In passing the Public Gardens, we saw a coloured placard glued to the wall, announcing that a tribe of “Samoyedes,” brought out from Russia, from the government of Archangel, were exhibited in the gardens-enclosure. As it was a little corner of our Fatherland we went in and were greatly disgusted to see these Samoyedes devouring huge chops of raw meat, dipped in warm blood. Ugh!... the horror!... The Esquimos, after having ended their nasty meal, rode all around the gardens in small cars, driven by reindeers. There are only four of these animals left now, the rest have been devoured by the savages! It is time for us to leave the land of William Tell, and to push on to the Italian lakes and to Milan. I am glad to leave this country, for the rarified mountain air does not suit me at all. From Lucerne to Goeshenen the road is very wild and hilly. Our train plunged in and out through numerous tunnels and rushed round curves in deep cuttings. After having crossed a bridge thrown over a bottomless abyss, we arrived at Goeshenen, where we stopped to pass the night in a homely little inn, pompously called Hotel, with green shutters to the windows and a bit of flower garden in front. The inn looked very cosy and inviting. After having lunched upon a cup of tea, we took a carriage with a pair of horses, with brass harness and bells, to make the ascent of the famous St. Gothard road. The driver cracked his whip and off we went. The road mounted up and up, all over rocks and precipices and the wheels were perilously near the edge all the time. We wound through a narrow gorge, the river Reuss roared in the depths. Long lines of mountains were sharply defined against the profound blue sky, their summits veiled in clouds. Snow lay in dark hollows which the sun could never reach, and water-falls poured down the hills. The higher the carriage rose, the more thrilling was the savage landscape. We approached now the famous _Pont du Diable_ (Devil’s Bridge) and saw on the polished surface of a rock an enormous coloured reproduction of Beelzebub, with a long tail and a red tongue hanging out of his huge mouth, holding in one hand a trident and a flaming torch in the other. Nothing remains now of the ancient “Devil’s Bridge,” which our field-marshal Prince Souvoroff had crossed with his army, going to fight against Napoleon Bonaparte. We passed over a modern bridge leading to the other side of the gorge. The spray from the Reuss; which here drops a full hundred feet into the abyss, lashed our faces as whips. The foam of the river was splashing over it. We dashed now through a vaulted gallery where we found ourselves out of the reach of falling stones. It was very damp inside, the ceiling and walls are always dripping; stalactites dangled heavy diamond fringes low over the roof. We drove against the wind and great clouds of dust swept across the road. We ran now into a zone of ice-cold air, there