LETTER TWENTY-EIGHT. MILAN, Italy. First Town in Italy-Lago Maggiore-Passports-Examination of Luggage-Milan-Reception of the Emperor-Excursion to Lake Como, etc. "O Italy! how beautiful thou art! Yet I could weep; for thou art lying, alas! CROSSING the Alps over the great Simplon road, we passed the first night in a neat little village near the border, called Domo d'Ossola. It was our intention to go on as far as Baveno, situated on Lago Maggiore; but owing to the depth of snow on the Pass, our progress was impeded, and we were compelled to lie over until the following morning. Domo d'Ossola is a small and unimportant town, with few points of interest, save that it is Italian, which was quite enough for us in the beginning. The peculiar construction of the houses, with their many-shaped chimneys, colonnades, streets with awnings, shops filled with sausages, maccaroni, and garlic-lazy-looking monks, apparelled in brown-colored gowns, with bare mahoganylooking legs, intermixed with donkeys, well-fed priests, and females veiled with the mantilla, combined to complete a picture at once novel and curious to our eyes. At Baveno we left the diligence and made an excursion in a small sailing boat to the Borromean Islands, situated in the upper and most beautiful portion of the lake. These islands are two in number, originally barren rocks, now rendered beautiful by the hand of art. Isola Bella consists of ten terraces, the lowest built on piers placed in the lake, rising in a pyramidal form, one above another, and covered with statues, obelisks, vases, and other ornaments. There is a very good hotel on the island, and a garden filled with all kinds of exotics; the orange, citron, myrtle, and pomegranate flourish in abundance, and I have also observed the aloe, cactus, sugar cane, coffee plant, and a camphor tree upwards of twenty feet in height. The Isola Madre is somewhat larger than the former, and situated near the centre of the lake, from which there is a lovely view of the snow-clad Alps, the Simplon Pass, and innumerable little villages on the borders of the water. This island has more natural beauty than the Isola Bella, and also contains a garden worthy of the highest praise. Leaving our little boat at this point, we boarded the steamer and proceeded to the other extremity of the lake, where we rejoined the diligence at a small town called Sesto Calende, on the Austrian frontier. Here we had a deal of trouble with our passports, luggage, etc. Not satisfied with booking minutely every item in our passports, they tumbled the contents of trunks about with as much nonchalance as an old sailor would a wallet of worn-out clothes. Forgetting that we had to undergo an examination, our weapons were left in the trunks, and unfortunately discovered by the Austrian police. The first thing discovered was a six-barrelled revolver, then a stiletto, balls, powder, caps, etc., all of which were drawn out one by one, to the consternation of the bystanders, and to the discomfiture of the owner, who rather feared the consequences, knowing that they were contraband, and that two Americans had recently been imprisoned for much slighter causes. One of the officers intimated that it looked rather suspicious, talked of imprisonment, etc.; but fortunately the captain of the boat came to our assistance, and volunteered to carry them back to the Sardinian government and forward them to Genoa, where they have been received. This difficulty was hardly disposed of when another one arose between a chestnut woman and a Boston Yankee, who happened to be in the diligence. He purchased her chestnuts, and she, Italian-like, wanted to cheat him out of a penny; while he, true to his breeding, resisted “at all hazards and to the last extremity." The dispute grew higher and higher the crowd gathered around and sided with the woman— and at last the police interfered, and the Yankee got his penny. Laughing heartily at the scene just narrated, we rolled on over the Simplon road through antique villages to the city of Milan. It was night when we entered the massive portal of the Arco de la Pace. The spire of the great cathedral was illuminated, and the figure of the Madonna on the summit shone so brightly that its rays were visible at the distance of many miles. Driving through the Corso, which is a well paved and handsome street, we arrived at a magnificent house, called the Hotel de la Ville, guarded by Austrian soldiers, and the great place of attraction for strangers, who were curious to witness and participate in the pomp and parade exhibited at the reception of the youthful Emperor, Francis Joseph. The following day was Sunday, and the whole city seemed to be alive with the military; white coats and epaulets were to be seen in all directions, busy about the arrangements of the day, as the entire reception devolved upon them, the citizens refusing to have any thing to do with the young tyrant-not even the bestowal of ordinary civilities. At the hour of ten the different regiments, mustering upwards of sixty thousand, were assembled on the parade ground near the Arco de la Pace, and called the Piazza d'Armi. It was a magnificent sight; every thing was conducted with perfect order, and the various evolutions of a military review were displayed to the Emperor, in all the pomp and circumstance usual on such occasions. This being over, he was conducted by this strong guard through the principal streets of the city to the great cathedral, where he knelt and repeated to himself his prayers, while the people stood gazing with vulgar curiosity, anxious to see how the youth bore his honors, and wishing in their hearts any thing but good for