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.
Fair as this scene was, it yet lacked that irresistible and
magic charm that we beheld in Lake Champlain. It was the most
divinely placid and clear sheet of water we ever beheld; one of
Nature's famous works of art, that perchance come to one only
once in a lifetime. As we gazed in admiration and wonder at
those ethereal hues that seem unrealized in Nature, we said,
"Here is beauty enough, not for one evening, but for all future
evenings of our lifetime." It was a vast mirror that carried in
its bosom heaven itself, reflecting the Master Artist's most
rare designs.
A boat came round a point of land with three fishermen in it.
One of the occupants was heard to exclaim "I am fifty cents to
the good, old man Grump, for remember, on each black bass caught
we had a nickel up. Whoopee! Say, d'ye see that darned big bass
I would have got if the line would of held him? Oh, man! My
heart stopped throbbing and I felt it in my throat and had ter
swaller it fore I could breathe again. Such luck as that would
of made a preacher go wrong."
His companions began talking now, telling how if something or
other hadn't interfered they would have made their record catch;
which has been the tale of woe of all hunters and fishers from
Esau's time on down.
