and so perhaps did these fellows; but they had the outward guise of nearly being insane.
We got to Riva safe. It stands exactly at the head of the Lago di Garda;
Suso in Italia bella giace un laco,
Appiè dell’ alpe, che serra Lamagna,
Sovra Tiralli, ed ha nome Benaco.
Per mille fonti credo, e più si bagna,
Tra Garda, e Val Camonica e Apennino
Dell’ acqua, che nel detto lago stagna.
The coast, with the exception of the spot on which the town stands, is iron-bound; dark precipices rise abruptly from the water; a bend in the coast limits the view of the lake to a mile or two merely: behind is the chasm of the Adige, beside which Monte Baldo rises, lofty and dark—and mountains somewhat lower—but even they, sublime in altitude, darken the prospect immediately behind Riva. The town is mean and dirty; the inn—not bad to look at, is dirty and uncomfortable. It is kept by a large family; but how different are they from our Cadenabbia people! There are seven sisters—some dress smartly, and sit and receive company, and act the Padrona; others are the Cinderellas of the establishment; but all are lazy and negligent. The beds were not bad, it is true; but the fare was uneatable.
We had congratulated ourselves that the steam-
