Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys. Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys, Amid Summer Ramble through the Dolomites, by Amelia B. Edwards. CHAPTER X. Primero to Prodanzo, Part III. Shall I ever forget that blazing afternoon, when, gaitered, white-hatted, his garments buttoned all awry in a striped silk umbrella under his arm. He escorted me to Sr. Sartoris' museum and apiary. Or that evening, when he came to call, and we entertained him on the landing, and he talked for two hours without stopping, about state education, the Darwin theory, the calculating machine, capital punishment, prehistoric man, the Atlantic cable, universal suffrage, positivism, the solar spectrum, the Alabama claims, the sources of the Nile, the Prussian military system, the liberty of the press, the Armstrong gun, the Suez canal, the eruption of Vesuvius, and the rights of women. A kindly, benevolent, public-spirited old man, eager to promote something like culture and progress in his native town, and interested in all that steers the great outer world beyond his ken. To establish a more rapid system of postal communication, to get the wire brought over from Feltra, to improve the teaching in the Primero schools and to found a local newspaper, these are among the dreams that he is striving to realize. The little teatro sociale, for Primero has its tiny amateur theater and corpse dramatique, is of his creation and under his management. The new road to Pradezzo would not have been put in hand probably for the next ten years, but for the energy with which he was continually agitating the question in Primero. Echo, senor, he said, unconsciously quoting the dying words of Gotha, what we want in our little valley is more light. Our people are not poor, but they dwell in the darkness of ignorance. We have schools for the children, it is true, but then what is to be done with their parents who regard geography as an invention of, con rispeta, the devil? I think it was the same evening when all the lamps were out and the little world of Primero had well nigh dropped into its first down-sleep, that we heard a delicious tenor, rich and sweet and powerful, ring out suddenly through the silence of the night. It began a little distance off, died away, came back again, then ceased close under our windows. The air was verities, hackneyed in commonplace enough, but the voice was fresh and faultless, and belonged, as we learned next day, to Young Bonetti, the second son of our landlady. He told us that his name was already entered on the books of the conservatoire of Milan, and that he was to begin his vocal studies in November. It is said that so fine a voice has not been heard within the walls of the academy for more than a quarter of a century. With regard to Sr. Sartoris, just named, he seems to have raised apiculture to the dignity of a science. Off-taught he has discovered how to regulate the productiveness of the race, and is said to be able, unhurt and unstung, to take in his hand and transfer from hive to hive the queen bee and her court. How far this may be true, I cannot say, but I saw his museum and his apiary, the former a collection of all the bees, beetles, butterflies, woods, minerals, and chemical products of the district, the other a ghetto of hives, one hundred and fifty in number, containing a population of several millions of bees, the whole packed into a tiny back garden less than an eighth of an acre in extent. His father and sister show these things with pardonable pride, but Sr. Sartoris no longer lives in Primero. Though not yet thirty years of age, he has been appointed director of a government apiary at Milan, and is there developing his system with extraordinary success. And now we must say farewell to Primero and all its notabilities, we must say farewell and be going again, for there are yet many places to be seen and many miles to be traversed, and the pleasantest tours and the brightest summers cannot last forever. So away we ride again one bright early morning, overwhelmed with good wishes and kind offices, appointed by Sr. Bonetti with a parting testimonial in the form of a big cake, so big that it can hardly be got into the basket. Our way lies by the new military road as far as it is yet completed, and along the Valle Sismone, that great valley which descends from the northwest, running parallel with the Valle Privatale, and divided from it by the range that ends with the Sime Simetta, following almost the same course at first as the old road and crossing the stream near Sirore, where may yet be seen the entrance to the ancient silver mine, the new strata then strikes up in a series of bold zig-zags and is carried at a great height along the precipitous slopes bordering the west bank of the torrent. Up here all is silent, all is solitary.  These are all the living things we meet for hours. But the great mountains on the opposite side of the valley keep us solemn company during many a mile. A wonderful chain of dolomite peaks, less incredible an outline perhaps than those of the Valde Canale, but rising to a more uniformly lofty elevation. One by one we pass them in review. First comes the Sime Simetta, called by Mr. Gilbert the procession mountain. But to my thinking more like some strange petrified sea-monster bristling all over with gigantic feelers. Next come the mighty leading towers of the Sasse-Mayor, then the Sime Simetta, so called from the Simetta Woods below, the Simetta Privatale, and the Simetta Debal, three names as yet not entered in the maps. Lastly the vast perpendicular wall of the Palady San Martino, which rises grander and steeper with every foot of the road, and seems to fill the scene. At length, however, we turn away from this great panorama, through a pine-wood and across a green undulating alp, all ablaze with gorgeous golden lilies, and so arrive at the tiny church and rambling hospice of San Martino. Arriving here after four hours of easy riding, we pause to take half an hour's rest before attacking the Coston Zella Pass. It is a large, dirty, ruinous place, once a monastery, then a feudal residence, now an inn and farmhouse combined. It was built somewhere about the middle of the eleventh century, while Edward the Confessor was yet reigning here in England, and when the bishops of Trent were lords of Primero. It was these spiritual rulers who erected the church, the monastery and the hospice, and dedicated them to San Martino. Having ordered coffee, we are shown up into a big upper room at the end of a wilderness of passages. It has been a grand room once upon a time, perhaps the priors own snuggery, perhaps a guest chamber for travelers of distinction. The walls and ceilings are all oak, paneled in sunken squares ornamented with bosses and richly carved. A carved shield charged with the Velsberg arms in faded gold and colors commemorate the time when the building had ceased to be a monastery and become a baronial residence. Old family portraits of dead and gone Velsbergs hang all awry upon the walls and stand piled in corners, draped in cobwebs and loaded with the dust of years. Friars in flowing wigs, prelates in lace, doubty commanders in shining curesses. A certain Princess Canonicus in a religious dress, with long white hands that Van Dyke might almost have painted, must have been pretty in her day if the old limner did not flatter her. These bygone lords and ladies, together with a curious old porcelain stove in blue and white delft, two squalid beds, a deal table, and four straw-bottomed chairs are all the furniture the room contains. It ought to be a haunted chamber, and is the very place in which to lay the scene of a ghost story. The whole house, indeed, has a fine, murderous look about it, and is a solitary, forlorn, and medieval a place as any sensation novelist could desire for a mise en scene. The good road ends at San Martino, that is to say it extends in an unfinished, impassable state for another two or three miles. But we strike straight up the coal by a wild glen and over a grassy slope thick with crimson out-roses, till all at once we find ourselves on the summit of the pass, standing just below the base of the Simnandela Pala. The air up here is cold and rare. The pass rises to a height of 6,657 feet. The stupendous Dolomite wall over our heads towers up to 11,000 feet, of which more than 3,000 feet are sheer, overhanging precipice.  