We arrived at Feriola (inn _La Posta_), a small town, washed by the same transparent waters, and sheltered by granite mountains (covered with a mossy vegetation mixed with vineyards), which rose abruptly and immediately above the walls of the house: here we passed the night; the storm was just beginning, as we drove up to this welcome refuge: flashes of red and forked lightning shot fiercely down from the Alpine heights, and were quenched in the dark lake below; while peals of hollow thunder reverberating from the adjacent caverns, increased the awful effect of the whole. Torrents of rain soon followed, and lasted without intermission for many hours. We slept well, our beds being free from vermin, although of the humblest sort, without curtain or canopy, and covered with quilts which were very like stable rugs. They had been occupied before us, by dukes and duchesses; who, although not used to more comforts than those which surround me in my own happy home, had certainly reason to expect more stateliness of accommodation; necessity, however, has no law, and I dare say they were as glad as I was to avail themselves of clean sheets, and a substantial roof over head, after the fatigues of travelling. The whole of this little inn was built of granite, from the neighbouring quarries. We rose the next morning at four, and as I drest by the yet imperfect light, which streamed into the room through the lowly casement, I was interested in observing the different appearances of nature, in the midst of such wild scenery, and at so early an hour.
The dewy mists were slowly rising from the valley, which smiled in all the fresh loveliness of morning, as they gradually rolled off, and settled round the brows of the higher mountains like a shadowy veil. The grass smelt strongly of thyme and balm, after the late rain, and seemed to be eagerly relished by a flock of sheep, which two shepherdess figures were leading up the winding path. This fair prospect did not last long; a heavy rain re-commenced; and as we proceeded upon our journey we could hardly see our route amid the mountains, from the dense and heavy fog which obscured every object. All nature truly appeared to be weeping; this is no merely poetical term, but the truth: there are some things which cannot be adequately described in the common expressions of prose, and this is one of them.