Returning from Switzerland, I passed a fortnight on the Lake of Como, and afterward visited Lugano.  There is no exaggeration in the enthusiastic feeling with which artists and poets have viewed these Italian lakes.  The "Titan" of Richter, the "Wanderjahre" of Goethe, the Elena of Taylor, the pictures of Turner, had not prepared me for the visions of beauty that daily entranced the eyes and heart in those regions.  To our country, Nature has been most bounteous, but we have nothing in the same class that can compare with these lakes, as seen under the Italian heaven.  As to those persons who have pretended to discover that the effects of light and atmosphere were no finer than they found in our own lake scenery, I can only say that they must be exceedingly obtuse in organization,—­a defect not uncommon among Americans.

Nature seems to have labored to express her full heart in as many ways as possible, when she made these lakes, moulded and planted their shores.  Lago Maggiore is grandiose, resplendent in its beauty; the view of the Alps gives a sort of lyric exaltation to the scene.  Lago di Garda is so soft and fair on one side,—­the ruins of ancient palaces rise softly with the beauties of that shore; but at the other end, amid the Tyrol, it is so sublime, so calm, so concentrated in its meaning!  Como cannot be better described in generals than in the words of Taylor:—­

“Softly sublime, profusely fair”

Lugano is more savage, more free in its beauty.  I was on it in a high gale; there was little danger, just enough to exhilarate; its waters wild, and clouds blowing across its peaks.  I like the boatmen on these lakes; they have strong and prompt character; of simple features, they are more honest and manly than Italian men are found in the thoroughfares; their talk is not so witty as that of the Venetian gondoliers, but picturesque, and what the French call incisive. Very touching were some of their histories, as they told them to me, while pausing sometimes on the lake.  Grossi gives a true picture of such a man in his family relations; the story may be found in “Marco Visconti.”

On this lake, I met Lady Franklin, wife of the celebrated navigator.  She has been in the United States, and showed equal penetration and candor in remarks on what she had seen there.  She gave me interesting particulars as to the state of things in Van Diemen’s Land, where she passed seven years, when her husband was in authority there.

TO C.S.

Lake of Como, Aug. 22, 1847.—­Rome was much poisoned to me.  But, after a time, its genius triumphed, and I became absorbed in its proper life.  Again I suffered from parting, and have since resolved to return, and pass at least a part of the winter there.  People may write and prate as they please of Rome, they cannot convey thus a portion of its spirit.  The whole heart must be yielded up to it.  It is something really transcendent, both spirit and body.  Those last glorious nights, in which I wandered about amid the old walls and columns, or sat by the fountains in the Piazza del Popolo, or by the river, were worth an age of pain,—­only one hates pain in Italy.