Terrific vertical fissures, which look as if ready to gait and fall apart at any moment, give a frightful appearance of insecurity to the whole mass. Not the Matterhorn itself for all his cruel look and tragic story impresses one with such a sense of danger and a feeling of one's own smallness and helplessness as the Simnandela Pala. Looking back from this elevation in the direction of Primero, we get a wonderful view of the Pala de San Martino, the Sasse Mayor, and the summits of the Val de Canale. Beyond these the Pavillon and the Vetti di Feltra, and beyond these again a vast troubled sea of pale blue and violet peaks, some of which encompass the Lake of Garda, and some watch over the towers of Verona. And now the clouds, which for the last hour or two have been gathering at our heels, begin driving up the pass and scutting across the face of the Great Dolomite. Soon all the lower summits are obscured, the vapors roll up in an angry masses and the huge peaks now vanish, now look out fitfully in gloom and storm cloud. Passing an unfinished building, presumably a new hospice, on the top of the pass, we emerge upon the Costonzela Alp. Here an entirely new panorama is unfolded before our eyes. The Great Prairie undulates away to a vast distance underfoot. To the north opens another sea of peaks terminating with the summits beyond Innsbruck. To the east lie wooded hills and rich pastridges. To the west a steep descent of apparently interminable pine forests bounded by a new range of dark, low, purple peaks streaked here and there with snow. The loftiest and nearest of these is the Monte Calbicone. It needs no geological knowledge to see at once that these new mountains are not Dolomite, or that we are in fact entering upon the first outlying forferies of Predasso. The path now turns abruptly to the left and plunges down through the steep pine forest. Somewhere among those green abysses, half way between here and Predasso, lies the hospice of Penovegio, where we are to dine and take our midday rest. On the verge of the dip we dismount, promising ourselves to walk so far and leaving the men and mules to follow. It is a grand forest. The primeval pines up here are of gigantic size, rising from eighty to over a hundred feet, enormous in girth and garlanded with hoary gray green moss the growth of centuries. Except only on the pines close under the summit of the Vengren Alps on the Grindelwald side, I have never seen any so ancient and so majestic. As we descend they become smaller, and after the first five or six hundred feet dwindle to the average size. A fairly good path, cool and shady, carried down for a distance of more than fifteen hundred feet in a series of bold zig-zags, and commanding here and there grand sweeping views of forest slope and valley brings us at the end of two hours rapid walking to an open space of green pasture, in the midst of which are clustered a we-church, a pretty white hostelry, and a group of picturesque farm buildings. Steep hillsides and pine woods enclose this little nest on every side. There is a pleasant sound of running water and a tinkling of cowbells on the air. The haymakers on the grassy slope behind the house are singing at their work, singing what sounds like an old German chorale in four parts. It is a delicious place so peaceful, so pastoral, so clean that we are almost tempted to change our plans and stay here altogether till tomorrow. By and by, however, when the two hours have expired and the mules are brought round, we go on again though regretfully. At this point we enter the Val Travignolo, here only a deep torrent gorge between steep woods, but broadening out by and by into cornfields and pasture meadows rich in all kinds of wild lilies, orange and silver white, and pinky turkscaps speckled with dull crimson. Thus always descending and overtaken every now and then by light showers, followed by bursts of fleeting sunshine, we arrive at the end of nearly three more hours inside of Predazzo, a widely scattered village in a green basin at the end of the valley. It looks like a prosperous place. The houses are large and substantial with jutting Tyrolian eaves. Two church spires rise high above the clustered roofs. Farm buildings and swiss-looking brown chalets are scattered over the green slopes that circle round the town, and as we draw nearer we find ourselves traversing an extensive suburb of sawmills and timber yards, which here skirt both banks of the torrent. And now following at the tail of a long procession of grave cream-colored cows, all shod like horses with iron shoes, and carrying enormous bells about their necks, we make our entry into the town. The children run out into the road and shout at our approach. The elder folks come to their house-doors and stare in silence. The Austrian gendarme at the door of the guard-house lifts two fingers to the side of his cap in military fashion as we pass. Then emerging upon an open space of scattered houses surrounding the two churches, we find ourselves at the door of a large, old-fashioned, many-windowed inn, the very counterpart of the ancient stern at Innsbruck, over the arched entrance to which swings a gilded ship, the sign of the Nave d'Orro. End of Section 26 Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys Section 27 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys, amid summer ramble through the Dolomites, by Amelia B. Edwards. Chapter 11 The Fossathal and the Fadahah Pass Part 1 The most unscientific observer sees at first glance that the lakes of Albano and Nimi occupy the craters of extinct volcanoes. The craters are there, cup-like, distinct, and tell their own story. You must climb a mountainside to get to the level of them. You stand on the rim of one. You look down into it. You may walk all round it or descend to the water level at the bottom. Nothing can be clearer or more satisfactory. But it is startling to be told that Predazzo occupies just such an extinct crater and that the mountains which hem it in on all sides, the Montemulat, the Montevacina, the Visehorn, and others, consist of igneous rock thrown up lava-like from that ancient center at some incalculably remote period of geologic history. For here is neither cone nor mountain nor amphitheater of convergent slopes. Nothing, in short, in the appearance of either the alluvial flat or the surrounding heights, which may at all correspond to one's preconceived ideas of volcanic scenery. Yet here, as we are told by Richthofen and others, there must once have been a great eruptive center, breaking out again and again and each time throwing up a different kind of rock. The first cyanite, then tourmaline granite, then urolyte porphyry, then mellifere, and then, last of all, porphyrite, and the unique cyanite