Lucarno lies on the shore of the lake, with a background of verdant wooded heights, directly exposed to the midday sun,—a beautiful place of sojourn for the winter, but fearfully hot in summer. The green mountains, with their white houses and churches, in particular the church of Sta. Maria del Sasso,—the ascent to which, in zig-zags up the mountain, is marked by fourteen little chapels or stations,—affords a beautiful view. Plane-trees, lemons, and oranges, grow around the city. The people have an Italian look, speak Italian, and are said to be separated into very strongly dissimilar classes, or, more properly speaking, castes. No one would observe here that Tessin is one of the states of the Swiss confederation. Its people have not the best reputation.
Lago Maggiore reminds me somewhat of the lake of Lucerne, although that has more variety and grandeur. Yet here one sees the snowy heads of Simplon, Cima di Jazi, and the Strelhorn, now and then glance forth from above the lower Alpine chain around the northwestern side of the lake. The day was warm and sunny, and the air seemed to me oppressive.
As far as the so-much-praised Italian sky is concerned, I cannot, as yet, see that it is more beautiful than that of Switzerland; or even that of Sweden on fine days. But perhaps I am not now in a proper state to understand Italian beauty. The journey to Monte Rosa and across the Simplon, have left behind an affection of the chest and a fatigue which somewhat depress me. And now—it is evening and dark out of doors, and I write in the endeavor to dispel certain feelings which, like birds of twilight, are very apt to
