it an agreeable residence ; and it was built for a summer abode. The pictures, which seemed to be numerous, and had been hung throughout the rooms, were unfortunately huddled together on the floor of a hall, as a picture gallery was preparing to receive them. We saw a few pieces of merit, particularly some cabinet pictures. The old custode took us with great reverence to observe the portraits of the noble line of the Borromeo family among them were several cardinals, glaring in their red drapery; and some generals and courtiers, looking grim in armour and ruffs. He was very sorry that he could not show us the picture of a relation of the family, who had absolutely been pope! We were informed that the family generally spend some of the summer months on the lake. The present Count resides principally at Milan; and though comparatively rich, possesses but a small portion of the wealth, and immense power and importance of his ancestors. He has not, like them, twelve strong castles in his hands, and the whole of the Lago Maggiore, and great part of the surrounding country under his signiory; he cannot, like them, make wars and treaties on his own account, but, like the rest of the Italian nobility, is obliged to crouch to a foreign occupant, and make a pageant figure in a foreign court, in order to preserve the skeleton of the possessions of his forefathers. When we had seen the appartamento nobile, we were conducted to a suite of small rooms beneath, which are curiously fitted up for enjoying cool air in summer one room was ingeniously formed into a marine grotto, entirely covered with small shells; another was lined (floor, walls, and roof,) with a pretty mosaic, composed of simple, dark coloured stones of about the size of a nut: the latter was new to us, and had a neat effect. The statues contained in them are of no great value. From the house we passed into the gardens, and as the weather had cleared up, we leisurely examined those curious places: we found them almost entirely laid out on hollow terraces, raised at an immense labour and expence, but except their Babylonish oddness, we saw little in them to admire. We are particularly fastidious about seeing fine trees deprived of the beautiful forms which nature gave them, and cropped into lions and eagles; and we have no taste for marble balustrades, long straight walks, and terrace raised above terrace, lined with hideous statuary, each monster contending with his fellow for pre-eminence in deformity. In the garden we saw two laurel trees of immense size, and great beauty: we eagerly asked upon which of them Bonaparte had written, (as we had been told that extraordinary man had cut out the word Battaglia on one of them, a few days before the battle of Marengo.) Our guide, who was the head gardener, answered, that many foreigners had asked him the same question; but that although he had been many years in his situation, he had never seen any other sign of such an inscription than a straight cut in the hark of the laurel to the right of the path on descending, which he showed us, and we found it to bear very unsatisfactory evidence indeed. We saw in the palace, not without interest, the room where Bonaparte had slept. From the most elevated of the terraces we had a sublime view. It was three parts closed in by the Alps. We saw the ten thousand years snow of the distant Monte Rosa; the fine, clear lake, stretching in one direction far out of sight, towards Milan, and in the other, penetrating in a deep nook towards Lugano, and the mountains of the Swiss Canton of Tesino: we observed its fine sweeping shores, and the romantic towns with which at frequent intervals they were covered, and a thousand beautiful objects and combinations which remain glowing pictures in our memories and in our hearts, but which we can never hope to see described, either by pen or pencil. While standing there, our guide made us observe the strange noise produced by stamping on the marble pavement: we were near a grated hole, and the report of his foot-beat, rolling like peals of thunder in the vaults below, came through it to our ears. Our guide next took us to see the foundations of the gardens and terraces-the supporters of the air-hung fabric. A labyrinth of vaults, divided by tremendously thick walls, and cut by huge pillars and beams, presented a curious tout-ensemble. When we entered into one of these vaults, to observe the secrets of the construction, a great number of bats and other night-loving fowls flitting out suddenly, quite startled us. We did not disturb them long, but when we quitted the vault, we stood a minute by a grate to watch them repairing to their nooks, with ghostly silence and celerity. On quitting the gardens, a goodlooking woman presented us with some flowers: this classical way of begging reminded us of being in Italy. When we got into the boat, we found the lake rough, and the wind very high; but the weather had cleared up, the sun shone brightly, and brought out many beautiful objects we had not seen before. As we rowed away, we looked back on the Isola Bella, which, as its name imports, assumes the superiority of the islands: it seemed, however, to us, rather a curious, than a