And here let me advert, though with reluctance, to the astounding inaccuracies of an amiable traveller, over whose urn at Naples I paid as sincere a tribute of respect as any of his most ardent admirers could do. Will it be believed that such a man as EUSTACE, while examining the Simplon two short years after Napoleon had conducted his army over the Great St. Bernard, and when the foundations of the new military road were just commencing, could be capable of writing such a sentence as the following.—" This mountain, (Simplon) the object of our excursion, is one of the highest of the Italian Alps (which, by the bye, is a gross error); it is covered with perpetual snow, and is remarkable for the passage of Buonaparte previous to the battle of Marengo." Eustace could scarcely get up a part of the way on a mule-he describes the bridges and roads that were to be constructed, and innocently imagines that Napoleon marched his army and heavy artillery over the Simplon-a task fully as difficult as it would have been over the summit of Mont Blanc ! Is it not still more astonishing that four editions of the work should have been published, without the enormous error being detected either by the author or the critics? On future occasions I shall be compelled to combat his opinions; but, at all times I shall be ready to give him full credit for the most perfect sincerity, probity and benevolence.

BAVENO.

The first and favourable impressions produced by the balmy air, the azure skies, and the smiling glades of Italy, were enhanced by early intercourse with her lively inhabitants. There must be some affinity between the Irish and the Italians. The hospitality of the former forces you to eat and drink more than you wish-that of the other persuades you to make repasts at periods when there is not the least appetite for the most savoury viands. We experienced this last species of hospitality, before we concluded our first day's journey from the summit of the Simplon. After making a substantial second breakfast at Dorno Dossolo, and enjoying the beautiful prospect from the terrace of the inn, we started for Baveno; but at the end of the very first stage, were startled, at the Village of Vogogna, with the words " no horses." The obsequious master of the poste, however, who was, unfortunately master of the principal hotel also, informed us that there were far better things than horses under his roof-delicious trout from the neighbouring Toccia and savoury game from the adjacent mountains. The courier asserted that there were several horses in the stable; but the lively host asserted, in return, that they were in readiness for the Diligence, which was momentarily expected. Jet black clouds were rising in the north-east-the vivid lightnings were playing portentously over the Rhætian Alps-the thunder began to growland part of the road to Baveno had been completely carried away by the recent floods. It required little penetration to see, that the feelings of the

kind Italian would be hurt by a refusal of his disinterested hospitality-and therefore, the trout was ordered into the pot, and the game on the gridiron, with all possible expedition, and without a word being said further on the subject of the horses. The dinner was dressed and eaten-an extra bottle of the best wine in the house emptied-and the bill paid within less than an hour. On turning to the window of the salle à manger, I saw some excellent horses and a smart postillion around the carriage-though none had returned during the short period of our repast. At this moment a large English berline drove up, and the same answer was given respecting horses. I advised my countryman to angle for horses with "trout from the neighbouring stream;" but he swore he would not be imposed upon as I was foolish enough to be. We set off, then, for Baveno with a thousand thanks and bows from our kind host. This was not the first nor the last time I had learnt to know, that fair words and cheerful looks facilitate our journey along the road, as well as through life, much more than blustering and passion. I saw my countryman the next day at Baveno, and he regretted that he had not followed my advice. He was detained three hours at the inn-forced to partake of Italian hospitality at last-charged exorbitantly-treated scurvily-and half-drowned during his journey to Baveno in the middle of the night.

Whoever happens to have been between the Simplon and Milan on the evening and night of the 3d of October, 1829, will hardly forget the thunderstorm which then took place. It was one of those Autumnal hurricanes, which, in Italy, mark the limits between the tropical heat of their Summer and the delightful skies of early Winter. It was a regular ELEPHANTA, such as we see at Bombay on the change of the monsoon, and much about the same time of year Fortunately for us, the periodical rains had fallen much sooner than usual in Italy, as well as in other countries, that year-and this was the last but one of the Autumnal tornadoes. It was no trifle, even to those who had seen such phenomena in the East and West Indies. It was 11 o'clock' at night before we reached Baveno, and the last six miles of the road, or rather the remains of a road, along the LAGO MAGGIORE, were illuminated by terrific flashes of sheet lightning. Every mountain around the lake reecchoed the roaring thunder—every village, villa, and town on its shoresevery island on its bosom, were rendered distinctly visible by the lightningand the glassy surface of the lake itself appeared, every two or three minutes, like a gigantic expanse of the electric fluid.

How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea,
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth!
And now again 'tis black-and now the glee
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain mirth,
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth.

They who have got housed in a comfortable hotel, late at night, from the pelting of the pitiless storm-with a warm supper, a blazing fire, a keen appetite, a cheerful company, a light heart-and a bottle of good wine-can form some idea of the traveller's feelings at the excellent Albergo, perched on the very edge of the Lago Maggiore at Baveno, after such a storm as we encountered.

The rested traveller looks back on the dangers or the difficulties of the past, with positive pleasure-a consolation that may be looked to in every adversity that besets us in our journey through life.

ISOLA BELLA.

