it is to rest or buy the jewelry so far-famed. To be sure
the view from almost any window opening upon the blue Rhone is pleasing,
crossed by various bridges as it is, one of which touches Rousseau's
Island. But our heads by this time were as full of views as that of a
Boston woman.

Calvinists and Arminians alike visit the Cathedral, and sit for a moment
in the old reformer's chair, or at least look upon the canopy of carved
wood from beneath which he used to preach. There are few monuments here.
The interior is bare, and boarded into the stiff pews, which belong by
right and the fitness of things, not to these grand, Gothic cathedrals,
but to the Puritan meeting-houses, where we gather less to breathe a
prayer than to sit solemnly apart and listen to a denunciation of each
other's sins.

It is a little remarkable that the city where Calvin made and enforced
such rigid laws against luxury and the vanities of the world should, in
these latter days, be noted for the manufacture of jewelry. But so it
is; and to walk the streets and gaze in at the shop windows would turn
the head of any but the strongest-minded woman. Two or three addresses
had been given us of manufactories where we could be served at more
reasonable rates than at the grand shops. We climbed flight after flight
of dingy stone stairs, in dingier buildings, to reach them, and found
ourselves at last in little dark rooms, almost filled by a counter, a
desk, and a safe or two. Certainly no one would think of looking for
beautiful things here! But we had become tolerably accustomed to such
places in Paris, and were not at all surprised when one shallow drawer
after another was produced from behind the counter, and a blaze of gems
and bewildering show of delicately executed gold work met our eyes. If
you care for a _souvenir_ only, there are pretty little finger-rings
encircled by blue forget-me-nots in enamel, which are a specialty of
Geneva. But if you possess the means and disposition, you may gratify
the most extravagant desires, and rival Solomon in magnificence.

Twice a day steamers leave Geneva to ascend the lake. It was a bright,
summer afternoon when we embarked from the pier beyond our hotel, and
steamed away past the villages that lie along its edge. Among them is
Coppet, the home of Madame de Stael, the towers of which rise up behind
the town. The deck of the steamer was alive with tourists. One party,
from meeting at every turn, rests even yet