My arrival in Cincinnati this morning was anything but triumphal.

On leaving the car, I gave my check to a cab-driver, who soon came to
inform me that my valise was broken. It was a leather one, and on being
thrown from the baggage-van on the platform, it burst open, and all my
things were scattered about. In England or in France, half a dozen
porters would have immediately come to the rescue, but here the porter
is practically unknown. Three or four men belonging to the company
gathered round, but, neither out of complaisance nor in the hope of
gain, did any of them offer his services. They looked on, laughed, and
enjoyed the scene. I daresay the betting was brisk as to whether I
should succeed in putting my things together or not. Thanks to a leather
strap I had in my bag, I managed to bind the portmanteau and have it
placed on the cab that drove to the Burnet House.

Immediately after registering my name, I went to buy an American trunk,
that is to say, an iron-bound trunk, to place my things in safety. I
have been told that trunk makers give a commission to the railway and
transfer baggagemen who, having broken trunks, recommend their owners to
go to such and such a place to buy new ones. This goes a long way toward
explaining the way in which baggage is treated in America.

[Illustration: MY BROKEN VALISE.]

On arriving in the dining-room, I was surprised to see the glasses of
all the guests filled with lemonade. "Why," thought I, "here is actually
an hotel which is not like all the other hotels." The lemonade turned
out to be water from the Ohio River. I could not help feeling grateful
for a change; any change, even that of the color of water. Anybody who
has traveled a great deal in America will appreciate the remark.

Cincinnati is built at the bottom of a funnel from which rise hundreds
of chimneys vomiting fire and smoke. From the neighboring heights, the
city looks like a huge furnace, and so it is, a furnace of industry and
activity. It reminded me of Glasgow.

If the city itself is anything but attractive, the residential parts are
perfectly lovely. I have seen nothing in America that surpasses Burnet
Wood, situated on the bordering heights of the town, scattered with
beautiful villas, and itself a mixture of a wilderness and a lovely
park. A kind friend drove me for three hours through the entire
neighborhood, giving me, in American fashion, the history of the owner
of each residence we passed. Her