The lake has regained its polished and placid countenance—the surrounding mountains are calmly eying their full-length portraits in the spacious mirror —but the frightened torrents are leaping from crag to crag, as if still pursued by the furious tempest. The prospect from the Borromean Isles is magnificent; and has been too well described by Eustace and others to bear another word. As to the ISOLA BELLA itself, with its pyramid of terraces, orange and citron walks, time-worn statues, spouting fountains, galleries of evergreens, and endless arcades—it is neither entitled to the appellation of " a terrestrial paradise, an enchanted island, the abode of Calypso, the garden of Armida,” which some have bestowed on it-nor yet to the contemptuous epithets poured on its head by Pennant, Southey, and the fair Authoress of "Sketches of Italy." It would, perhaps, be difficult to turn so small a rock, in the midst of a lake, to a better account; and I imagine that the spacious saloons, paved, lined and covered with spars, shells, &c. to imitate grottos, form a very delightful retreat from the burning suns of an Italian Summer. Here, indeed, as throughout Italy, we find filth and finery in close contact! If the traveller happens to mistake the principal entrance to the palace, and turns a corner to the northward, he will find himself ancle-deep in dirt of the worst description—and, on escaping from this scene, into the first door that opens, he will find himself in a large octagonal wing of the palace, without a roof! Painters and poets should never look beyond the surfaces of things, especially in Italy-otherwise the picture will be spoiled, or the poetic illusion will vanish. The whiteness of the houses, the verdure and richness of the country, the elevated spots on which human habitations are perched, and the brilliancy of the skies, all combine to form delightful landscapes. If we wish to keep up the pleasing image, let us as carefully avoid entering town, village, or single mansion—as we would the kitchen, when dinner is under the process of manipulation, in the hands of the cook!

:

MILAN.

Between Baveno and Milan, the lover of fine scenery will be gratified, and the contemplative philosopher will meet with one or two objects on which he may ruminate, after he passes the blue and arrowy Ticino at Sesto Calende, where the Lago Maggiore disgorges its purified waters in a magnificent stream, to mingle with the turbid Po. On the right hand, he will pass a gigantic bronze statue of St. Carlo Borromeo, near Arona—and on the left, near Somma, a lofty cypress tree, planted before the Christian æra. If that tree could tell the various events of its long life, from the time that Hannibal's and Scipio's troops first came into mortal conflict under its branches, down to the slaughter of Marengo and Lodi, also within view of its aerial summit, the tale would be worth listening to! It now stands as straight, and its branches are as verdant, as when the Goths and Vandals were ravaging the neighbouring plains of Lombardy. What a contrast does it present in point of longevity, to the lord of the creation! How often has it seen the youthful

Carlo pass under its shade, in Cardinal pomp and earthly grandeur! And still it stands in apparent vigour, while the brazen statue of the canonized Carlo corrodes by winds and rains, on one side, and the blackened corse itself is hourly exposed, on the other, to the vulgar gaze of every fool, who fees a fattened friar to disturb the ashes of the dead!

On crossing the Ticino, the face of the country suddenly changes, and presents a complete contrast to that of the Alpine region, over which the traveller has passed. Here the character is flatness and fertility—there, ruggedness and sterility. We shall see, under the next head, (Pellagra) whether the fruitful soil of "Latium's velvet plain" confers proportionate plenty, happiness, and health on its envied inhabitants.

Milan is one of the cleanest cities which I have seen beyond the Alps. The streets, though narrow, are well paved with stripes of flags in the wrong places-being in the middle instead of the sides-and the northern eye is not offended with the constant sight of southern dirt, as in most other towns of Italy. Whether this extraordinary cleanliness be partly owing to the circumstance of Austrian muskets gleaming, at every hundred paces, in the middle of the streets at night, I cannot pretend to say. This effective police seems to be a great annoyance to the Milanese, and to give mortal offence to my fair countrywoman, Lady Morgan. I confess that I am not such an enthusiastic admirer of FREEDOM, as to advocate those LIBERTIES which are taken in the streets of Tuscan, Roman, and Neapolitan cities, by day and by night, to the "corruption of good manners," if not to the "derogation of

God's honour." If it be true that an English cannon speaks various languages, and that very intelligibly, so I believe it true that an Austrian bayonet performs a number of useful offices in its civil, as well as in its military character. It is the best scavenger that I have seen to the southward of the Simplon and all acknowledge that it has superseded the stiletto, in Milan and many other places.

There are two things at MILAN, the sight of which would repay the journey from London to Lombardy :-The cathedral-and the view from its spires on a clear day. Description is not my forte-and, moreover, it is not my business in this place. I should be sorry to attempt that which a female pen, of no ordinary power, has not ventured to undertake. But I am sure that a great number of travellers lose one of the most beautiful and sublime prospects in the world, by not taking the opportunity of ascending the highest spire of the cathedral during a clear state of the atmosphere. The view is perfectly unique. We see a chain of the highest mountains of Europe to the north-the Apennines to the south—and the plains of Lombardy, bounded only by the horizon, in every other direction. The Alps, from Genoa to the Tyrol, form one continuous line of gigantic pyramids of ice and snow, apparently within a few miles of the spectator-Monte Rosa towering in the centre. The scene is magnificent beyond all description, or even conception! The breeze comes down from these mountains with icy chillness in the hottest sunshine-and the hues of the setting sun, reflected and refracted by their frozen sides and summits, baffle all description. The illimitable plains of Lombardy present a very curious landscape. In the foreground, they appear like gardens-in the distance, like forests. The mulberry, acacia, and other trees planted around the rice-fields, unite at a certain angle of incidence, and look like one continuous wood, concealing the rich intermediate cultivation. The canals, for navigation or irrigation, resemble silver veins meandering through the country, which is studded with towns, villages, villas, and cottages, all as white as the marble of the cathedral. To the south, the more humble range of the Apennines, crowned with " piny forests" instead of "unfathomed snows," call forth many a classical and historical recollection-the whole panorama from the Duomo, including a fine bird's-eye view of Milan itself, impressing on the memory a splendid image, a gorgeous and majestic picture of nature and art—of desolation and cultivation-of everlasting snow and perennial verdure, which TIME only can efface, by breaking up the intellectual tablet on which it was engraved by the delighted senses.

It is to be regretted that the ascent to the highest pinnacle-even to any of the hundred spires-is laborious; but the toil is well rewarded, if the atmosphere be clear, by one of the most imposing panoramas in the world.