beautiful object; displaying much more cost than taste. A fine building in that position might produce a good effect; but the palace is in a bad, or rather in no style of architecture. In the two ends of Italy there is no good architecture in Piedmont, it is in as low a state as in Lombardy; and in Naples, at the southern end, it is still worse. The Isola Madre, which is a considerable distance from the Isola Bella, and situated not far from the shore, off the town of Palanza, struck us as we approached it, by its picturesque air: a small white palazzo appeared through a little forest, still green and in full leaf-a summer house just peeped through festooned vines and dwarf cypresses:-the whole was so fresh, so verdant, so secluded, as to present a realization of the beauideal of a summer retreat. The Isola di San Giovanni, which lies very near, we found pretty, but nothing equal to the Isola Madre: it has too much building, and too little of green trees and shady bowers. All these islands were spots of pleasure and amusement (luoghi di delizia) of the Borromeo family. They are all bijoux, but the Isola Madre is the one we should choose for a few months' retirement: it is exactly the place we have frequently dreamed about in our romantic days a little span of an island, in a clear blue lake, with a neat house, through whose casements, putting aside with careful hand the "gadding vine," we might look over a beautiful sheet of water, and a fine country, and see the eternal Alps closing in the scene. How pleasant a nook to "loiter life away in." While we were examining the two last islands, the wind had increased, and the lake was so rough, that our boatmen for awhile were unwilling to cross it. We ventured, notwithstanding. After a time the wind abated, and about an hour before sunset we landed safely on the opposite side, at the pretty little town of Laveno. Close on the water's edge, we found excellent quarters in a small, neat inn, which we recommend to all future perambulators, as there we were exceedingly well entertained, and passed a few hours, which we shall always esteem among the most happy of our lives. The close of evening was delicious: the sun went down in all his majesty; the white snow of the Alps assumed its pure "rose hues ;" the lake spread out into a sheet of clear purple, varied here and there with broad stripes of gilded radiance; the windows of the houses, in the towns round the shores, glittered brightly, and the walls of the buildings changed their whiteness for the warm harmonizing tints of evening. All the islands lay before us, looking more beautiful from the effects of distance, and of the season of the day: close to our left, the lake formed a small tranquil bay; and a fairy-like promontory stretched out, fringed with pleasant trees, and spread from its brow to the water edge, with a carpet of grass and flowers, all fresh and bright in consequence of the recent rains, and looking as though they had been visited by a second spring. We were standing at the window at the touching moment of "Ave Maria," and the deep toll of several convent bells rolled with a penetrating melancholy across the water: a party of labourers, who had been unloading a boat close by our inn, ceased from their work and muttered the "De profundis ;" and a few moments after, two barks went by, whose crews were singing the vesper hymn to the Virgin. The convent bells continued their mild and sad toll; and we felt then, (as we have often felt during our voyages along the coasts of the Mediterranean) the full force of the exquisite and often quoted passage of Dante. Era già l'ora che volge' 1 disio A' Naviganti, e'ntenerisce il core Lo dì ch'han detto a' dolci amici Addio; E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore Punge, se ode squilla di lontano Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore.* As in landing at Laveno, we had entered into the dominions of another government, we were very soon called upon for our passports; these were examined with the scrupulous attention deemed necessary by the caution of Austria, which was at the moment considerably augmented by the events in the south of Italy, and the consequent fears of that power for its own possessions. The next morning, after breakfast, we prepared to put ourselves again en route. Our landlord's charge, considering the excellent dinner and beds he had given us, was pretty moderate it would no doubt have been somewhat less, had he not discovered we were Englishmen; indeed, we might have diminished it more than we did, (some deduction from an Italian inn-keeper's bill is always expected) but we were in much too good a humour" quereller pour le sous," and were besides in a hurry to get on our journey, having loitered until a late hour in that charming spot. At the door, we had the usual account to settle with the sons and daughters of misery;" and found, moreover, a tall, complimentary gen-d-armes, waiting for his fee for having brought back our passport. On leaving Laveno, we immediately lost sight of the lake: the country, however, continued very fine, and the roads excellent; and here we cannot help advising travellers to deviate from their accustomed course. From Fariolo to Milan, by the regular post road, is a dull journey, presenting little fine scenery; but if they cross the lake as we did, they may see the Borromean islands, and the lake to great advantage, and from Laveno enjoy a beautiful country all the way to Milan, having one pretty lake (Lago Varese) close on their road, with an opportunity of seeing the lake and town of Como, by going only about three quarters of a mile out of their way. As for their conveyances, (for it strikes us, very opportunely, that few travel in so primitive a manner as we did,) they may have their carriage taken across the lake for a trifle; and they will find the roads from Laveno to the capital as good as any in Italy.