In outline the lake is like a dolphin just about to dive. At the dolphin's snout lies Geneva, and here the river Rhone flows out of the lake to run to Lyons and debouch into the Mediterranean immediately to the west of the great port of Marseilles.
Geneva is one of the finest, cleanest, and most charming towns in the world. Between its northern and southern halves the water of the lake, deep blue and clear as crystal, is drawn off into the Rhone as into a funnel. There the current is strong, and the river is divided into two by a long island.
The finest sight, however, is the view south-eastwards when the weather is clear. There stand the mighty summits and crests of the Alps of Savoy, now covered with snow, and glittering in white, light blue, and steely grey tints. There also Mont Blanc is enthroned above the other mountains, nay, above all Europe, awesome and grand, the crown of the Alps, the frontier pillar between Switzerland, France, and Italy.
From Geneva we go eastwards along the northern shore of the lake. The air is hazy, and the Alps of Savoy look like a light veil beneath the sun. In this light the water is of a bright green like malachite. Beyond Lausanne the mist disappears, and the Alps again appear dazzling white and steep as pyramids and towers. Towns, villages, and villas cast reflections of their white or coloured house-fronts and their light balconies on the lake. The shore is lined by a row of hotels surrounded by gardens and promenades. Travellers come hither from all countries in summer to feast their eyes on the Alps and strengthen their lungs by inhaling the fresh air.
We leave the lake and mount gently up the Rhone valley between wild rocks. It becomes narrower as we ascend. The Rhone, a tumultuous stream, roars in its bed, now quite insignificant compared to the majestic river at Geneva. In the valley tilled fields are laid out, dark green spruces peep out of the snow on the slopes, while above all the snow-white summits of the Alps are enthroned.
A few minutes beyond Brieg the train rushes at full speed straight into the mountain. The electric lamps are lighted and all the windows closed. The tunnel is filled with smoke, and a continuous reverberation dins our ears. The Simplon tunnel is the longest in the world, being 12-1/2 miles long. It is only a few years since it was completed. Work was begun from both sides of the mountain at the same time, and when the excavations met in the middle and a blasting charge burst the last sheet of rock, it was found that the calculations had not been an inch out. After fully twenty minutes it begins to grow light, and when the train rolls out of the tunnel we are on Italian ground.
The train now descends a lovely valley to the shore of Lago Maggiore. Framed in steep mountains, the dark blue lake contains a small group of islands, full of white houses, palaces, and gardens. One of these is well known by the name of Isola Bella, or the Beautiful Island.
Night hides from our eyes the plains of Lombardy, Milan with its famous cathedral, the bridge over the Po, and then a number of famous old towns, including Bologna with its university about fifteen hundred years old.
Next morning, however, we see to the south-west something like a flaming beacon. It is the gilded dome of St. Peter's Church, which, caught by the rays of the rising sun, shines like a fire above the eternal city.