I should think there are few places where vineyards exist so abundantly, yet wine-making seems an industry little understood in modern Italy; or has the flavour of her grapes undergone a change? Who can forget the famous Falernian, quaffed by the emperors of Rome? At the present day, Italian wines, cheap and abundant as they may be, are certainly poor in quality. One would think wine-making was a lost art—at least, as understood by the ancients.
But to return to the landscape scenery through which we were passing. The plains and valleys are cooled and invigorated by numerous streams and canals. Monza is the first station stopped at, a small town with some 15,000 inhabitants. Its Cathedral is built on the site of a church founded by the Lombard Queen Theodolinda, dedicated to St John the Baptist. Monza has a Town-hall, and a royal summer Palace, both possessing ancient interest. From here there is a line going to Lecco, a point somewhat higher than Como, almost at the extremity of the eastern fork of the lake Como, being situated at the extremity of the larger western fork. The wedge-like point which separates these two branches, called Bellagio, is charmingly situated, commanding the most lovely and extensive scenery; it is, therefore, one of the most frequented spots in the lake district.
After Monza, we pass through more than one tunnel, and several villages and small towns of Roman foundation. Not one of these places seems to have been overlooked by the ancients. They worked hard for the glory of their great empire, and sought these quiet and beautiful spots so favoured by Nature to recruit their strength and energy. But, as at Tivoli near Rome, we see all along the shores, and on the way to these Italian lakes, the proofs of their persevering activity and genius, employed in the adornment of their summer retreats, leaving, after centuries of time, sufficient to excite our wonder and admiration; and to satisfy us that these great men of old knew both how to work and how to enjoy themselves.
Como is quite an ideal little town, rich in reminiscences, and full of life and beauty. The Cathedral is, next to that at Milan, the finest in Northern Italy. It is severely Gothic; indeed, there is a certain severity in most of the architecture of the town. There are some fine paintings, chiefly by Guido and B. Quini. On either side of the porch are the figures of the two Plinys, who used often to make the Villa Pliniana their residence, writing many of their celebrated works there. In the gardens of the villa is a fountain of which Pliny the younger made frequent mention in his letters.
The Villa d'Este, some three miles from the town—built by Cardinal Pompeo Galleo, who was born near Como and which afterwards became the retreat of poor Queen Caroline of Georgian memory—is now annexed to the well-known inn, the Regina d'Inghilterra. There are numerous other beautiful villas, interesting both on account of their own merit and the famous names associated with them.
The steamer leaves Como three times daily for excursions to various parts of the lake. Carriages are also available to all points of interest, and the rail goes straight to Bellagio. We preferred going by water, and were soon steaming up the lake, crossing occasionally from shore to shore to take in passengers. At first the morning was a little dull and cold, giving a somewhat sombre tone to the scenery; but after a time the sun shone out brightly, chasing away the shadows and lighting up the wondrous beauties of the Alpine landscape, bringing forth glints of coloured light from the dazzling waters, which reflected the blue sky overhead—a charming and fairy-like change, as if the wand of some good genius had been waved around, effecting a complete transformation.
The lake is some thirty miles in length, and its greatest width is about two and a half miles. The depth in some parts is profound—some 1900 feet, and all around are the great lofty mountains. The fact of the two shores being seen so distinctly add, I think, not a little to the impressive grandeur of the scene. The mountain slopes are beautifully wooded. Sometimes a great chasm intervenes; and, nestling picturesquely here and there in bowers of green, or poised gracefully, commanding the finest points and curves of the lake, or again scattered around the shores, are the summer residences of the Milanese aristocracy. Winding in and out, crossing from shore to shore, there is an ever-varying panorama, delightful and unexpected surprises continually opening out to the enraptured gaze. At each little station we come to a boat puts off from the shore, bringing a few fresh passengers, and the mails and parcel traffic of the lake; returning with the same, and such passengers who desire to land.
At last we reach Bellagio, where the lake divides. Here one would fain linger, it is so grand, so beautiful, so still,—the snow-capped mountains rising in sublime majesty from the deep blue lake to the paler blue of the sky, their sternness broken by the forests on their slopes, and the brilliant colouring of the trees,—the tender green of the fresh spring foliage contrasting finely with the grey tints of the sombre olive—the whole, with its moving lights and shadows, mirrored faithfully in the bosom of the lake below.
"Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare,
Nor misty are the mountains there—
Softly sublime, profusely fair,
Up to their summits clothed in green,—
And fruitful as the vales between,
They lightly rise,
And scale the skies,
And groves and gardens still abound;
For where no shoot
Could else take root
The peaks are shelved and terraced round."
The only thing that disturbed the dream-like enjoyment of the moment was the presence on board the steamer of three rowdy Americans, who preferred to be "funny," and caricature the sublime splendour around them, rather than enjoy it with grateful admiration. Their foolish conceit prevented them keeping this so-called fun to themselves. Happily, it is not often one travels in such disagreeable company, though one too frequently meets with those whose sole object in coming to these beautiful spots is the ambitious one of being able to say on their return home that they have "done" Italy. I am obliged to admit, however, that these are mostly my own countrymen.