h 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 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 terr