It is a current saying, that when one has seen Isola Bella, one has also seen Isola Madre. A great mistake, this! Isola Bella is an earthly work of art, which leaves the heart cold. Isola Madre is an earthly Eden, like that which all happy, loving hearts, possess within themselves,—a miniature image of the first paradise, where all was beautiful, and all was good.
My respectable Francesco rowed me back to Palanza, and, after we had parted with mutual cordiality, I went out to visit the grand promenade—for even Palanza has such a one—along the shore of the lake.
The evening was lovely and tranquil. I took my seat on a stone bench, under a shady beech, a little way apart from the road. Just opposite, on the other side of the road, a poor blind man was also seated, under a tree. When he heard the approaching steps of promenaders, he stretched forth his hat, repeating the while a monotonous prayer, in which I could only hear distinctly the name of Maria. And now one crowd of evening promenaders went by after another,—ladies in crinoline, as stately as ostriches, and gentlemen with cigars in their mouths,—but all passed the blind man; not one of them listened to his prayer. There now comes up a smartly-dressed servant-girl, following her young mistress, who has a mantilla over her pretty head, and a little boy by the hand. They reach the spot where the blind man sits; he puts forth his hat, and mutters his prayer; the servant-girl puts her hand into her pocket—now he will assuredly have an alms! No, the girl lets her hand remain in her pockets, and they pass by. Now