porphyry famous for its crystals and unknown elsewhere. It is this great variety in the material of the Predazzo rocks and the immense, mineralogical wealth consequent upon this variety that has, for more than a century, attracted hither so many men of science from all parts of Europe. The town, now quiet enough, except as regards its commercial activity, is said to occupy the center of the ancient crater. It stands, at all events, midway between Cavalese and Moina, just at the junction of the Flem, or Flem's valley, with the Val Trifignolo. It is a very prosperous place. The people, though an Italian-speaking race, are wholly Austrian in their sympathies, and are supposed to come chiefly of a Teutonic stock. They are particularly intelligent, industrious, and energetic. They have a fertile valley, which they know how to cultivate, and mountains rich in mineral products which they are rapidly and successfully developing. As iron masters, as hay merchants, as wood contractors, they carry on an extensive northern trade, and travel annually for purposes of commerce in Germany, Hungary, Transylvania, and Switzerland. Large iron foundries and long lines of busy sawmills give an unwanted air of activity to the place. New works, new yards, new and substantial dwelling-houses are rapidly springing up in every direction. A new Gothic church with a smart roof of gaily colored tiles, red, green, and yellow, has lately been erected on the south side of the village, and there become the center of an increasing suburb. The schools are said to be excellent, and a well-informed priest, from whom I learned most of the foregoing particulars, said the children were full of spirit and intelligence. He also told me that there were now no noble families in Predazzo, but only a wealthy territorial and commercial middle class. He estimated the gross population of the commune at something over three thousand souls. Prosperity and picturesqueness, however, are not want to travel hand in hand, and it must be admitted that these foundries and timber yards by no means add to the pastoral beauty of the valley. They spoil it for the artist, just as the mills and factories of the last twenty years have spoiled the once-romantic valley of Glaris in Switzerland. Still, down among the wooden houses in the old part of the village, where the women wash their vegetables and fill their pictures at the stone fountain in the middle of the street, some quaint, prowse-like subjects may yet be found. The old church, with its characteristic Tyrolese bell-free and steep gable roof, is charmingly medieval, and the view from the meadows at the back of the nave d'orro, bringing in the two churches and looking straight up at the Val Trevignolo, to where the Simeon della Palla and the Simea della Versaza tower up against the distant horizon, seemed to me quite worth a careful sketch. While I was making the sketch, sitting in the shade of a little shrine among the field paths, two Austrian soldiers came by and stayed to look on. They were simple, friendly fellows, natives of Trient, and quartered, they said, with three others of their regiment in Predazzo. Not knowing that they acted in the double capacity of local police and military patrol, I asked what they could find to do in so peaceful a place. Ne, Signora, said the one who talked most, we have the work of ten men upon our hands. Night and day alike we patrol the woods, roads, and passes for twelve miles in every direction. Our rounds are long and fatiguing. Our intervals of rest very brief. We get but one day's rest in every seven and one night in every four or five. I afterwards learned that there were five other soldiers quartered at Cavalese, as many more at Moina, and so on throughout every petty commune, and that, according to the general impression, the men were greatly overworked. The Nave de Oro, without disparagement of the ends at either Capriol or Primero, was undoubtedly the best albergue we came upon during the whole tour. The house is large, clean, and well furnished, the food excellent, and the accommodation in every way of a superior character. The landlord, Francesco Giacomelli, by name, is a sedate, well informed man, a fair mineralogist, and proud to tell of the illustrious savants who have, from time to time, put up at his house and explored the neighborhood under his guidance. He keeps collections of local minerals for sale, among which the orthoclase crystals struck us as being extraordinarily large and beautiful. Lying among these crystals in one of Sr. Giacomelli's specimen cases, the writer observed a small, panangular bronze bracelet of Etruscan pattern and very delicate workmanship, coated with the fine green rust of antiquity, and learned on inquiry that it had been discovered with other similar objects in the cutting of a new road near the neighboring village of Ziano. The find consisted of a sword, a torque, some fibulae, a number of bronze pins, and several bracelets, all of which, with this one exception, were immediately purchased by a Viennese gentleman who chanced to be staying in Predazzo at the time. It is singular that no vases seem to have been found, and no masonry to indicate that the roadmakers had broken into a tomb. It seemed rather as if some warrior had been hastily laid in earth just as he fell. On the other hand, however, this little bracelet, which being accidentally mislaid, had escaped the Viennese collector, and so came to be bought for a few francs by myself, was evidently a female ornament. It is interesting to know that like traces of the northward migration of the Etruscan races, when driven by the Gauls from their settlements on the Po, have been found at Matri, Sonnenberg, and other places of South Tyrol, one notable instance being the discovery of an inscribed bronze bucket near the mouth of the Val de Sembra, which is in fact a westered promulgation of the Fiume Valley in 1828. I myself saw, in the little museum of Sr. Sartorius at Primero, a small, arabolo-shaped vase of yellow clay with red ornamentation and which they told me had been found by himself in a field not far from the town. Of the remarkable sepulchre discoveries made at St. Ulrich in the Grodnerthal, A.D. 1848, and of hair perjures interesting Etruscan objects found in those graves, I shall have to tell farther on. The Nave d'Oro at Predazzo is a curious old house, and has belonged to the Giacomelli family for many centuries. The Giacomellis, as I have said elsewhere, were once noble, and their armorial bearings still decorate many of the old carved doorways, ceilings, and chimney pieces of their ancestral home. But that was long ago, and they have been in keepers now for more than a century. Their visitor's book is quite a venerable volume, and contains, among the usual irrelevant rubbish of such collections, the handwriting of Humboldt, Fuchs, Richthofen, Sir Roderick Murchison, the Eile de Beaumonts, and other European celebrities. But some nefarious autograph hunter has abstracted one of the greatest treasures the book contained, the signature of the discoverer of the Georgium Cetus. Here, too, being one of the latest entries, a certain Dr. Reinhardt of Munich had exercised his latinity in the following pithy sentence. Viator, Cavei tabernum Bernhardt in Campidello. This ominous caution, so much the more impressive for being so vague, had the effect of deciding us against putting up for a night, or even for a midday rest at the albergio in question. How many travelers since then, I wonder, have, like us, accepted the good doctor's salutary warning? And what would