Three hours’ walk brought us to Bellinzona, the capital of the canton.  Before reaching it, our road joined that of the Splugen which comes down through the valley of Bernardino.  From the bridge where the junction takes place we had a triple view, whose grandeur took me by surprise, even after coming from Switzerland.  We stood at the union of three valleys—­that leading to St. Gothard, terminated by the glaciers of the Bernese Oberland, that running off obliquely to the Splugen, and finally the broad vale of the Ticino, extending to Lago Maggiore, whose purple mountains closed the vista.  Each valley was perhaps two miles broad and from twenty to thirty long, and the mountains that enclosed them from five to seven thousand feet in height, so you may perhaps form some idea what a view down three such avenues in this Alpine temple would be.  Bellinzona is romantically situated, on a slight eminence, with three castles to defend it, with those square turreted towers and battlements, which remind one involuntarily of the days of the Goths and Vandals.

We left Bellinzona at noon, and saw, soon after, from an eminence, the blue line of Lago Maggiore stretched across the bottom of the valley.  We saw sunset fade away over the lake, but it was clouded, and did not realize my ideal of such a scene in Italy.  A band of wild Italians paraded up and down the village, drawing one of their number in a hand-cart.  They made a great noise with a drum and trumpet, and were received everywhere with shouts of laughter.  A great jug of wine was not wanting, and the whole seemed to me a very characteristic scene.

We were early awakened at Magadino, at the head of Lago Maggiore, and after swallowing a hasty breakfast, went on board the steamboat “San Carlo,” for Sesto Calende.  We got under way at six o’clock, and were soon in motion over the crystal mirror.  The water is of the most lovely green hue, and so transparent that we seemed to bo floating in mid-air.  Another heaven arched far below us; other chains of mountains joined their bases to those which surrounded the lake, and the mirrored cascades leaped upward to meet their originals at the surface.  It may be because I have seen it more recently, that the water of Lago Maggiore appears to be the most beautiful in the world.  I was delighted with the Scotch lakes, and enraptured with the Traunsee and “Zurich’s waters,” but this last exceeds them both.  I am now incapable of any stronger feeling, until I see the Egean from the Grecian Isles.

The morning was cloudy, and the white wreaths hung low on the mountains, whose rocky sides were covered every where with the rank and luxuriant growth of this climate.  As we advanced further over this glorious mirror, the houses became more Italian-like; the lower stories rested on arched passages, and the windows were open, without glass, while in the gardens stood the solemn, graceful cypress, and vines, heavy with ripening grapes, hung from bough to bough through