was burned down. Hearing of the calamity and of the distress of its inmates, she directed a new building to be erect p ed for their accommodation, at her own expense. The offences with which she was charged, are supported by the current opinion at Como. Her Milanese friends cut her acquaintance; though secretly perhaps they were no better than herself. But peace to the shade of an unfortunate princess, who after all may have been innocent, and whom the bitterness of persecution hurried to the grave.

Pursuing our voyage and crossing the lake, we effected another landing at Pliniana, on the eastern shore, eight miles from Como. It is situated under high cliffs, which are nearly perpendicular, clad with hanging groves of cypress. A noble cascade dashes down the rocks, from a height of one hundred feet, and lashes the water below into a foam. The front of the large solitary palace rises out of the lake, and they sit and fish at the windows of the principal saloon. Its basement resembles a mill, rather than a chateau; since the copious fountain, so minutely described by Pliny the Younger, flows under the walls, with the roar of a gate-way, pouring from a cavern in the cliffs above. The grotto whence the stream issues, has been artificially adorned with pillars. Its waters are perfectly transparent, gushing out from a bed of limestone. The basin was wet a foot above the surface, and the aged hermit, who was found at the Villa, informed us that the refluent tide had just subsided. He stated on the authority of personal observation for more than half a century, that the fountain is very irregular in its intermissious. Sometimes it ebbs and flows only thrice a day, and at others, four and even five times. I will not trouble my readers nor myself with speculations, in attempting to account for this phenomenon, which is not of rare occurrence, and which derives its celebrity solely from its classical associations.

The letter of Pliny, who was a native of Como, and here had his summer retreat, is inscribed in full on the walls of one of the apartments, together with as much other Latin and Italian as a person could read in a week. The noble proprietor has added, by way of embellishment, noseless images of all its ancestors since the flood. Not a particle of taste is visible in the dilapidated Villa. It affords an enchanting view of another reach of the lake above, for eight or ten miles, where its windings are lost among the mountains.

The upper section is much more wild and romantic, than the lower end, reaching hence to Como. Its waters are discharged about midway, from its eastern shore, and form the river Adda. On a point of land not far from Pliniana, is a small church and an image of the Virgin, where the boatmen moor their skiffs and pay their vows. Narrow as the channel is,

and deeply as it is embosomed among the hills, it is subject to sudden and violent squalls from the Alps, which lash it into fury.

Our excursion might have been agreeably extended farther north; but time would not permit. On the return, the oarsmen hoisted their white sail to the breeze, which sprang up at evening, and bore us back in season, to see the sun go down in brightness upon the battlements of Como, and the green summits in its vicinity. A ramble over the town concluded the pleasures of the day. The moon was so bright, as to enable us to read the inscription in honour of Pliny, on the front of the Cathedral.

Early next morning, we resumed our journey across the country towards Lake Maggiore. Half an hour was occupied, while the vetturino was harnessing his team, in paying another visit to the Cathedral, and looking at its ornaments. It is a stately edifice of white marble and of mixed architecture. Statues of the two Pliny's stand on each side of the front door. Some of the chapels are splendid; but terra cotta saints and votive offerings were quite too abundant. Over the inner door, was observed a pompous inscription to Ferdinand of Austria, who claims the honour of having established religion in Europe-a work commonly as cribed to its divine Author. A new and handsome Lyceum has lately been erected near the Milanese gate. The walls of Como are lofty and massive, flanked with towers, which rise with a good degree of dignity from the eminences back of the town.

As we lingered a little longer than was anticipated, in taking a last view of the lake slumbering in the brightness of an autumnal morning, the coachman pushed on, and left us to walk up a hill of two miles. On its summit, overlooking the surrounding country, a pretty chateau was observed, bearing the initials of queen Caroline upon the gate, in the same style they were found at the Villa d'Este. This was doubtless one of her Lodges. It exhibits more taste than her palace. The skies to-day were among the most pure, brilliant, and

genial, that had been witnessed in Italy; and our ride across a rich undulating country, abounding in fertile vales and clear waters, was delightful. The snowy line of the Alps, basking in the solar blaze, was constantly before us, embracing St. Gothard and Monte Rosa, two of the highest summits. Nothing could exceed the grandeur and dazzling splendour of the latter, heaving its eternal rocks and glaciers into the deep blue firmament, without a cloud to obstruct the view. Its height is 13,250 feet above the level of the Mediterranean; exceeding, by nearly one half, the elevation of any mountain I had before seen. My companion had gazed upon the Andes themselves, to which these stupendous piles are but mole-hills; though their hoary tops seemed quite high enough to be traversed in a coach.

Passing Malneta and other small villages, at mid-day, we reached Verese, a large town on the borders of a lake of the same name. It is the seat of many handsome palaces, and of the Milanese nobility, at certain seasons of the year. The streets were filled with people and merchandise, collected at the annual fair. A coarseness of features, costumes, and manners is displayed by the peasantry, not to be met with south of the Po.

