ank of the _Lago Maggiore_, and nothing can be more neat
than the appearance of all these little towns which are solidly and
handsomely built in the Italian taste.

Before I arrived at Arona, and at a distance of two miles from it, I
stopped in order to ascend a height at a distance of one-eighth of a mile
from the road to view the celebrated colossal statue in bronze of St
Charles Borromaeus, which may be seen at a great distance. It is seventy
cubits high, situated on a pedestal of twenty feet, to ascend which
requires a ladder. You then enter between his legs, or rather the folds of
his gown, and ascend a sort of staircase till you reach his head. There is
something so striking in the appearance of this black gigantic figure when
viewed from afar, and still more when you are at the foot of it, that you
would suppose yourself living in the time of fairies and enchanters, and it
strongly reminded me of the Arabian Nights, as if the statue were the work
of some Genie or Peri; or as if it were some rebel Genius transformed into
black marble by Solomon the great Prophet. I am not very well acquainted
with the life and adventures of this Saint, but he was of the Borromean
family, who are the most opulent proprietors of the Milanese. Every tract
of land, palace, castle, farm in the environs of Arona seem to belong to
them. If you ask whose estate is that? whose villa is that? whose castle is
that? the answer is, to the Count Borromeo, who seems to be as universal a
proprietor here as _Nong-tong-paw_ at Paris or _Monsieur Kaniferstane_ at
Amsterdam.[53] Arona is a large, straggling but solidly built town, and
presents nothing worth notice.

We proceeded on our journey the next morning. Shortly after leaving Arona,
the road diverges from the lake and traverses a thick wood until it reaches
the banks of the Tessino; on the other bank of which, communicating by
means of a flying bridge, stands the town of Sesto Calende. The Tessino
divides and forms the boundary between the Sardinian and Austrian
territory, and Sesto Calende is the frontier of His Imperial, Royal and
Apostolic Majesty. After a rigorous search of my portmanteau at the
_Douane_, and exhibiting my passport, I was allowed to proceed on my
journey to Milan.

At Rho, where I stopped to dine, stands a remarkably ancient tree said to
have been planted in the time of Augustus. The country presents a perfect
plain, highly cultivated, all the way from Sesto to Milan. The