miles, and could be all got in between London and Lewes, while from
Lucerne to Locarno, actually on the Lago Maggiore itself, would go,
with a good large margin to spare, between London and Dover. We
can hardly fancy, however, people going backwards and forwards to
business daily between Fluelen and Biasca, as some doubtless do
between London and Lewes.

But how small all Europe is. We seem almost able to take it in at
a single coup d'oeil. From Mont Blanc we can see the mountains on
the Paris side of Dijon on the one hand, and those above Florence
and Bologna on the other. What a hole would not be made in Europe
if this great eyeful were scooped out of it.

The fact is (but it is so obvious that I am ashamed to say anything
about it), science is rapidly reducing space to the same
unsatisfactory state that it has already reduced time. Take lamb:
we can get lamb all the year round. This is perpetual spring; but
perpetual spring is no spring at all; it is not a season; there are
no more seasons, and being no seasons, there is no time. Take
rhubarb, again. Rhubarb to the philosopher is the beginning of
autumn, if indeed, the philosopher can see anything as the
beginning of anything. If any one asks why, I suppose the
philosopher would say that rhubarb is the beginning of the fruit
season, which is clearly autumnal, according to our present
classification. From rhubarb to the green gooseberry the step is
so small as to require no bridging--with one's eyes shut, and
plenty of cream and sugar, they are almost indistinguishable--but
the gooseberry is quite an autumnal fruit, and only a little
earlier than apples and plums, which last are almost winter;
clearly, therefore, for scientific purposes rhubarb is autumnal.