We Reached S. Ambrogio
Station One Sultry Evening In July, And, Before Many Minutes Were
Over, Were On The Path That Leads To San Pietro, A Little More Than
An Hour's Walk Above S. Ambrogio.
In spite of what I have said about Kent, Surrey, and Sussex, we
found ourselves thinking how thin and
Wanting, as it were, in
adipose cushion is every other country in comparison with Italy;
but the charm is enhanced in these days by the feeling that it can
be reached so easily. Wednesday morning, Fleet Street; Thursday
evening, a path upon the quiet mountain side, under the
overspreading chestnuts, with Lombardy at one's feet.
Some twenty minutes after we had begun to climb, the sanctuary
became lost to sight, large drops of thunder-rain began to fall,
and by the time we reached San Pietro it was pouring heavily, and
had become quite dark. An hour or so later the sky had cleared,
and there was a splendid moon: opening the windows, we found
ourselves looking over the tops of trees on to some lovely upland
pastures, on a winding path through which we could almost fancy we
saw a youth led by an angel, and there was a dog with him, and he
held a fish in his hand. Far below were lights from villages in
the valley of the Dora. Above us rose the mountains, bathed in
shadow, or glittering in the moonbeams, and there came from them
the pleasant murmuring of streamlets that had been swollen by the
storm.
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