have happened to us if we had neglected it? The Val Fiamme, or Flam's Thal, about the middle of which Predazzo is situated, is but one portion of an immensely long, tortuous valley, called in part the Val Fasa, in part the Val Fiamme, in part the Val Sembra, which begins with the source of the Aviso in that depression between the Marmalata and the Monte Padone, which is known as the Fadaha Pass, and ends where the torrent debouches into the Isek at Lavis, seven miles north of Trient. The collective name for this chain of valleys is the Val d'Avisio, and, except at quite the upper end of the Fasa division, it is the least picturesque of any that come within the compass of our journey. Leaving Predazzo after one day of rest for however attractive to geologists and mineralogists, it has no excursions to repay the unscientific visitor. We next pursued our course up the valley, proposing to put up for a couple of nights at Vigo in the Fasa Thal, and thence to explore the Cirque of the Rosengarden, and ascend the Sasa Dea Mujoni. It is a dull day when we start having a somewhat dull journey before us. Our way lies at first between a double range of low hills partly clothed with pine forest, and partly with scrub. These hills, which are of the dark, igneous rock thrown up from the Predazzo crater, hide the loftier peaks and are not picturesque at all. By and by comes a long straight road terminated miles away by the village of Moina. Going along this road a few unmistakably Dolomitic summits begin to peer up here and there above the barren hills to the left, and straight ahead, far beyond Moina, rises the Monte Boi, looking like an immense fort on a grand pedestal of rock, its battlements lost in the clouds. This Monte Boi, the southernmost bastion of the huge Sela Massive, is also known as the Monte Pordoi. It has been ascended by Dr. Groen, who calculates its height at 10,341 feet. Passing through Moina, a large, straggling, wood-cutting village, and crossing a couple of bridges, we leave the high road and strike up a steep mule path on the opposite bank of the torrent. It is the same valley and the same water, but here above Moina it is called the Facetal. Looking back from this higher ground, we get a fine view over the Monte Latimer, 8,983 feet, and its far-reaching fur forests, while the wild peaks of the Rosengarten and Langkofl come into sight above the lower slopes of the Costa Lunga. End of Section 27 Untrodden Peaks and Unfinquited Valley, Section 28 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Untrodden Peaks and Unfinquited Valleys amid summer ramble through the Dolomites by Amelia B. Edwards. Chapter 11 The Facetal and the Fadahah Pass, Part 2 And now, in rich contrast to the Pallidolomites soaring high in the distance, the famous porphyry of the Facetal begins to break out in crimson patches among the lower hills and to appear in the cliff-walls that border the Avicio far below. Yonder where the stream takes a sudden bend, two isolated porphyry pillars jut out on either side, forming a natural portal through which the narrowed waters push impetuously. A little farther still, and a whole mountain side of the precious marble, quarried terrace above terrace, and apparently of inexhaustible richness, is laid bare to view. Now we recross the stream and pass through the village of Soraga. Here everything except the grass and the trees is crimson. The plowed fields are crimson, the mud underfoot is crimson, the little torrent hurrying down the ravine by the roadside is crimson, the very puddles are crimson also. Even the roads are mended with porphyry, and great blocks of it lie piled by the wayside waiting for the hammer of the stonebreaker. The sky which has all day been murky now seems to be coming down lower and lower, like a heavy gray curtain. The air grows chill. A cold, leadened tint spreads over the landscape, and the long dull road seems to grow longer and duller the farther we follow it. At length we come inside of Vigo, a village clustered high upon a hillside to the left, backed by lofty slopes of fur forest, down which the gathering mists are creeping fast. A steep path leads up to the village, once looking over to the northeast where the horizon is still clear, we catch a momentary, end-wise glimpse of the Marmalata.  Here we are received by the landlord's daughter, a fat, bouncing, rosy-cheeked damsel of inexhaustible activity and good humor, who does her best to make us welcome. The inn, however, proves to be quite full, with the exception of one big, treble-bedded room with windows looking to east and north, and a ceiling about seven feet from the floor. And we are fortunate to secure even this, for before we have been half an hour in possession of it, there arrives a party of Germans, hungry, noisy mountaineers, regularly got up for work with ropes, ice hatchets, and hobnail boots, for whom beds have to be made out on the landing. A chill, drizzly evening, a supper irregularly served, and boisterous neighbors in the adjoining rooms caused us, perhaps unjustly, to take a dislike to Vigo. The house, too, was full of foul smells, and a manure heap in the cow-yard under one of our windows did not help to improve the atmosphere. So when morning came, bringing a sea of white mist, that extinguished all the mountaintops, we decided to start for home as quickly as possible. In vain the fat maiden represented that today it would surely rain, and that if we only delayed till tomorrow we should be certain of magnificent views and splendid weather. In vain she exhausted her eloquence to prove the absurdity of our attacking the Fadaha past in mist and rain. We did not believe that it was going to be wet. We knew we could take the Fadaha again from Caprile any day we chose, and we were determined to go home. So by half past six a.m. behold us on the road again, delighted to get away from Vigo, and hoping for a tolerable day. It is a sweet, fresh morning. The vapours are rolling and rising, the clouds parting, and gray gleams of sunshine gliding now and then across the hillsides. But the mountaintops continue to be veiled in masses of soft white haze, and only thrust a tusk out here and there. Confident, however, a fine weather we laugh the fat maiden to scorn and ride on our way exulting. The valley now grows in beauty at every turn. At Mazin we come upon a picturesque hamlet with the background of ravine and waterfall, and approaching Campadelo look out anxiously for the strange dolomite pinks that overhang the village. The mist is thick, but there they are gleaming gray and ghostlike. Here, too, is the little albergot against which we have been warned by Dr. Reinhardt of Munich. It looks rather pretty, but the sight of two extremely dirty and ill-favored dwarves, a man and a woman, who come out upon the balcony to stare at the travelers, quite confirms us in the satisfaction with which we ride past the house. A little higher up the valley we reach the villages of Greece and Canizee, and stopping only for a few minutes at Canizee to feed and water the mules, push on rapidly for the Fadaha. Still the scenery continues to increase in beauty. On the hillsides are corn slopes, woods, and pastures. In the valley a rushing stream babbles among the tamarisk trees and pines. Soon a fine pyramidal mountain, black and precipitous on the one side, sheeted with snow on the other, comes into sight at the head of an opening valley to the right. We take it at first for the marmalata, but it proves to be the Montevernale, a less lofty but far more difficult mountain, still unascended, and calculated