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at eventide when everything seems to slumber , and the music of the vesper bells comes stealing over the water, one almost believes that nowhere else than on the Lake of Como can there be found such a paradise of tranquil repose.
From my window here in I have a view of the other side of the lake now, which is as beautiful as a picture. A scarred and wrinkled precipice rise to a height of eighteen hundred feets; on a tiny bench half way up its vast wall, sits a little snow-flake of a church, no bigger than a martin-box apparently; skirting the base of the cliff are a hundred orange groves and gardens, flecked with glimpses of white dwelling that are buried in them; in front three or four gondolas lie idle upon the water – and in the burnished mirror of the lake, mountain, chapel, houses, groves, and boats are counterfeited so brightly and so clearly, that one scarce knows where the reality leaves off and the reflection begins! (it) |
