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Have frequently seen Baron Rothschild on the street, a
tall large man, of about 35 years, acting younger, wide awake
“hale fellow well met”, Kossuth hat, talking loud to his cronies.
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Have seen what I did not expect, a great many
drunken men, of the lower classes, singing and noisy.
13th Goodbye all around. A fire every day in our little
parlor is not exactly the weather we are seeking.
At 1125 A.M. we are aboard the 1st class train, bound for Italy,
and Mr. W.B. Castle’s family are with us.
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Change cars at Lausanne, past Vevey, into Glarenz where
besid our car, in the yard of the Hotel Grètis, we see great numbers
of magnificent double roses nodding sweet defiance to the
snow-crowned monuments across the lake, and farther back
upon the terraced hill stands the hansome house and tall
slender corner-tower of Don Carlos of Spain, at a
safe distance, watching and praying, for something to turn up,
in his own country—Through Montreux, Véteaux, Chillon,
and the dilapidated lifeless town of Villeneuve at the head of
the lake, thence into the level valley, perhaps half mile
wide with high mountain walls whose scanty foliage makes
frantic efforts to put on an autumn dress but their hues cannot
compare with our American tints- to St Maurice where
a miserable, swindling car arrangement dumps us out at 310
P.M. without a tram beyond until 730 P.M. but
taking “time by the forelock” I had telegraphed for two carriages