at 9,845 feet in height. Now the path turns off to the left, threading the two miserable hamlets of Alba and Peña, and rising rapidly through a grand rocky gorge, which gets finer and more savage the higher it climbs. Steep precipices shuddered out on the one hand and barren slopes battlemented with jagged rocks upon the other. The Avicio hear a mere thread of torrent foams from rock to rock in innumerable tiny cascades. Widespreading furs and larches make a green roof overhead, and the path is carpeted with fragrant spines, upon which the mules tread noiselessly. Presently we come in sight of a fine waterfall that, issuing from a fissure in the face of the great cliff to the right, descends in two bold leaps and vanishes amid the depths of the fir forest below. The gorge now closes in nearer and steeper, our upward path being indicated by the giddy windings of a little handrail, which scales the face of a huge rock straight ahead. It is here too steep and slippery for riding, so we dismount and walk. Alas! the fat maiden was right, after all. The mist which has been lightly drifting in our faces for the last half hour now sets in with a will, and becomes a steady poor. Drenched in silent we toil up the stony path and wish ourselves back at Vigo. An hour hence, says Clementi, we shall come to some chalets and cattle sheds, but there is no hospice to look forward to here as on many other passes. By and by, however, where the climb attains its worst pitch of steepness and slipperiness, we pass a secession of little carved and colored stazione, nailed at short intervals against the rock for the benefit of such pious souls as may care to say a few avais, by the way, and these lead to a tiny chapel not much bigger than a sentry-box, into which we are thankful to creep for temporary shelter. A wretched crucifixion by some village artist, a few faded wildflowers in a broken mug, and a multitude of votive hearts, arms, legs, eyes, and so forth, in tinsel and colored wax, decorate the little altar. While securely embedded in niche in the wall, chained, padlocked, and iron-bound, there stands a small coffer with a slit in the lid for the reception of stray sulley. Here glad of even a few minutes respite from the pitiless deluge without, we wring the rain from our dripping garments and divide with the men what we have left of bread and wine, not forgetting the wet and melancholy mules who receive a lump of bread apiece and are comforted by L with bits of sugar. It is still pouring when we go on again, and it continues to pour steadily. For full another hour we keep on under these pleasant circumstances, always on foot, and then quite suddenly find ourselves close under the western end of the Marmalata. Invisible till this moment it now looms out all at once in startling proximity. A great blue wrinkled glacier reaching down out of the mist like a terrible hand grasps the gray rock overhead while beyond and above it a vast field of stainless snow slopes up into the clouds without sign of end or limit. Turning from this grand spectacle to the rocky shelf we have just reached we find ourselves in a garden of wild flowers. There were none in the gorge below, none by the pathside coming up, but here they are beautiful and abundant, as if fair Irene had lately passed this way, the flowers following in her track, as she had sowed them with her odorous foot. Wetter than wet through one can hardly be, so we dispatch Clementi up the rock to fetch some bunches of the rare white velvety edelweiss, while we quickly gather such lower plants as grow within easy reach. Thus in the pelting rain we secure some specimens of the aureobus luteans, dryus octopotella, primula farinosa, penguicula grandifora, synancium vensitoxicum, orchis nigra, and et cetera, and et cetera, besides several varieties of cyclamen, gentians, and ferns. Again a little higher and we reach the summit of the pass, a lonely upper world of rich shward, bounded on the left by the splintered peaks of Montipedon, and on the right by the lower slopes of the Marmalata, which rises directly from the grassy level on which we stand. This is the Piana Fadaha, or Fadaha Alp. A dozen or so of rough wooden chalets are here clustered together, mere cattle refuges and haysheds, one of which, being a trifle more airtight than the rest, is decorated with a colored Christus over the doorway, and serves as a sleeping place for travelers who are about to make the ascent of the mountain. The rain now abates somewhat of its violence, and the way being once more level, riding again becomes practicable. Thus we go on, a second and a third great glacier creeping into sight as the first is left behind. These each show a brown margin of moraine, the last glacier being of immense extent, as large apparently as the lower glacier of Grindelwald. While we are yet looking at them, however, a tall, strange, ghost-like mist stalks swiftly across the snow and veils all but the brown rocks abutting on the pass. In a moment the great mountain has melted away, and we see it no more. The Fidaha Alp is just the width of the Marmalata, and no more. It begins with the western and ends with the eastern extremity of the mountain. Here, at the foot of the huge, dark rock known as the Pizceranta, lies an exquisite little dark green tarn, surrounded by a slopes of crimson alp roses. The rain having now ceased for a moment, its waters, ruffled only by the flight of a small brown moraine, are as placid as a sheet of green glass. Another yard or two of rocky path, and we come to an upright, mossy stone bearing an illegible inscription. This is the ancient boundary stone between Italy and Austria, one of the few divisions left unchanged at the last readjustment of the frontier line. Half of the Marmalata belongs to the house of Hapsburg, and half to the kingdom of Italy. The line of demarcation is ingeniously carried along the topmost ridge of Ice Glacier, so that, unless by members of the different European alpine clubs, it is not very likely to become a disputed territory. From this point all is descent. Our way lies along a vast green slope, following the course of the Candieri torrent, but running for a long distance upon the brink of a ruinous gully partly choked with yet unmelted snow. For the path on the Candieri side has been lately swept away by a torrent of snow and water from the Marmalata, and the whole mountain slope is here one mass of soft red mud, more slippery than ice, full of pits and fissures, and very difficult. Lower down still the track lies through the rich, park-like pastures deep in wildflowers, so bringing us at last to the upper end of the Sattoguda Gorge. No sooner have we entered the defile than the clouds clear off as if by magic. The sun then bursts out in splendor, lighting up the rocks first on one side and then on the other, according as the ravine winds its narrow way. Our wet garments steam as if hung before a blazing fire. The men take off their coats and carry them on their alpine stalks to dry. The mules prick their ears and rub their noses together as if whispering to each other that there is a scent of home upon the air, and that the old familiar stable cannot surely be far distant. Nor is it, for already we have emerged into the Val Petorina. These green slopes to the left are the slopes of Monte Mignon. Those fur woods to the right are the woods of Monte Pesa. Presently come the dilapidated hamlets of Sattoguda and Sorara, then Roca on its hillside, then the familiar path down by the torrent side and across the wooden bridge, then at last Capriol, where a warm welcome awaits us, a heap of English letters, and a rest. CHAPTER XII. THE SASO BIANCO, PART I. An ill-favored thing, sir, says Touchstone, the article in question being a lady, but mine own. Now I will not say that the Saso Bianco is an ill-favored mountain, heaven forbid, nor that it is an unimportant mountain, nor even that it is a small mountain. I will not deprecate it at the beginning in order to rehabilitate it by a coup de théâtre in the end.  