princes who descend from a throne into its vaults. Towards evening,
however, a ray of the setting sun strikes and reverberates on its
walls, as a beacon to mark the haven of life at the close of day. A few
fishing boats, without sails, glide silently on the deep waters,
beneath the shade of the mountain, and from their dingy color can
scarcely be distinguished from its dark and rocky sides. Eagles, with
their dusky plumage, incessantly hover over the cliffs and boats, as if
to rob the nets of their prey, or make a sudden swoop at the birds
which follow in the wake of the boats.




III.


At no great distance, the little town of Aix, in Savoy, steaming with
its hot springs, and redolent of sulphur, is seated on the slope of a
hill covered with vineyards, orchards, and meadows. A long avenue of
poplars, the growth of a century, connects the lake with the town, and
reminds one of those far-stretching rows of cypresses which lead to
Turkish cemeteries. The meadows and fields, on either side of this
road, are intersected by the rocky beds of the often dried-up mountain
torrents and shaded by giant walnut-trees, upon whose boughs vines as
sturdy as those of the woods of America hang their clustering branches.
Here and there, a distant vista of the lake shows its surface,
alternately sparkling or lead-colored, as the passing cloud or the hour
of the day may make it.

When I arrived at Aix, the crowd had already left it. The hotels and