(4) On general principles of eel-life I think it is possible that the Inspector's theory MAY be correct. But your story about the roach is a poser. They certainly do not take to walking abroad. It reminds me of the story of the Irish milk-woman who was confronted with a stickleback found in the milk. "Sure, then, it must have been bad for the poor cow when that came through her teat."
Surely the Inspector cannot have overlooked such a crucial fact as the presence of other fish in the reservoirs?
We shall be here another week, and then move slowly back to London. I am loth to leave this place, which is very beautiful with splendid air and charming walks in all directions—two or three thousand feet up if you like.
Hotel Righi Vaudois, Glion, Switzerland, September 16, 1887.
My dear Donnelly,
We left Arolla for this place ten days ago, but my wife fell ill, and we had to stay a day at St. Maurice. She has been more or less out of sorts ever since until to-day. However, I hope now she is all right again.
This is a very charming place at the east end of the Lake of Geneva—1500 feet above the lake—and you can walk 3000 feet higher up if you like.
What they call a "funicular railway" hauls you up a gradient of 1 in 1 3/4 from the station on the shore in ten minutes. At first the sensation on looking down is queer, but you soon think nothing of it. The air is very fine, the weather lovely, the feeding unexceptionable, and the only drawback consists in the "javelins," as old Francis Head used to call them—stinks of such wonderful crusted flavour that they must have been many years in bottle. But this is a speciality of all furrin parts that I have ever visited.
I am very well and extremely lazy so far as my head goes—legs I am willing to use to any extent up hill or down dale. They wanted me to go and speechify at Keighley in the middle of October, but I could not get permission from the authorities. Moreover, I really mean to keep quiet and abstain even from good words (few or many) next session. My wife joins with me in love to Mrs. Donnelly and yourself.
She thought she had written, but doubts whether in the multitude of her letters she did not forget.