At the same time I am anxious not to exaggerate its peculiar qualifications and virtues, for it is with mountaintops as with other play things. Having sought to achieve them in the first instance because we value them, we go on valuing them because we have achieved them. We may even admit their ill-favoredness as Touchstone admits the ill-favoredness of Audrey, but we are apt at the same time to overestimate them in secret, simply because they are our own. I premise therefore that I am not blindly in love with the Saso Bianco and that the following portrait is not flattered. I cannot better describe the Saso Bianco then by adopting the words of Clementi. It is not a mountain of the first class, but it is high for a mountain of the second class. It is, for instance, two thousand feet, if not twenty-two hundred feet, higher than the Regi, and about two hundred and forty feet higher than the Nisen. Its summit stands about two hundred feet higher above the lake of Alleghi than the summit of Montegenerosa above the lake of Lugano. It rises considerably above the treeline and falls just short of the snow level. That is to say, we found one unmelted snowdrift about one hundred feet below the summit, and there may have been others which we did not see lurking in inaccessible fissures and crevices. The snow was firm and pure, but the quantity insignificant. As regards position, I know of no minor Swiss mountain to which I can accurately compare the Saso Bianco. The Regi is a mere outlying sentinel, and the view it commands is too distant to be very striking. The same may be said of Montegenerosa, despite its unparalleled panoramic range. The Egishorn view is all on one side. The Gornegrat, unrivaled as a near view over snow and ice, is too circumscribed. But the Saso Bianco stands in the very center of the Dolomites, like the middle ball upon a solitaire board, surrounded on all sides by the giants of the district. If one could imagine a fine, detached mountain, clear on all sides, occupying, say, the position of the village of Luc in the valley of the Rhône, and high enough to command the whole circuit of the Oberland, Montegenerosa, and Montblanc Rages, that mountain would fairly represent the kind of position which the Saso Bianco holds in reference to the scenery by which it is encompassed. I am not acquainted with the view from the Bellatola in the valley of the Rhône, but judging from its situation on the map, it seems just possible that it may supply exactly the parallel of which I am in search. The mass of Montepezza is of considerable extent, counting from the points locally known as Montialto on the west and Monteforca on the east, and from the Val Petorina on the north to the valley of the Buas on the south. It must cover a space of nearly three and a half miles in length by two and a half in breadth. These, of course, are only rough measurements derived partly from personal observation, and partly based upon the Austrian Ordinance map. In superficial extent as well as in height, the Saso Bianco, or more properly the Montepezza, much exceeds the Montemignon, the Montefrizzolet, and Montefranazza. Of the geology of the mountain I am not competent to form an opinion, but according to Ball's geological map, it is composed in part of Porfiri and in part of Triassic. The light-colored cliffs of the summit facing north, being the part especially designated as the Saso Bianco, are probably Dolomite. Both in color and in texture the rock appears at all events to be of one piece with that of which the great Premiero and Empezzo peaks are composed. Of course we decided upon making the descent almost as soon as we found ourselves back at Caprile. The way up, though long, seemed to be sufficiently easy. There were many paths and char tracks leading from the valley of Alleghi to the farmlands and hamlets scattered along the eastern side of the mountain. But Clementi recommended a path starting from the Val Petarina, along which we must ride, he said, as far as the highest pastures, and to within about an hour of the summit. As regarded time he calculated that from four to five hours, including the last hour on foot, would take us from Caprile to the summit. All this sounded pleasant enough, so it was arranged that Giuseppe should watch the weather and rouse the household at three a.m. whenever a favorable morning should offer. At length on the morning of the fourth day after our return, the weather being apparently favorable, Giuseppe gave the signal a little before dawn and by five a.m. we were upon our way. A more lovely morning we have never yet had. The grass, the wildflowers, the trees, all are drenched with dew and sparkling in the sun. The birds seem wild with the light and are singing like mad upon the wet green leaves. Crossing the wooden bridge and taking the familiar road up the little Val Petarina, as if going to Sotoguda, we hear the bells of Roca ringing high up in the still air, and pass group after group of peasants in their holiday clothes making for the hill. For it is a festa this bright morning, and the annual sagro is held at Roca today.  All wish us good morning, and none fail to ask where we are going. Turning away presently from the beaten path, we then strike down to the water's edge, the mules picking their way along the loose stones bordering the bed of the Petarina torrent. Skirting thus the base of the hill on which Roca is built, we cross a higher bridge and plunge at once into the shade of the firwoods at the northward base of Montipesa. The path, which is steep and stony, then winds round to the east, and brings us out upon a space of cultivated farmlands just overhanging the Cordeval. Here dark firwoods slope in shade down to the valley below, and higher firwoods climb the mountain side above, while between both a belt of green corn fields lighted here and there by fiery sparks of scarlet poppies ripples in the breeze and the sunshine. Peeping up yonder just beyond the brink of the woods rises the spire of Capriol, while further still a faint ghost of white vapor soars lazily up from the direction of a leggy.  Such indeed is the idyllic beauty of the whole scene that even El, who, with a cupable indifference to glory which it grieves me to record, was more than half inclined to stay at home, is moved to admiration, and admits that, were it to see no more than this, she is glad to have come. Meanwhile we follow a series of narrow footways winding among fields of young wheat, barley, flax, and hemp. Dark Nestle, a confirmed kleptomaniac, grabs huge mouthfuls right and left, and leaves a trail of devastation behind him. Fair Nestle, on the contrary, looks and longs, but obeying the light hand on his bridle, abstains regretfully. Presently we leave the fields behind and mount again into the shade of the forest. Here and there where the path is very steep, we dismount and walk. Still higher we emerge upon a zone of rich grassland full of busy haymakers, and learn that all this part belongs to Senora Pezzi. Twenty-four such pastures are yet hers, but half the mountainside belong to the family in the old times passed away. From this point, and for a long way up, the pasture land is like a lovely park, rich in grass and interspersed with clumps of furs and larches. As the path rises, however, the trees diminish and the wild flowers become more abundant. Soon we are in the midst of a hanging garden, thick with white and yellow violets, forget me knots, great orange and turkscap lilies, wild sweet peas, wild sweet William, and purple canterbury bells.  