boat, which plies every other day, would leave Riva on the morrow of our arrival; but we found it had not arrived as it ought, and doubts of course hung, as it had not arrived, over the date of its departure.
The morning has come, but no steam-boat. It is detained, we are told, at the other end of the lake by the wind. This assertion seems fabulous; we have no breeze, the waters are glassy: but thus is it with lake Benacus. The wind, coming down the chasms of the mountains, is not felt in the sheltered nook in which Riva is situated; but drives with violence on the southern portion of this vast inland sea, and lashes it into tempest.
We walked out: there is a path for a short distance on one side under the rock, but the road soon ends; the coast, as I have said, is iron-bound. One of my friends began a sketch of the castle La Rocca, built by the Scaligers, and which forms a picturesque object: then I loitered in the town, delighting my eyes with Italian names and words over the shopdoors. We went out for a short time on the lake, but a shower came on—a drizzle first, which ended in pouring rain. We were truly uncomfortable—forced into the dirty, uncomfortable inn, unprovided with books; and, worst of all, quite uncertain as to the
