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."
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.