purifying all in its vicinity, and leaving a
bright line of light behind. Always so brilliant
and so clear, reflecting sun and Alps and city
in even brighter colours than their own. As I
gazed into the blue and shining water, a swan,
"milk white," floated majestically by. I raised
my eyes, and there, high up among the clouds,
shone out Mont Blanc, that monarch of
mountains, with " his diadem of snow;" and nearer
still, rose many mountains, forest-clad, or with
soft velvet turf, and flowers and aromatic plants
(and my soul was singing a hymn of Paradise),
when a shriek, prolonged, repeated, recalled
me to myself. It was the last cry of the
departing steam-boat. I had seen my luggage
placed on board some hours before, and I had
only time to run across the bridge and spring
on deck, before the paddles were in motion, and
the hawser cast off.

A slight shudder came over me, when I
recognised, in the person of the captain, an old
friend, familiarly known as the " Unglücklicher"
(Unlucky One). I turned to the friendly shore,
in the vague hope of deferring my voyage; but
the little wooden bridge was up, and there were
many yards between me and the land. There
was nothing left for it but for I and the
Unlucky Captain to swim or sink—as I felt in my
inmost heart the chances were we should—
together. I took a sorrowful farewell of Geneva,
and threw an anxious glance across the lake.
It was as smooth as glass; but what had waves
and winds to do with fatality such as the
Unlucky Captain's?

It was some comfort to find we were towing
two large empty boats. Taking up a position
as near to them as possible, I drew from my
pocket a letter containing recent news of the
"Unglücklicher."

How many good ships and new, had sunk
beneath our captain's military-looking legs, it is
impossible for me to state correctly. As a mere
tourist, I knew of three. The extraordinary
habit he had of wrecking them in that glassy
sea, was only exceeded by his wonderful gift of
fishing them up again. One went down like
the Royal George, in port, on the loveliest and
calmest day. In three weeks she was up again—
in a deplorable state, certainly, as regards cabin
furniture, and full of fish— but still up, and
afloat! She had come, in the usual course of
things, to pass the night in harbour, when " a
turn too much," as the captain expressed it, ran
her over the small portion of an old pier, so
close to the shore that it had never been
considered necessary to remove it. Moreover,
every stick and stone of that old arrangement
could be distinctly seen from boat or
shore. These little " misfortunes" had always
happened within a few yards of land, and
had never been attended with any loss or
even danger of life; but " the company" were
in despair. The losses to them were incalculable.
The wages of fishers up, the repairs,
or actual destruction of ships, were to them
frightful. But the most curious feature in the
whole proceeding was the way in which the
half-ruined company protected and clung to
its Unlucky Captain! No sooner was a ship
"down" and up again, than " presto" (and
pending the necessary repairs), behold our dear
old friend in command of the best boat on the
lake. His little gentlemanly feet shod in the
most irreproachable boots, his white pantaloons
girded round the waist with a crimson silk
sash, a loose blue jacket with gold buttons,
showing the device of an anchor, emblem of
hope, or, " better-luck-next-time" buttons, as
Jack used to call them; a little blue cap, showing
on the front a still larger anchor. The
whole man, so to speak, was steeped in hope;
and bravely his goddess carried him through.
His face shone with good humour and fun, with
a dash of the " vaurien" rakishness best
described by an English lady in the habit of
making the voyage, " He has such a dear, good-
for-nothing look!" But listen to a recent act
of this heroic " good-for-nothing." In one of
his successful voyages across the lake they
encountered one of the sudden and terrific storms
that sweep down the refts in the Alps. The
steamer was safe enough, but they were not far
from a small pleasure-boat, wherein were two
boys battling in vain with the large wing-like
sail, to take it in. In a moment the boat
capsized. One of the boys clung fast while it
floated bottom upward, but the other was
already in the current of the Rhone stream that
was carrying him slowly, but surely, far from
help. Our dear old captain plunged into the
lake, and, swimming hard, overtook him before
he sank, and held him safely until the steamer's
boat rowed to the rescue, and took them in.
And they picked up the other little fellow as
they passed. Who would not be such an
Unlucky Captain?

But to return to the actual state of things,
and to this particular voyage from Geneva to
Montreux.

"I suppose you have heard of our friend's last
exploit?" said an old friend of mine, an inhabitant
of Geneva, pointing over his shoulder to
where the captain was standing, surrounded by
a little knot of admiring passengers.

"No; do tell!" said an American lady.

"Well," continued my friend, " he is at the
top of the tree now. He wrecked that lovely
little Seagull, the admiration even of naval
men, six weeks ago, and now they've given
him this, the best boat on the lake.

"His promotion was gained in this wise:
About six weeks since, the Unlucky Captain was
on the deck of the Seagull, talking, in his genial
way, with an English tourist and myself. You
all know the Russian Princess's house, about
ten miles further up? The land stretches
out in a point there, well enough defined; but
everybody hereabouts knows it must have a wide
berth before making for the bay beyond. The
captain pointed out the princess's house to the
Englishman, and signed to the man at the wheel
to edge in a little, until, in fact, we were not
twenty yards from land.

"Suddenly, crash! Crack went the ship!