The English used to be accused of being the great 

 eaters of Europe when I was young. I do not think 

 that is the case now. In our carriage was a middle- 

 aged couple — I should imagine, brother and sister — 

 and evidently, as is so often the case with other couples, 

 the gray mare was the better horse. She travelled with 

 curious deliberation ; first she wrapped up both the 

 hats in beautiful bright Italian silk handkerchiefs, to 

 preserve them from dust. Her black hair, I suppose 

 she thought, could be cleaned without expense. She 

 frizzled up her curls and wiped her dark, fat, ugly face. 

 She then produced a huge powder-puff, and powdered 

 her face well all over. The man bore all this patiently ; 

 he was thin and bald, and much more refined -looking 

 than she was. He placed a black silk cap on his head. 

 Then she opened a large dog -basket filled with a most 

 dainty lancheon. Sandwiches, folded up in a beauti- 

 fully clean, damp napkin, began the meal. Then were 

 eaten large slices of meat and bread, mugs full of rich 

 milk, cheese (of which she must have eaten eight or ten 

 ounces), and all this with a resigned calm, as if she 

 were performing a sacred duty which she owed, not to 

 herself, but to society. The meal wound up with beauti- 

 ful ripe Apricots — grown, I am sure, on their own 

 Lombardy estate — and a home-made plum cake, like an 

 English one. The remains, which were carefully packed 

 up, would have fed a carriageful, and, I confess, made 

 me feel quite greedy, my humble bread and cherries 



