554 



THE NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINE 



filled nights, that all too soon a spring- 

 tune passes, a summer is gone. 



LUGANO'S NATURAIv BEAUTY 



Lugano is quite a different lake from 

 Como, although so near — but a single 

 rocky ridge, an outlying spur of the 

 great Alpine chain, between. It is won- 

 derfully picturesque, with its steep, wood- 

 ed sides and quaint towns, pink and yel- 

 low and mauve, staged upward from the 

 lake like galleries at a theater. If there 

 are fewer luxurious villas, fewer over- 

 rich gardens, there is more of romantic 

 naturalness. 



On Como one senses luxuriously a 

 civilization 2,000 years old ; on Lugano 

 one feels ageless nature's unmatched love- 

 liness. If largely Swiss politically, in ap- 

 pearance Lugano is wholly Italian — the 

 half-wild Italian which recalls the an- 

 cient, freedom-loving Celt, not that which 

 reminds us of polished Rome. 



It is all the difference between straw- 

 berries and strawberries. I am not sure, 

 but I think they ought to grow in Como 

 gardens big, red, juicy, sweet, comfort- 

 able, and comforting fellows, each one 

 almost a meal. I do not know at all, but 

 there should grow upon Lugano hillsides 

 the little spicy, deep-red, fragrant berries 

 no bigger than a thimble, which make 

 one work for every mouthful, but whose 

 flavor exceeds the garden variety as the 

 sun exceeds the moon. There will al- 

 ways be those who can see no good at all 

 in one or the other ; so it is with the lakes. 

 There are those that in moods like both, 

 and to these I belong. 



SEEING LAKE MAGGIORE 



Lake Maggiore is almost as well 

 known, as much traveled, as Como. Its 

 individuality is just as strong as that of 

 the other two ; to see one is by no means 

 to see all. One must travel up and down 

 it by boat in the morning light and in the 

 sunset glow. One must make excursions 

 along its shores and to the Borromean 

 Islands, which float so picturesquely on 

 its surface. One must climb the rocky 

 hillsides about it and get new and sur- 

 prising views of its size and splendor. 

 One must see it in "storm as well as sun- 

 shine ; see the white snow to northward 

 sharply defined against the blue sky ; look 



in vain for peaks that are hidden in 

 swirling masses of mist and cloud. Is it 

 lovelier than Como ? Ah, well — that, too, 

 depends upon the point of view (see pp. 



548-549)- 



In crossing the plain of Lombardy, that 

 plain so dotted with rich old cities and 

 lovely lakes that one ought to find no 

 temptation to turn to right or left, the 

 idler who listens to the voices of the 

 wind is apt to be reminded of Lombardy's 

 rivals, of Genoa's peers ; his steps turn 

 aside to Pisa, with its leaning tower ; to 

 Florence, with its treasury of art. Hard 

 indeed it is to pass them by ; but did we 

 go, Rome, too, would beckon — Perugia, 

 Assisi, how many more? Not for us to- 

 day is it to walk in the Boboli garden, to 

 linger in the Pitti Palace or the Uffizi ; 

 not for us to chatter under the arches of 

 the Ponte Vecchio, to sit silent in San 

 Croce, to see Ghiberti's marvelous doors 

 or Giotto's soaring tower. 



One may not squeeze Florence in be- 

 tween two tamer cities as one does the 

 meat in a sandwich. Too much of his- 

 tory, of art, of beauty, of very human 

 passion and divine inspiration, is mixed 

 with her mortar, built with her stones, 

 to be satisfied with half-hearted attention. 



VERONA IS THOROUGHLY ITALIAN 



Then, too — whether it be the English 

 accent heard continually in her streets, 

 the large English colony that for genera- 

 tions has tenanted her ancient palaces ; 

 whether it be the crowds of tourists of 

 all nationalities one meets in every gallery 

 and garden and church — Florence does 

 not today give the impression of a thor- 

 oughly Italian city, not as Verona, for 

 instance, is Italian. As a great museum 

 of art, Florence is without rival ; as an 

 open page of Italian life — Basta ! who am 

 I to judge her ! 



Verona suffers at tourist hands today 

 from her situation as she once profited 

 b)^ it long ago. Travelers passing west- 

 M^ard are too satiated with the glories of 

 Venice to observe her ; going eastward 

 they are too eager for the sea to tarry 

 by the way. The train leaves Brescia's 

 picturesque towers behind and presently 

 skirts the southern shore of Lake Garda, 

 whose marvelous blue draws the eye up 



