The brevity of our visit to Milan causes the day that was devoted to the wonderful library, the Biblioteca Ambrosiana, with its grand halls, its one hundred and fifty thousand volumes, and eight thousand manuscripts, rare autographic and literary treasures, and the great halls of paintings, where the works of Guido, Paul Veronese, Raphael, Da Vinci, and Rubens adorn the walls, to seem like a wondrous dream; and our general rule being to see thoroughly what we saw, we regretted that we had even attempted these two interesting galleries—places which, to any one having any taste whatever for art or literature, it is little less than an aggravation to be hurried through.
By rail from Milan we came to a place about a mile from Como, where omnibuses conveyed us through that hot, vilesmelling, filthy Italian town to the pier on the lake, where the steamer was waiting our arrival, and which we were right glad to have paddle out into the lake from the vile odors that surrounded us. But once out upon the blue waters, and free from the offence to our nostrils, how charming was the scene! The dirty city that we had left was picturesque on the undulating shore, with its old tower, spires, and quaint houses. As we sailed along, beautiful villas were seen on the shore, their fronts with marble pillars, their gardens with terraces rich in beautiful flowers, and adorned with statues, vases, and fountains; marble steps, with huge carved balusters, ran down to the very water's edge, where awning-covered pleasure-boats were in waiting—just such scenes as you see on the act-drop at the theatre, and believe to be mere flights of artistic fancy, but which now are found to exist in reality.
At a point where Lake Como divides into two arms, one extending to Como and the other to Lecco, we passed Bellaggio, one of the most beautiful spots ever seen. It is on a high promontory at this point, commanding extensive views of the lake and surrounding country. The promontory is covered with the elegant villas of wealthy people.
There is something luxurious and charming in a sail upon this lovely lake, with the beautiful villas upon its shores, the vine-clad hills, with the broad-hatted peasant women seen among the grape-vines, white turreted churches, brown, distant convents, from which the faint music of the bell came softened over the water, the long reaches of beautiful landscape view between the hills, the soft, blue sky, and the delicious, dreamy atmosphere. A charming lake is Como, but with many objects, "'tis distance lends enchantment to the view."
A boat put off from a romantic little cove for the steamer, which paused for its arrival. Its occupants were a stalwart rower, in blue shirt, red cap, and black slashed breeches, a sort of Massaniello-looking fellow, who bent to the oars with a will, and a friar, with shaven crown and brown cowl, with cross and rosary at his waist. Soon after we saw the holy man on board; and certainly he did not believe cleanliness was next to godliness, for all that was visible of his person was filthy, and evidently not on frequent visiting acquaintance with soap and water, while the vile odor of garlic formed a halo of nearly three feet in circumference about his person—an odor of sanctity requiring the possession of a stomach not easily disturbed to enable one to endure it. I once saw one of these friars at a railway station, whose curious blending of the mediæval and modern together in his costume and occupation struck me as so irresistibly comical that I could not resist a laugh, much to his amazement. But fancy seeing a friar, or monk, in the sandals, brown robe, and corded waist, just such as you have seen in engravings, and whom you naturally associate with Gothic cathedrals, cloistered convents, as bearing a crosier, or engaged in some ecclesiastical occupation—fancy seeing a monk in this well-known costume, near a railway station, his head surmounted with a modern straw hat, a sort of market-basket in his hand, and smoking a cigarette with great nonchalance as he watched the train!
We landed at Colico, at the end of the lake—a filthy place, where dirt was trumps, and garlic and grease were triumphant. We attempted a meal at the hotel while the diligence was getting ready; but on coming to the board, notwithstanding it was with sharpened appetites, the dirt and odor were too much for us, and we retreated in good order, at the expense of five francs for the landlord's trouble and unsuccessful attempt. A diligence ride of eighteen miles brought us to Chiavenna at eight o'clock P.M. Here the hotel was tolerable, the landlord and head waiter spoke English, and, late as it was, we ordered dinner, for we were famished; and a very delectable one we had, and comfortable rooms for the night. Chiavenna is a dull old place, with the ruins of the former residences and strongholds of the old dukes of Milan scattered about it. One old shattered castle was directly opposite our hotel.
We now prepared for a journey from here over another Alpine pass, the Splügen. This pass was constructed by the Austrians, in 1821, in order to preserve for themselves a good passage over to Lombardy. We engaged our post carriage as usual, with a fair written contract with the driver,—necessary when agreeing with an Italian, to prevent mistakes,—and preliminaries being settled, started off with the usual rattle of whip-cracks, rode through pleasant scenery of vineyards, mountain slopes, and chestnut trees, and soon began to wind on our way upwards. Passing the custom-house in the little village of Campo Dolcino, thirty-three hundred feet above the level of the sea, we are again upon the beautifully engineered road of an Alpine pass, and at one point the zigzags were so sharp and frequent that the granite posts protecting the edge of the road presented the appearance of a straight row directly in front of us, rising at an angle of forty-five degrees, although the real ascent by the numerous windings is comparatively easy and apparently slight.
As we went winding up, back and forth, we came in sight of the beautiful Madesimo Waterfall, seen from various angles of the road pouring down from far above us to the valley below. Each turn gave us a different view. It was a succession of pictures of valley and cascade, until we finally passed through a covered gallery, and our road led us past the cliff over which the level stream took its leap for its downward career.
Leaving the carriage, we walked to a small projecting table rock directly overhanging the ravine,—a portion of the rock over which the stream falls,—where, leaning over the iron railing,—grasped, we confess, with a firm clutch,—we looked down to the frothy foam of the waterfall, seven hundred feet below. It was a fine point of view—an exciting position to feel one's self so near a terribly dangerous place, and yet be safe, to defy danger, enjoy the beauty of the cascade, and measure with the eye the great distance of its leap.
After leaving here, we begin to enter a wild, and in winter a dangerous, portion of the pass. This is the Cardinell Gorge. Not only are the zigzags sharp and frequent, but we come to great covered galleries, made of solid masonry, with sloping roofs, to cause avalanches, that are constantly precipitated from above, to slide off, and thus protect travellers and the road itself. The galleries are wonderful pieces of workmanship. One of them is six hundred and fifty, another seven hundred, and a third fifteen hundred and thirty feet in length. They are lighted by openings at the sides. We have fine views of the lofty mountains all around, and the deep gorges torn by countless avalanches; and now we reach one of the houses of refuge. We stand fifty-eight hundred and sixty feet above the level of the sea. The air is cold, and overcoats are comfortable. On we go, and at length shiver in the glacier's breath at the boundary line between Switzerland and Italy—the summit of the pass six thousand eight hundred and eighty feet above the sea.