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.
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