They call it capelli didio, or God's hair. The forget me knot is here called Fior di Santaluccia, or St. Lucie's flower, and the white clover, known only as a wild flower in South Tyrol, is the Fior di San Giovanni, or flower of St. John. Looking back now towards Monte Mignon, I see that we have long ago overtopped the Sassody Ranch, which from here looks no bigger than a milestone, and that we are already higher than the highest ridge of Monte Frisale. Meanwhile, however, the morning dews keep rising in white, vaporous masses from the depths of the valley below, threatening before long to intercept the view. If they should rise to our own level when once we are at the top, as they seem only too likely to do, it is plain that our chances of a panoramic view are lost beyond redemption. And now the wild flower zone is left below, and the path, which here circles round a vast amphitheater in the mountainside, gets very steep, and strikes up towards the last passages. Steep as it is, however, and hewn in places out of the slippery rock, the farmers have for centuries contrived to drag their rough carotene up and down when the highest hay is gathered. The rock is even worn into deep ruts, just as the pavement of the via triumphalus is channeled by Roman chariot wheels, where it climbs the steep verge of Montecavo. Here the mules scramble on first, and reaching the green levels above, set off on their own accord. In vain, Clementi runs and shouts after them. They trot resolutely on till, reaching a little hollow among bushes and deep grass, they bury their noses in a cool rill which they had scented from afar off. Clementi, coming up red and breathless, wrenches their heads out of the water, and overwhelms them with reproaches. Holy mother, what do they mean by not minding when they are spoken to? Holy mother, what do they mean by drinking cold water when they are as hot as two hotcakes in an oven?  Eh, long years, are they deaf? Ah, monsters of mules, do they not understand Italian? It is a long, grassy, trough-shaped plateau, with a few gnarled, bloodless old pines scattered about, and two or three tumbled down chalets. Here the char-track ends, but we take the mules on a good way farther still, up a steep pitch at the far end of the pasture-alp, and out at last upon a broad ridge terminated towards the northeast by a long slope and an upright wall of rock, like a line of fortification. To right and left, this ridge dips away into unfathomable chasms of Misty Valley, to the southwest it runs down to join the great woods which clothe all the western mass of Montepezza. There is nothing, in short, above the point which we have now reached save the slope leading to the summit. But where is the summit? Seeing us look eagerly towards the rock wall above, Clementi laughs and shakes his head. Ah, no, senoras, he says, non-ancora. We must leave the mules here, but from this point we have an hour's walking before us. The SEMA is yonder, seven or eight hundred feet higher. It proves, however, to be over a thousand. The mists, alas, are now swirling up on this side with frightful rapidity. The Val Petorina and all the Sattogutta side are hidden by the slope above, but the Val d'Aleghi and the Civita and all the peaks lying to the southwest of our position are now only visible in snatches as the vapors drift in part. The Val Bois, looking over towards Senzanighi and the SEMA de Pap is like a huge cauldron sending up volumes of swift steam. To go on at present is obviously useless, so we make armchairs of the saddles and rest a while upon the grass, while the mules graze and the men who have had more than four hours climbing light their cigars and lie down in the shade of a big boulder. Up here we are already above the tree level, glowing alp roses and dark blue gentians abound, but the grass all about grows thin and hungrily. According to the aneroid, and without allowing anything for corrections, we have already left Capriol more than thirty-five hundred feet below. That is to say we have attained an elevation two hundred feet higher than the Fadaha Pass, and between twenty and thirty feet higher than the Tresasipas, where it will be remembered we reached the snow level. Half an hour is consumed thus in calculating heights, examining maps, and watching the progress of the mists. Sometimes the sun breaks through, and then they part for a moment and drive off in rolling masses. Sometimes they rush up as if chased by the wind, sweeping all across the ridge, blinding us in white fog, and leaving clinging damp behind them. At length we decide to push on for the summit. Clementi, who knows this climate, thinks it may clear off at midday, and that we may as well be upon the spot to take advantage of any sudden change for the better. It is now ten-twenty a.m., and we have an hour's climbing before us. Meanwhile a little lad who has been picked up on the way is left in charge of the mules, with strict injunctions not to let them stray near the edge of the Tresasipas on either side. A duty which he fulfills by immediately lying down upon his face in the damp grass and falling sound asleep. CHAPTER XII. THE SASOBIANCO PART II. So we go on again, slowly but steadily, up the long slope and on to the foot of the rock wall aforesaid. Here are no steps ready-hewn. We have to get up as best we can, and the getting up is not easy. The little crevices and inequalities which serve as footholes are in places so far apart that it is like going up the steps of the Great Pyramid. And but for Giuseppe, who goes first in order to do duty as a kind of wandlass, the rider, for one, would certainly never have surmounted the barrier. This stiff little bit over we expect to see some sign of the summit, but on the contrary find ourselves, apparently, as far from it as ever. A second and a third slope still rise up ahead as barren and unpromising as the last. And now even the Alpros has disappeared, and not a bush of any kind breaks the monotony of the surface. But the Gentians make a blue carpet underfoot, and the Edelweiss, so rare elsewhere, so highly prized, flourishes in lavish luxuriance like a mere weed. Presently we pass an unmelted snowdrift in a hollow some little way below the summit. Then quite suddenly a whole army of distant peaks begins to start into sight, and so after six hours we all at once find ourselves upon the top. We might, of course, have had a better day, but it is some reward after long toil to find the view to north and west quite free from mist. The vapors are still boiling up in the south and southeast, but not, perhaps, quite so persistently as an hour ago. At all events they part from time to time, so that in the end, by dint of patient watching, we see all the near peaks in those quarters. It is now nearly half past eleven o'clock, and having eaten nothing since five we are all as hungry as people have a right to be at an altitude of between four and five thousand feet above the breakfast table. So before attempting to verify peaks or heights or relative distances of any kind, we call for the luncheon basket and turn with undiminished gusto to the familiar meal of hard-boiled eggs and bread. The water