When we first drew near the lake,
there was but a narrow tract, covered with vines and olives, between it
and the hill that rose on the other side. As we advanced, the tract grew
wider, and was very fertile, as was the hillside, with wheat-fields, and
vines, and olives, especially the latter, which, symbol of peace as it
is, seemed to find something congenial to it in the soil stained long ago
with blood. Farther onward, the space between the lake and hill grew
still narrower, the road skirting along almost close to the water-side;
and when we reached the town of Passignano there was but room enough for
its dirty and ugly street to stretch along the shore. I have seldom
beheld a lovelier scene than that of the lake and the landscape around
it; never an uglier one than that of this idle and decaying village,
where we were immediately surrounded by beggars of all ages, and by men
vociferously proposing to row us out upon the lake. We declined their
offers of a boat, for the evening was very fresh and cool, insomuch that
I should have liked an outside garment,--a temperature that I had not
anticipated, so near the beginning of June, in sunny Italy.
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