behind their transparent shadows with a thousand dimmer and tenderer
dyes in the autumnal foliage. From time to time a village, gray-walled,
brown-roofed, broke the low helving shore of the lake, where the poplars
rose and the vineyards spread with a monotony that somehow pleased; and
at Nyon a twelfth-century castle, as noble as Chillon, offered the
delight of its changing lines as the boat approached and passed.

At Geneva we had barely time to think Rousseau, to think Calvin, to
think Voltaire, to drive swiftly through the town and back again to the
boat, fuming and fretting to be off. There is an old town, gravely
picturesque and austerely fine in its fine old burgherly, Calvinistic,
exclusive way; and outside the walls there is a new town, very clean,
very cold, very quiet, with horse-cars like Boston, and a new
Renaissance theatre like Paris. The impression remains that Geneva is
outwardly a small moralized Bostonian Paris; and I suppose the reader
knows that it has had its political rings and bosses like New York. It
also has an exact reproduction of the Veronese tombs of the Scaligeri,
which the eccentric Duke of Brunswick, who died in Geneva, willed it the
money to build; like most fac-similes, they are easily distinguishable
from the original, and you must still go to Verona to see the tombs of
the Scaligeri. But they have the real Mont Blanc at Geneva, bleak to the
eye with enduring snow, and the Blue Rhone, rushing smooth and swift
under the overhanging balconies of quaint old houses. With its neat
quays, azure lake, symmetrical hotel fronts, and white steamboats,
Geneva was like an admirable illustration printed in colors, for a
holiday number, to imitate a water-color sketch.

When we started we were detained a moment by conjugal affection. A lady,
who had already kept the boat waiting, stopped midway up the gang-plank
to kiss her husband in parting, in spite of the captain's loud cries of