his welfare. In appearance, Francis Joseph is tall and slight, rather awkward in address, and wanting in the usual marks that distinguish nature's great men. His reception here must have been any thing but gratifying; there was no enthusiasm, and the people seemed utterly indifferent whether he approved or disapproved of their conduct. During his stay here he feared to remain in the city at night, but went out every afternoon to a fortified town in the neighborhood, and returned the following morning guarded by a regiment of cavalry. How different is it with our President, elevated voce populi, and moving among them without fear in the streets of our capital, unguarded and unattended. The more I see of the governments of Europe, the more I admire and appreciate our own; and there is nothing in my opinion so well calculated to make a man patriotic and attached to the union of the States and the perpetuity of our institutions, as a tour of observation among the nations of Europe. But let us leave this topic for the present, and return to the Duomo or Cathedral, which is considered externally the finest building on the continent. It is the third, and some say the fourth reedification of the original structure, the first being destroyed by Attila, the second by fire, the third by Frederic the First. The first stone of the present Duomo was laid in 1636, and is yet unfinished. Napoleon did much towards bringing it to its present form, and gave an impulse to the works that must always be appreciated by the admirers of architectural beauty. The interior of the building is handsome, but not equal to some other cathedrals in Italy, or in keeping with the exterior, which is beautiful beyond description. View it from any point, and it strikes the beholder with wonder and admiration; but in order fully to understand the merits of the structure, the stranger should ascend the summit, which is reached by two staircases winding in a turret of open tracery. Here the eye rests upon a perfect flower garden, in which nearly every plant is exquisitely represented in white marble, baskets of fruit, cherubs' heads, sunflowers, lilies, and statuary of the rarest workmanship. A noble view of the plains of Lombardy studded with cities and villages is also presented to the eye, embracing some of the finest lands in Italy. From the cathedral we visited the dilapidated convent of Santa Maria della Grazie, which contains a work of art better known perhaps than any other in the world: the Last Supper, by Leonardo da Vinci. It is one of the wonders of Milan, and may at one time bave deserved all the praise bestowed upon it, but at present I defy any man to detect any part of the original expression of any single face or feature on the canvas; not even the coloring is now visible. Aside from the damage it has sustained from damp, decay and neglect, it has been so retouched upon and repainted, and that so badly, that many of the heads are now positive deformities, with patches of paint sticking all over them, and utterly distorting the expression. After looking at this vestige of art, we went into. the theatre of La Scala, which is one of the largest and finest in Italy. The form of the house is a semi-circle, with the ends produced and made to approach each other, and it is capable of accommodating 3600 persons comfortably. We did not have the pleasure of hearing an opera within its walls, it being closed on account of the late troubles in Lombardy. From Milan we made an excursion to the Lake of Como by railroad, a very pleasant little trip, performed in one day. The lake is about forty miles long, and fed principally by the Addo. Taken all together it is the most beautiful sheet of water in Italy, and surpasses in the richness of its tropical vegetation any lake I ever saw. Many villages adorn its banks, besides the palaces and gardens of Villa d'Este, Villa of Count Taverna, Madame Pasta and Taglioni. No one should visit Milan without availing themselves of the beauties of nature reflected in the bright waters of Como. LETTER TWENTY-NINE. VENICE, Italy. Trip to Venice by way of Verona-Entrance in a Gondola-Piazza of St. Mark-CanalsChurches-Palaces-Excursion to the Lido-Reception of the Emperor. "There is a glorious city in the sea: The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, OUR journey between the two great cities of Lombardy was not only interesting on account of the number of objects presented for our contemplation, but furnished a variety of travel, which relieved us from the usual tedium of a long distance. At Milan the diligence was placed on the railroad, with the passengers in it, and conveyed to the town of Treviglio, where horses were in waiting to carry us to Bergamo, and thence to the ancient city of Verona, by way of Brescia and the foot of Lago di Garda. In pleasant Verona we passed an entire day in visiting fair Juliet's tomb, the house of the Capulets, and the great Roman Amphitheatre. The tomb, which is now shown to strangers in the garden of the Orfanotrofio, is of reddish marble, originally used as a washingtrough, but so much broken by sentimentalists that but a small portion now remains to designate this imaginary spot. The house of the Capulets has now degenerated into a most miserable little inn, occupied by noisy vetturini and low Italians-a fact well calculated to destroy all associations connected with the mansion. The Roman Amphitheatre, however, is a rich monument of the early periods, standing in the centre of the Piazza di Bra-a spirit of old time, among the familiar realities of the passing hour. The interior is nearly perfect, and so well preserved and carefully maintained, that |