Two miles beyond the town, we had a charming view of Lake Verese, of small dimensions, but beautifully cradled among the hills. Its shores are green and rural. Two promontories nearly intersect this miniature sheet of water, and contribute much to its secluded charms. On its eastern border rises a broken hill of considerable elevation, upon the very summit of which a white village is perched, forming one of the most picturesque images imaginable. The country here assumes an aspect essentially différent from the dull and unvaried scenery of Lombardy, in the vicinity of Milan, and on the alluvial banks of the Po.

The vetturino knew as little as ourselves of the intricate cross-roads, and the poor fellow went eight miles out of his way, before he discovered his error. In consequence of this accident, we did not arrive at Sesto Calende, on the left bank of the Ticin, at the outlet of Lake Maggiore, till after dark, and were obliged to take lodgings for the night at a miserable hotel. Mean and dirty as its chambers are, they were filled with swarms of English travellers, on their way to the south of Italy, to seek a winter residence, where they can live cheaper, as well as more pleasantly than in their own

country. Not less than five or six thousand, like birds of passage, annually seek refuge in the sunny climes beyond the Alps.

The next morning at daylight we crossed the broad current of the Ticin in a boat, which Charon himself would have condemned as unseaworthy, and landed on the opposite shore in Piedmont, re-entering the dominions of his Sardinian Majesty. A full hour was occupied in an examination of our passports and trunks at the Dogana.

At Arona we left the coach, and walked through the large old town, situated at the foot of the Lake. The streets were overrun with beggars, whose importunities almost amounted to personal assaults, besetting us upon the side-walks, and bawling out in all the cant of mendicity.

In the lower section of Lake Maggiore, I was sadly disappointed. Its shores are low, reedy, and tame, displaying not a single interesting feature. It has neither the solitary grandeur of the Lago di Garda, nor the rural and picturesque beauty of Como or Verese.

We walked a mile or more up a most tedious hill, to look at a colossal statue in honour of St. Charles Borromeo, Archbishop of Milan, a native of this region, as well as its present patron. It cost upwards of $200,000. The statue itself is seventy-two feet in height, standing on a pedestal thirty-two feet from the ground, giving an aggregate of something more than a hundred feet to the crown of the head. The hands are of bronze, and the rest of brass. St. Charles is in the attitude of blessing his native town, with his right arm outstretched, and a book under his left. I contented myself with climbing a ladder to the pedestal, and bowing at the feet of such an idol. But my companion and an English tourist, who joined us on the hill, crept under the robes of the Saint, took a pinch of snuff in his nose, and examined the dura-mater and processes of his head, in which eight men may be comfortably lodged.

Rejoining the carriage, we journeyed onward along the immediate margin of the Lake, and upon the great road of the Simplon. About noon, the far-famed Borromean Isles came into view. They are three in number, the Madre, Isola Bella, and Pescatori, situated in a deep bay or arm of the lake, setting up into the hills towards the west. Maggiore at this point assumes something of the grandeur, which its name imports. Its width may be something like six or eight miles,

and its whole length about fifty. Its shores here exhibit an alpine character, the mountains become higher, more rugged, and picturesque. The borders are sometimes fringed with deep forests, and at others, with orchards of olives and vineyards, studded with white villages and hamlets, like those of Como. The three islands, lying within a mile of one another, are too small to form a prominent feature in the landscape, and too artificial to excite a very high degree of interest. They are not comparable in beauty with those about the bay of Naples, and on the western coast of Italy.

We took a boat immediately and visited the Isola Bella, which is a mile and a half from the shore. It is accounted by far the finest of the group, and the few attractions it presented, discouraged us from extending our excursion to any of the others. The most extravagant epithets have been wasted upon this pile of artificial terraces, rising eight stories above the surface of the lake, covered with palaces, pavilions, groves, and circular walks.

We set out at 4 o'clock P. M. for Domo d'Ossola, distant twenty miles, and were soon lost among the hills. The great road of the Simplon pursues the windings of a deep vale, watered by the Toccia; a beautiful stream, the banks of which are sprinkled with secluded hamlets, and are fertile in corn and wine. Its eastern side is bounded by bleak and uninterrupted ridges of rocks. Towards the west, two or three other secluded valleys, still green and sunny, opened from the base of Monte Rosa, which reared its glittering summit above the rude masses of intervening rocks. This giant even among the Alps was now within a few miles of us, and its form was distinctly traced. Its stupendous cone is finely rounded off, and its sides do not appear to present many asperities. Like a child who amuses his mind with vain desires and "thick-coming fancies," I wished myself upon the topmost glacier, but for one hour on this evening of glorious sunshine, that I might survey the charms of Italy spread at my feet, take a bird's-eye view of the Po and Apennines, and see the chain of lakes, set like brilliants in the green plains of Lombardy. But the sun went down behind the crags of granite upon our left, which threw their deep shadows across the path; when turning and looking through a long vista of mountains, opening upon Lake Maggiore, we caught a last glimpse of the blue heavens of Italy, as pure, serene, and resplendent as ever. The feelings of the