We remained only a short time at Florence, and then went for a month to Bellaggio, on the Lake of Como, at that time the most lonely village imaginable. We had neither letters, newspapers, nor any books, except the Bible, yet we liked it exceedingly. I did nothing but paint in the mornings, and Somerville sat by me. My daughters wandered about, and in the evening we went in a boat on the lake. Sometimes we made longer excursions. One day we went early to Menaggio, at the upper end of the lake. The day had been beautiful, but while at dinner we were startled by a loud peal of thunder. The boatmen desired us to embark without delay, as a storm was rising behind the mountains; it soon blew a gale, and the lake was a sheet of foam; we took shelter for a while at some place on the coast and set out again, thinking the storm had blown over, but it was soon worse than ever. We were in no small danger for two hours. The boatmen, terrified, threw themselves on their knees in prayer to the Madonna. Somerville seized the helm and lowered the sail and ordered them to rise, saying, the Madonna would help them if they helped themselves, and at last they returned to their duty. For a long time we remained perfectly silent, when one of our daughters said, "I have been thinking what a paragraph it will be in the newspapers, 'Drowned, during a sudden squall on the lake of Como, an English family named Somerville, father, mother and two daughters.'" The silence thus broken made us laugh, though our situation was serious enough, for when we landed the shore was crowded with people who had fully expected to see the boat go down. Twice after this we were overtaken by these squalls, which are very dangerous. I shall never forget the magnificence of the lightning and the grandeur of the thunder, which was echoed by the mountains during the storms on the Lake of Como. We saw the fishermen spear the fish by torchlight, as they did on the Tweed. The fish were plenty and the water so clear that they were seen at a great depth. There are very large red-fleshed trout in the lake, and a small very delicious fish called _agoni_, caught in multitudes by fine silk nets, to which bells are attached on floats, that keep up a constant tinkling to let the fishermen know where to find their nets when floated away by the wind. [We now crossed the Alps, by the St. Gothard, to Basle and Baden Baden, where we passed the summer, intending to return to England in autumn, but as soon as the rains began my father had so serious a return of his illness that my mother was much alarmed. When he was well enough to travel, we once more crossed the Alps, and reached Florence, where we remained for the winter. My mother resumed her work there.] * * * * *