One evening, shortly after our arrival at Zurich, we were out boating with some friends, on the beautiful lake. There were myriads of pretty water-craft, filled with joyous people, circling all about. On a floating raft near by, a band of music was playing airs from Wagner. Zurich was a Wagner town. It was nearing sunset, when suddenly I happened to cast my eyes away from the people and the boats toward the upper end of the lake. “Look at the beautiful clouds,” I exclaimed. My companion smiled. “They are not clouds,” said he. “They are the Glarus Alps.” It was the fairest sight I ever beheld in my life. Some clouds on the horizon had suddenly floated away, and the almost horizontal rays of a setting summer sun were shining on the white snowfields and ice walls of the mountains, turning them into jasper and gold. “That is what we call the ‘Alpine glow,’” continued my friend. “It is like looking at the walls of Paradise,” I exclaimed. Pretty soon the sun went down behind the Zurich hills, the jasper and the gold faded from the ice and the rocks of the distant mountains, a cold gray-white, striving to keep off the coming darkness, fell upon the scene. It was the mountains putting on their robes of night. These were the scenes that I was now to live among. Music, they say, takes up the train of thought, where common words leave off. That night, by the waters of Lake Zurich, the soft strains of well-tuned instruments expressed a delight for me that tongue could not utter or pen describe. Switzerland is full of scenes as glorious as this Glarus range, but this scene here, we were to have from our dining-room window always. _September 5._--The consul of the French Empire called to-day to pay his respects to the consul of the great republic. My consular experiences were about to commence. I was in a dilemma. My Swiss clerk, who spoke six languages for twenty-five dollars a month, had stepped out. I, a plain American, spoke no language except my own. “Bonjour, Monsieur,” cheerily chirped the Frenchman. I advanced, and, seizing his neatly gloved hand, said “Good morning” in the plainest American. “What! Monsieur, you no parlez Francais? Ah! certainlee. Monsieur he parle Allemand. Monsieur speak a leetle Dutch?” he continued, bowing and smiling. “I am sorry,” I interrupted in embarrassment. “No Dutch--no Francais.” “Oh! Monsieur no understand. No, no. Ah, si, Monsieur, he speak Spanish, certainlee--Spanish better--Spanish better--very fine--Americans all speak Spanish--veree.” Again I shook my head, and again the consul bowed, and I bowed, and we both bowed together; and, after a few more genuflections and great embarrassment, he smiled and went backward out of the room. The situation was absurd. Then the Italian consul called, and then the Austrian consul, and similar scenes occurred. The same nonsense, without understanding a word.