out with a _Châlet_ here, a Swiss _Pension_ there, a Chapel perched up
on a little hill on one side, and a neatly new-made farmhouse stuck
up on the other, with cattle (not omitting their dinner-bells) dotted
about here and there in the bright green meadows that creep up to, and
melt into, the pine-woods stretching from the base of the grand rugged
snow-capped heights that tower in every direction above, you get
thoroughly impressed with the idea that the whole place is nothing but
a box of toys, set out for the season (probably by the Monks), who,
you feel convinced, are only waiting for the departure of the last
visitor, to get out the box, and carefully pack away _Châlet_, and
_Pension_, Chapel and peasant for the winter months, with a view to
keeping them fresh for production in the early summer of next year.

However, whatever its fate, Engelberg is left behind us, and we find
ourselves tearing down the Practical Joking Engineers' Road at a
break-neck pace, and hurrying on to Calais, once more to take our
places on our steady old friend, the _Calais-Douvres_, that helps to
deposit us finally at Charing Cross, where we are bound to admit that
the air, whatever it is, is emphatically _not_ the air of Engelberg.
But everybody who has seen him, says the Dilapidated One has come back
"twice the man he was". So we must take it that our journey has not
been in vain.

* * * * *

ADDITIONAL TITLE.--Sir EDWIN ARNOLD, after his brilliant letters in
the _D.T._, worthy of _The Light of the World_, will be remembered in
Japan as a "first-rate sort of Jap."

* * * * *