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By the time that we were at Arona the sun had appeared, and the clouds were gone; here, too, we determined to halt for half a day, neither of us being quite the thing, so after a visit to the colossal statue of San Carlo, which is very fine and imposing, we laid ourselves down under the shade of some chestnut trees above the lake, and enjoyed the extreme beauty of everything around us, until we fell fast asleep, and yet even in sleep we seemed to retain a consciousness of the unsurpassable beauty of the scene. After dinner (we were stopping at the Hotel de la Poste, a very nice inn indeed) we took a boat and went across the lake to Angera, a little town just opposite; it was in the Austrian territory, but they made no delay about admitting us; the reason of our excursion was, that we might go and explore the old castle there, which is seated on an inconsiderable eminence above the lake. It affords an excellent example of Italian domestic Gothic of the Middle Ages; San Carlo was born and resided here, and, indeed, if saintliness were to depend upon beauty of natural scenery, no wonder at his having been a saint.

The castle is only tenanted by an old man who keeps the place; we found him cooking his supper over a small crackling fire of sticks, which he had lighted in the main hall; his feeble old voice chirps about San Carlo this and San Carlo that as we go from room to room. We have no carpets here–plain honest brick floors–the chairs, indeed, have once been covered with velvet, but they are now so worn that one can scarcely detect that they have been so, the tables warped and worm-eaten, the few, that is, that remained there, the shutters cracked and dry with the sun and summer of so many hundred years–no Renaissance work here, yet for all that there was something about it which made it to me the only really pleasurable nobleman’s mansion that I have ever been over; the view from the top is superb, and then the row home to Arona, the twinkling lights softly gleaming in the lake, the bells jangling from the tall and gaudy campaniles, the stillness of the summer night–so warm and yet so refreshing on the water; hush, there are some people singing–how sweetly their voices are borne to us upon the slight breath of wind that alone is stirring; oh, it is a cruel thing to think of war in connection with such a spot as this, and yet from this very Angera to this very Arona it is that the Austrians have been crossing to commence their attack on Sardinia. I fear these next summer nights will not be broken with the voice of much singing and that we shall have to hush for the roaring of cannon.

I never knew before how melodiously frogs can croak–there is a sweet guttural about some of these that I never heard in England: before going to bed, I remember particularly one amorous batrachian courting malgre sa maman regaled us with a lusciously deep rich croak, that served as a good accompaniment for the shrill whizzing sound of the cigales.

My space is getting short, but fortunately we are getting on to ground better known; I will therefore content myself with sketching out the remainder of our tour and leaving the reader to Murray for descriptions.

We left Arona with regret on Thursday morning (June 18), took steamer to the Isola Bella, which is an example of how far human extravagance and folly can spoil a rock, which had it been left alone would have been very beautiful, and thence by a little boat went to Baveno; thence we took diligence for Domo d’Ossola; the weather clouded towards evening and big raindrops beginning to descend we thought it better to proceed at once by the same diligence over the Simplon; we did not care to walk the pass in wet, therefore leaving Domo d’Ossola at ten o’clock that night we arrived at Iselle about two; the weather clearing we saw the gorge of Gondo and walked a good way up the pass in the early morning by the diligence; breakfasted at Simplon at four o’clock in the morning, and without waiting a moment as soon as we got out at Brieg set off for Visp, which we reached at twelve on foot; we washed and dressed there, dined and advanced to Leuk, and thence up the most exquisitely beautiful road to Leukerbad, which we reached at about eight o’clock after a very fatiguing day. The Hotel de la France is clean and cheap. Next morning we left at half-past five and, crossing the Gemini, got to Frutigen at half-past one, took an open trap after dinner and drove to Interlaken, which we reached on the Saturday night at eight o’clock, the weather first rate; Sunday we rested at Interlaken; on Monday we assailed the Wengern Alp, but the weather being pouring wet we halted on the top and spent the night there, being rewarded by the most transcendent evening view of the Jungfrau, Eiger, and Monch in the clear cold air seen through a thin veil of semi-transparent cloud that was continually scudding across them.