Copyright , 1893 GEO. M. ALLEN COMPANY New York THE ALLEY-ALLEN PRESS, NEW YORK TO MY FATHER D. STUART DODGE Acknowledgment is made to the Editors of the Hartford Post and the Hartford Courant ; in whose papers these letters first appeared IN Summer, particularly in travelling, one is very apt to prefer a simple glass of ice-cold lemonade—not too sweet,—to a bumper of burgundy or a tankard of ale; and it has been the author’s experience that the mental processes are not unlikely to follow the ex

BASTIA.—Nice is too attractive to leave without regret at any time, and we felt particularly sorry for ourselves one evening towards six o’clock when we saw the disreputable little tub of a steamer that was to take us over to Corsica; and as we penetrated the odourous mysteries of the cabin we devoutly hoped that we might see Bastia in the morning without foundering, for the berths were suspiciously like the long, narrow coffin shelves in family vaults and had been built apparently for children,

A fine, drizzling rain soon began and we were compelled, much to our disgust, to leave the comparatively unobjectionable deck where sturdy, bare-legged sailor boys were shouting and singing and throwing ropes and chains about to no apparent end. As soon as we had reached the depths of the noisome little cabin, dinner was served, and oh, the mockery of that dinner! Everything was scented with garlic, and when the flavour of that questionable delicacy was absent it was replaced by the taste of ran

No one can get a footing at Cannes unless their social record is unassailable, and as it costs a small fortune to live here for even a week, objectionable people are kept away, and one does not meet the cockney Londoner who drops his h’s promiscuously or the shoddy American who speaks with a twang and is always looking for a spittoon. Even the cooking is English at Cannes, and cold “ros-bif” and pickles with a tankard of ale and a bit of apple tart (than which there is no more palatable luncheon

Cannes is the only place on the coast that approaches San Remo (and, indeed, outdoes it, so far as exclusiveness in the “English Colony,” which includes the small American contingent, goes); but Cannes is really a slice cut out of Belgravia and set down by the Mediterranean, and one may be in the height of the London Season all winter there. Cannes is popularly referred to as the “Dukeries,” on account of the number of English Dukes spending the winter there. But to a person liking society in mo

The one wide modern street in Genoa is the Via Vittorio Emanuele, on which are all the good hotels. In every Italian city and village one meets this name, and a certain degree of monotony attaches to it after one has shopped in fifty or sixty such streets in as many towns; but it shows the popularity of the late king, Il Re Galant’uomo , as they still call him. The shops in this street in Genoa are Parisian in every way, and there is an indescribable air of cheerfulness and gayety as one moves a

Not long since I met the famous Doctor Cordes of Geneva, who had been called in consultation by the Emperor before he started on the fatal campaign that culminated in Sedan; and he told me that the Emperor was simply a child in the hands of the Empress, for he was, at that time, suffering the most terrible agony from stone in the bladder. At that time, however, Prince Napoleon was traveling in Spitzbergen with his bon amis , Ernest Renan, the clever author of the “ Vie de Jésus ,” and knew nothi

But Newton Abbot has some historical interest. In the midst of the town, just in front of the old ivy-covered tower of St. Leonard’s, is a remarkably ugly stone surmounted by a modern lamp-post. The stone bears an inscription to the effect that in 1688 the then Mayor of the town, standing thereon, read the first proclamation made by William of Orange after landing in England. Enthusiastic Orangemen visit the stone to this day, and zealous members of the Order of the White Rose curse it heartily,

Rosy-cheeked country lasses serve the public here, and are shining examples of civil service, while behind the bar stands a lively, neat and pretty barmaid, who is an adept in chaffing the college men, but with too much self-respect to allow any vulgar jesting in her domain. We undergrads were not allowed to frequent every inn, but the “Clarendon” was a great favourite, and I have heard many jolly stories in its quaint old “Smoke Room,” lined with prints after Hogarth. When I was “in residence”

But people hardly come here to go to the play. They come for rest and change. Bournemouth is a good long way from London: three hours from Waterloo station, and in Hampshire, on the border line of Dorset. The climate is wonderfully dry, and milder than that of London, but not warm. Indeed, there is little difference between the climates of Geneva and Bournemouth, except that, of course, there is more snow in Geneva, and the air is less relaxing. One can easily understand how consumptives may der

After it was over, I walked through the grassy stretches of Windsor Great Park with an old Oxford friend, who had known “Prince Eddie” well, both on the Bacchante and afterward at York. He told me much that was new of him and several stories of his wonderful tact in social matters, by means of which he had averted serious scandal from a family well known to readers of Burke and Debrett. I parted from him that evening with a better appreciation of the dead Prince and his character than I had ever

Scarborough has two features distinctively its own: its “Spa” and its cabs. Just why the long promenade where the band plays should be called the “Spa” no one knows, but the fact remains, and every Sunday all the world and his wife walk there for “Church Parade.” The Scarborough cab is really a small Victoria, drawn by one horse, ridden by a correctly-got-up tiger, who lends a picturesque air to the trap. They go well, these small horses, and gallop up and down the long hills on which Scarboroug

The drive on the box seat of the four-in-hand was glorious. The moon came out as we reached the edge of Derwentwater and threw her soft light full on the lonely lake; and, what was of more importance, on the broad road ahead of us. The horses were fresh and the road inclining to a descent, so we rolled gaily on past the Lodore Hotel, hard-by the famous falls, until, too soon, we stopped before the Borrowdale Inn. Then, with a cheery good-night from the coachman, we started to walk the remaining

Windermere is almost equal to Lake Geneva, and although it has become the fashion to cry down the English lakes, it is a fact that more enjoyment at an extremely moderate outlay may be obtained in the small belt of country that contains them, than in Switzerland, overrun as it is by the cockneys and parvenues of every nation. I know of hardly any greater treat to a person of any artistic appreciation than that trip up and down Windermere on a clear day. Then the drives from Ambleside are charmin

The Prince is usually supposed to be a jovial, good-natured man who devotes his whole time to pleasure, and who has no ideal in life beyond the pursuit of social gayeties and field sports. This is a total and gross mistake. The Prince of Wales is one of the most hard-working men in the Kingdom, and the humblest of his future subjects has probably more time to himself than the Heir Apparent; and, I venture to say, does not spend it half so usefully as this much-abused Prince. For many years he ha

It would be interesting to digress here and wander in the fascinating paths of the genealogy and descent of the Stuarts; but it would fill columns. However, the Order of the White Rose and the Jacobite League are satisfied with the descent of the Princess, and they are the ones chiefly concerned. Lest my information be considered apocryphal, I may say that all my statements have been verified by a member of the Order. Lately the League has turned its attention to Parliamentary matters, and altho