Chicago, deaths in 1,000 population annually, 16; Philadelphia, 18; St. Louis, 18; San Francisco, 19; New York (the Dublin of America), 23.

See how the figures jump up, as soon as one arrives at the transatlantic list: 

Paris, 27; Glasgow, 27; London, 28; Vienna, 28;
Augsburg, 28; Braunschweig, 28; K"onigsberg, 29;
Cologne, 29; Dresden, 29; Hamburg, 29; Berlin, 30;
Bombay, 30; Warsaw, 31; Breslau, 31; Odessa, 32;
Munich, 33; Strasburg, 33, Pesth, 35; Cassel, 35;
Lisbon, 36; Liverpool, 36; Prague, 37; Madras, 37;
Bucharest, 39; St. Petersburg, 40; Trieste, 40;
Alexandria (Egypt), 43; Dublin, 48; Calcutta, 55.

Edinburgh is as healthy as New York—­23; but there is no city in the entire list which is healthier, except Frankfort-on-the-Main—­20.  But Frankfort is not as healthy as Chicago, San Francisco, St. Louis, or Philadelphia.

Perhaps a strict average of the world might develop the fact that where one in 1,000 of America’s population dies, two in 1,000 of the other populations of the earth succumb.

I do not like to make insinuations, but I do think the above statistics darkly suggest that these people over here drink this detestable water “on the sly.”

We climbed the moraine on the opposite side of the glacier, and then crept along its sharp ridge a hundred yards or so, in pretty constant danger of a tumble to the glacier below.  The fall would have been only one hundred feet, but it would have closed me out as effectually as one thousand, therefore I respected the distance accordingly, and was glad when the trip was done.  A moraine is an ugly thing to assault head-first.  At a distance it looks like an endless grave of fine sand, accurately shaped and nicely smoothed; but close by, it is found to be made mainly of rough boulders of all sizes, from that of a man’s head to that of a cottage.

By and by we came to the Mauvais Pas, or the Villainous Road, to translate it feelingly.  It was a breakneck path around the face of a precipice forty or fifty feet high, and nothing to hang on to but some iron railings.  I got along, slowly, safely, and uncomfortably, and finally reached the middle.  My hopes began to rise a little, but they were quickly blighted; for there I met a hog—­a long-nosed, bristly fellow, that held up his snout and worked his nostrils at me inquiringly.  A hog on a pleasure excursion in Switzerland—­think of it!  It is striking and unusual; a body might write a poem about it.  He could not retreat, if he had been disposed to do it.  It would have been foolish to stand upon our dignity in a place where there was hardly room to stand upon our feet, so we did nothing of the sort.  There were twenty or thirty ladies and gentlemen behind us; we all turned about and went back, and the hog followed behind.  The creature did not seem set up by what he had done; he had probably done it before.

We reached the restaurant on the height called the Chapeau at four in the afternoon.  It was a memento-factory, and the stock was large, cheap, and varied.  I bought the usual paper-cutter to remember the place by, and had Mont Blanc, the Mauvais Pas, and the rest of the region branded on my alpenstock; then we descended to the valley and walked home without being tied together.  This was not dangerous, for the valley was five miles wide, and quite level.