-But let us continue our pilgrimage. We had proceeded about two miles, and were walking at a good pace, when a tall thin man of the country overtook us. In France and Italy, travellers (particularly pedestrians) never meet or pass one another without a little chat: our man immediately began a conversation, and as we were going the same way, he proposed walking on together. There was nothing in his appearance or behaviour, so droll and amusing as in our former friend the Pittore; he was, however, of some use to us-he took us to the Osteria, where the best wine was sold, and told us the names of the towns, and villages, we saw, or passed through on the road. On our expressing our admiration of the beautiful mountains about Laveno, he assured us they were vile, worthless things, "monti maladettissimi," producing almost nothing. "When you arrive at Milan," said he, "there you will see a beautiful country, all as flat as my hand." He wished that the waters of the lake could be drained off, because he thought a fine sheltered valley would be left. We soon came in sight of a large sheet of water, the lake of Varese, Now was the hour that wakens fond desire : which lies a little below the road to the right there is a pretty secluded paesetto close to its shore, near which we staid some time sketching. Hence the walk of about an hour and a half brought us to the beginning of a succession of little chapels, (or rather altars) and crosses, which lined the road for a considerable distance: our companion had enough to do to touch his hat at each. Shortly after, we observed a tall hill to the left, whose ascent in all directions was covered with similar little chapels, and whose summit was crowned by a gaudylooking church and a mass of holy edifices. This our companion let us know, with infinite reverence, was the "Monte Sacro di Varallo," a place for many ages highly celebrated by Catholic superstition, and enriched by popular credulity. We did not think there was motive sufficient to induce us to ascend: from the road just below, it had a strange incongruous appearance; but when we had gained some distance and looked back, its whitewash, and colouring, and gilding, glittering in the sun, had rather a pleasing effect. All along this road we saw good finger posts, with a device that we thought pretty; on the arm, pointing along a post road, was painted a courier, gallopping on horseback; and on the arm pointing to cross-country roads, a pedestrian with a stick in his hand, and a knapsack on his back-somewhat such a figure as one of us. The roads are kept in admirable order. We did not reach Varese until four o'clock: it seemed a large busy town, and our companion, who was going to stay there, used many persuasions to induce us to stay also for that night; but we had made other determinations, from which we were not to be moved. On leaving it, an object presented itself, which was near having more effect than the eloquence of our friend; this was a play-bill, addressed to the rispettabilissimo et coltissimo public of Varese, informing them that the same evening would be performed, with "music and complete machinery," the sacred drama of "Adam and Eve:" we thought of the Italian farce, and of the story about Milton, and were almost inclined to stop and see this specimen of heroic poetry, and theatrical art. We however walked about five miles onward, and at dusk got into a village, whose inn was excessively dirty and miserable; and what was worse, the hostess and her people. spoke such thorough Milanese, and understood so little of any other dialect, that it was with great difficulty we settled the preliminaries of a room, beds, and supper. The following morning we set out very early, and had walked eight or nine miles by a little after day light; we were then at the road which descends to Como, and less than another half hour brought us to the fauxbourgs of that ancient city. On entering the gates, we found Como crowded with Austrian troops. Our first care was to get breakfast: the coffee house we went into for that purpose was full of Austrian officers, all smoaking at that early hour; we were struck then, as we had been many times before, by the gauche and low appearance of that class. After breakfast, we went to the police with our passports, where we were detained some time; and we afterwards hurried to the Porto, to have a view and a row on the lake. We hired one of the boats, which are much superior in appearance and convenience to those of the