and uninviting, especially now that the autumnal rains seem to have set in; and the roads are dirty—indeed, to all appearance, impassable. Still, you may be sure I walk when I can; and when, on leaving the hotel, I do not turn to the left, towards the cathedral, I turn to the right, along a wide street, with the best shops, and where the shops cease there are some fine large palaces. The French have a laudable passion for public gardens; though their notion of what is agreeable in that respect does not coincide with ours; and grass and turf is, as I have before said, unknown out of England. They have laid out gardens in the outskirts of Milan, into which I turn; and then, ascending some steps, I enter on the Boulevard, a wide drive on the walls of the town, planted with trees. This is the Corso, where every evening the Milanese resort in their carriages—not now, however, as all of any rank are out of town. From this boulevard, which is elevated on the walls, one looks down on the vine-planted low lands beneath. A more agreeable spot—but it is too far for a walk—is the triumphal arch, begun by Napoleon, that forms the entrance to the city from the road of the Simplon. It is surrounded by a grassy plain. As a barrier, at the distance of some twenty miles, rise the Alps, the resting-places of the wandering clouds, the
