During such a pageant of splendor as this o'er head, did we first behold the placid waters of Lake Champlain.
Far away beyond the Vermont shore rose the Green mountains behind their misty veils of purplish-blue. High above the lower undulations loomed the forest crowned ridges, gloriously colored and radiant, forming a mysterious yet fitting background for the exquisite picture before us. The nearer hills from their tops and extending far down their sides were covered with evergreens; below them a purple belt of deciduous trees and bright green meadows made a vivid contrast; while the nearer valley was filled with clumps of trees, fields of grain and crimson clover.
Before us lay the tranquil lake flecked with islands, which looked like floating gardens of green on a purple mirror. Near us a wooden bridge led across a shallow cove passing between myriads of pickerel weed whose light purple spathes formed a striking mass of color. Beneath it long, slender patches of silvery blue rushes made magic hedges, so symmetrical as to seem clipped by the hand of art. So ethereal in their loveliness were they, we could account for their presence in no other way than being woven by the genii of the lake out of the purple bloom that surrounded it.
It was a royal path fit for any of the nobility of earth to journey upon. The air was so clear and transparent and the surface of the lake so calm that a boat with some fishermen appeared to be drifting in mid-air among a "veiled shower of shadowy roses." The flight of a kingfisher was revealed in the lake below as distinctly as in the sky above. A great blue- heron, making one think of a French soldier at attention, was silently awaiting a green-coated Boche to make his appearance over the top of his lily-pad dugout. The stillness was so pronounced it seemed as if all Nature held her breath while super-powers of both lake and mountain wrought their miracles.
It must have been such a scene as this which Tennyson portrayed in his "Lotus-Eaters:"
There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentler on the spirit lies
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes,
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful
skies
Here are cool mosses deep,
And through the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Another heaven arched below us in which the Green mountains joined their bases with still others that seemed like fairy creations floating upon the water. An ideal remoteness and perfection were thrown o'er the landscape by the crystalline atmosphere. Mountains, fields, woods and lake all made "ethereal pictures" in the mild evening light. Above in the blue dome, Nature hung her finely woven drapery of rose-colored clouds, whose glory was repeated by the unfathomable lake, seemingly as deep as the blue dome it reflected. Its hues were not those of earth, but were borrowed from heaven with which the poem of evening was written on the twilight sky, for the delight of all mankind.
Such scenes as this naturally call for comparisons, but having seen but one that will in any measure compare with it, we shall try to recall an evening on the Mediterranean.
The afternoon had been spent on the island of St. Marguerite, a short distance off the coast of Nice. Here we visited the old tower where Marshal Bazaine got over the stone wall, the cell in which the prisoner of the Iron Mask resided, and the old Spanish well dating from the eleventh century. How delicious it was—the rest, the quiet, the box-scented breeze, the sheen of the sunset on the dark blue waves! The very atmosphere breathed of romance. The sinking sun was gilding the distant peaks of the Alps, causing them to grow radiant with rosy splendor, as we pushed out from the island in our sail-boat. The place was remarkably still. Only the nightingale broke into song among the fragrant bushes by the frowning prison. All else was silent, save the silvery plash of the oars that broke the surface of the water in measured and rythmical strokes.
Rising from the edge of the glorious Bay of the Angels at Nice, domes, palaces and casino, all steeped in those deep, delicious hues, appeared like some vast work of art. As we drew nearer the whole scene opened to us in all its marvelous beauty. We floated slowly o'er the deep blue water which so perfectly mirrored a few pearly clouds that we seemed to be drifting above rather than beneath them. Then the little boats with their orange- colored sails made the place more romantic still. Just in front of us lay the dome-shaped casino, whose windows glowed like rare jewels; all along the shore magnificent hotels of white stone with red tile roofs looked from among their royal palms; while numberless villas, rising one above another with their orange trees, vines and flowers, made a picture of rare beauty. Higher still the rich green, brown and gray of the mountains rose, until they blended with the serene and airy hues of the snow- clad Alps.