Lago Maggiore. We first visited the Villa D'Este, the residence of her Majesty, our Queen, situated on the opposite shore of the lake; we there saw several signs of her good taste and liberality. She repaired the road, leading from Como to the Villa, which had been for a long time almost impassable for carriages, though leading to a number of Ville, and to several villages. The people whom we saw spoke highly of her generosity and kindness, and her attention to the poor and distressed; one of the men we had with us had served her Majesty as boatman, and spoke of her with apparent gratitude and respect. The proceedings relative to her Majesty were generally known; and we heard a deal of indignation expressed against such of her people as had appeared witnesses against her, and were natives of that part of the country, or known to our interlocutors. Our row up the lake was delightful, but we should have enjoyed it more had we not been so lately on the Lago Maggiore. The lake of Como, shut in narrowly by the bases of lofty mountains, has, perhaps, too much the appearance of a river; these mountains, however, are in themselves fine objects, breaking into every variety of bold romantic shape, plentifully patched with fine woods, and speckled with picturesque churchsteeples, convents, white villages, and little towns. Monte Bisbino, which rises immediately behind the Villa D'Este, is a grand object; it is wooded and spotted with buildings, almost up to its lofty peak, which is capped by a sanctuary of great reputation, where an annual fête is held. We were told that the Queen had once ascended to the very summit. A great number of villas stand close on the lake; and gardens and vineyards advance, almost every where, to the water's brink. In proceeding upwards, many delightful turns offer unexpectedly some agreeable variety of scenery, and a number of romantic spots present themselves on either hand. At a village where we stopped, we heard a story that excited our indignation in no small degree. Some months since, two fishermen brought out of the lake an ancient statue; they carried it home, and some persons who could understand its merit, assured them it was valuable, and advised them to send it to Milan. While they waited an opportunity to follow this advice, some priests having heard the rumour of the affair, repaired, with the parrochiano at their head, to the poor men's habitation, and desired to see the statue; on its being shown them, they assured the owners that it was some heathen god or magician, and that to keep it, or give it to any Christian, would be a great crime. The statue was consequently again thrown into the lake. This trait may be classed with that of the Turks pounding the Grecian works of art to make mortar; and with the monks of the middle ages melting down the superb ancient bronzes to make bells for their convents. We credit it, from the authority by which we have heard it confirmed, and, because, from no short experience, we are acquainted with the ignorance of the priests in the secluded parts of Italy. About two o'clock we left Como, and walking through a pleasant and well-cultivated country, arrived that evening at a village about nine miles from Milan. We passed on the road a company of young German artists, who were walking into Italy to study: their appearance was rather more picturesque than our own; for they wore the cap and short frock, which is become at Rome the costume of the students of their country; their little bundles were hung at their backs in the same manner as ours, but each, instead of a common walking stick, had a long white staff in his hand. We departed very early the next morning: we saw the small slender spire of Milan at a distance, and the number of vehicles, and the stream of carts and animals loaded with hay, vegetables, &c.-reminded us that we were approaching a great city. On our arrival at the gate, as our dusty shoes and dress, and our bundles announced us as wayfaring men, we were stopped by the Austrians on guard, and conducted to a dirty little lodge just within the gate: there our passports were taken from us, and a paper given to reclaim them at the police. We entered Milan amidst the ringing of bells: this circumstance, and the number of shops we saw closed, and people in their holiday garb hurrying through the streets, gave us to understand that something particular was to take place. On arriving at our inn, we learned that the fête of San Carlo di Borromeo was to be celebrated in the domo or cathedral. We had just time to breakfast and put ourselves in order: when we arrived at the church, we found it crowded; a fine choir was singing some divine music, which interested us deeply. At the conclusion of the music, an old bishop, adorned in all the trappings of his office, mounted a rostrum: his discourse was preceded by somewhat more than the usual quantum of taking off and putting on the little black skull-cap, bowing to the crucifix by the side of the pulpit, then to the altar, to the saint, and then to the people; blowing the nose, waving the handkerchief, and hemming. At length, however, he began, and in so strong a nasal tone, and with such a caricature of gesticula |