they made, landlord and all!), though we only stayed in the town five minutes, waiting for the mail letters. Went on to a little dirty pothouse, a post from Como, to supper, as they called it—all garlic (the cost, one franc and a half)—quite uneatable. About a quarter past ten arrived at Bissone, on the borders of the Lake of Lugano.
“At Como we picked up a very agreeable priest, who, observing on the continued rain for many days past, and pouring doubly down at the time, said that he feared we should not be able to get across the lake, as they had been unable to make the passage the day before for many hours.
“After waiting at Bissone for an hour, and after many misgivings as to the result of the quarrel going on outside between the Austrian mail-guard and the deputation of boatmen, we learned gladly, and yet with some alarm, that we were about to embark. The wind was howling, shrieking, roaring, and, more than all, it was blowing, pulling, tearing, and tugging. It had ceased to rain, and the clouds were driving, as if they were behind their time, and afraid of being overtaken by the fellow behind. We were ushered on to a raft, about twelve yards long and six broad, whereon the diligence, horses and all, were quietly standing. There were no sides to the raft, but a parapet of about a foot high, so that the
