the mulberry orchards.  Half-way down, in a broad bay, which receives the waters of a stream that comes down with the Simplon, are the celebrated Borromean Islands.  They are four in number, and seem to float like fairy creations on the water, while the lofty hills form a background whose grandeur enhances by contrast their exquisite beauty.  There was something in the scene that reminded me of Claude Melnotte’s description of his home, by Bulwer, and like the lady of Lyons, I answer readily, “I like the picture.”

On passing by Isola Madre, we could see the roses in its terraced gardens and the broad-leaved aloes clinging to the rocks.  Isola Bella, the loveliest of them all, as its name denotes, was farther off; it rose like a pyramid from the water, terrace above terrace to the summit, and its gardens of never fading foliage, with the glorious panorama around, might make it a paradise, if life were to be dreamed away.  On the northern side of the bay lies a large town (I forget its name,) with a lofty Romanesque tower, and noble mountains sweep around as if to shut out the world from such a scene.  The sea was perfectly calm, and groves and gardens slept mirrored in the dark green wave, while the Alps rose afar through the dim, cloudy air.  Towards the other end the hills sink lower, and slope off into the plains of Lombardy.  Near Arona, on the western side, is a large monastery, overlooking the lower part of the lake.  Beside it, on a hill, is a colossal statue of San Carlo Borromeo, who gave his name to the lovely islands above.

After a seven hours’ passage, we ran into Sesto Calende, at the foot of the lake.  Here, passengers and baggage were tumbled promiscuously on shore, the latter gathered into the office to be examined, and the former left at liberty to ramble about an hour until their passports could be signed.  We employed the time in trying the flavor of the grapes and peaches of Lombardy, and looking at the groups of travelers who had come down from the Alps with the annual avalanche at this season.  The custom house officers were extremely civil and obliging, as they did not think necessary to examine our knapsacks, and our passports being soon signed, we were at liberty to enter again into the dominions of His Majesty of Austria.  Our companion, the German, whose feet could carry him no further, took a seat on the top of a diligence for Milan; we left Sesto Calende on foot, and plunged into the cloud of dust which was whirling towards the capital of Northern Italy.

Being now really in the “sunny land,” we looked on the scenery with a deep interest.  The first thing that struck me was a resemblance to America in the fields of Indian corn, and the rank growth of weeds by the roadside.  The mulberry trees and hedges, too, looked quite familiar, coming as we did, from fenceless and hedgeless Germany.  But here the resemblance ceased.  The people were coarse, ignorant and savage-looking, the villages