in the flask being flat, Clementi fletches up a great lump of snow, and this, melted in the sun and mixed with a little brandy, makes a delicious draft as cold as ice itself. In the midst of this frugal festivity, Giuseppe, with the keen eye of a chamois hunter, recognizes El's maid, whom he calls the senora Camarilla, on the Cordaval Bridge just outside the village. We see only a tiny black speck, no bigger than a pin's head, but Clementi goes so far as to depose Hoparasal. In a moment they are both up, tying a pocket handkerchief to a white umbrella, and lashing the umbrella upon an Alpenstock, which they erect for a signal, and the excitement caused by this does not subside till the black speck, after remaining stationary upon the bridge for about a quarter of an hour, creeps slowly away and is lost to sight in the direction of Capriol. Luncheon over we set to work with maps and field-glasses to identify all that is visible of the panorama. We are sitting now on the brink of the great yellowish cliffs that the rider sketched a little while back from below the Sasodi Ranch. All the hides and valleys on this side lie spread out before us, like the surface of a relief map. We look down upon the Montemignan and Montefrizele, both green to the top and scattered over with hamlets, farms, cultivated fields, and fur forest. Montemignan, estimated by Trinker at 7,838 feet, lies full 400 feet below and Montefrizele considerably lower still. The Val Petarina opens just under our feet, and one could almost drop a stone down into the little piazza of Roca, where the sagro is going on merrily. We can see the peasants moving to and fro between the church and a great white booth on the top of which a red flag is flying. Now and then, when the wind comes up this way, it brings faint echoes of the bells and the braying of a brass band. As for the holiday folks, they look exactly like a swarm of very small black insects, all in motion. Montefrenanza, farther to the right, appears to be considerably lower than Montemignan, but not so low as Montefrizele, except for a blackish ridge of igneous rock cropping out on the side of the pass of the Alleghi. This mountain is green and cultivated like the other two, and is apparently about 6,500 feet in height, so much for the minor mountains in our immediate neighborhood. Of the larger the two nearest, each being distant about two miles in a direct line, are the Marmalata and the Civita. The last fills all the southeastern division of the horizon. Large masses of vapor flit from time to time across the face of that vast fretted screen, but they flit and pass away, and it lifts its noble head continually into the clear blue depths of the upper sky. The Marmalata stands up in bold profile, undimmed by even a thread of vapor. Mr. Gilbert, seeing this mountain from the Sasso di Dom and getting it also in profile, though from the western end, compared it to a huge stationary case, its vertical side to the south, and its long snow slope to the north. But taken here from the east end, whence one more clearly sees the sharp depression, or cullior, that divides the peaks, it absurdly resembles the familiar cocked hat worn by the first Napoleon, the precipitous side being of course the front of the hat, and the snow slope corresponding to the back. A great stream of snow lies in the cleft of the cullior, and all the northward slope is outlined, as it seemed, in frosted silver. But the great glaciers and snow fields that lie to the Fedeja are from here invisible. The green threshold of the Fedeja Pass and the low jagged ridge of the Montepadon rise just north of the extreme eastern end of the Marmalata, which is bustressed on this side by the black precipices of Saranta. Montevernale, repeating from here as from Canazi its curious resemblance to the Marmalata, lurks close under the southward wall of its huge neighbor, being divided from it by only a little green slope considerably higher than the Fedeja Pass, which Clementi points out as the Forsella Contrine, 9,052 feet, and which is also known as the Forsella di Val Ombreta, and as the Passo di Val Freda. Still lower down towards the southwest lies the Sasso di Val Freda, still unascended, a little beyond it comes the Monte Rigobetta, locally known as the Monzone, 8,634 feet in height, and on the same parallel, but still farther west, Monte Latamar, on whose summit the vapors rest all day. Northwest of the Marmalata, about nine miles distant as the crow flies, rise the snow-streaked bastions of the Sela Massive, of which, however, only two great towers, the Boe and the Campolongo Spitz, are seen from this side. While in an opening between the Boe and the Marmalata rises a noble solitary rock, which proves to be the Long Cofo, 10,392 feet in height, and distant about thirteen English miles. A tiny glimpse of the Rosengarten is also seen in the gap above the Forsella di Contrini. Returning now to the point from which we started, and looking due north, straight over the top of Monte Miglion, the pinky snow-streaked line of the set Sasse, divided from Monte Lagosui by the Valparola Pass, comes into view. The Sasso di Stria, which looked so imposing from nearby, here shows as a small pyramidal rock of no importance. The crecelated crest of Montenuvalu dwindles to a tiny ridge on a long green slope. The Coretta track of the Tre Sasse Pass winds between both like a white thread, and Monte Tofana, as usual, silkly and cloud-capped, shows its pyramidal front only once, when the mists roll apart for a few moments. Following the parallel of the Tofana, we get misty glimpses of the Cristallino Peaks, of the Cristallo, of the Drazenin, Soripis, and the Crota Malcora. The Roschetta, and the fantastic ridge of the Bec de Mazzotti, divide them off like a fence, while straight away to the east, the Pelmo shows every now and then, quite clear from base to summit. Between the Pelmo and the Crota Malcora, part of the range of the Marmolo and the curved prow of the Lantaleo, peep out through window-like openings in the clouds. Finally, above and beyond all these, ranging from northwest to northeast, in the only direction where the horizon is permanently clear, we look over towards a sea of very distant peaks, reaching far away into the heart of northern Tyrol. To the northwest, a little above and to the left of the Setsas Ridge, we recognize, by help of the map, the highest summits of the Zitherthal Alps, the Fusstein near the Brenner Pass, eleven thousand four hundred fifty-one feet in height, the five peaks of the Hornspyzen, ranging from ten thousand thirty-hundred thirty-three feet to ten thousand eight hundred forty-two feet, and Hockfeeler, eleven thousand five hundred thirty-five feet. Due north, exactly above the Setsas, a long snow-range glowing in the midday sun identifies itself with the and solar salps beyond Brneck, the highest points of which are the Wildgall, ten thousand seven hundred eighty-five feet, the Schnee-Biegs-Knock, eleven thousand sixty-eight feet, and the Hockgall, still I believe, unascended, and rising to eleven thousand two hundred eighty-four feet. Beyond these again to the north-northwest, Clementi believes that he recognizes the Drayhorn Spites, eleven thousand four hundred ninety-two feet, and the Gross Vendiger, twelve thousand fifty-three feet, these last being full forty-five miles distant as the crow flies. Turning now from the northern half of the horizon, where all is so clear, it is doubly disappointing to face the mists which still keep pouring up from the south. Parting here and there at times as if rent suddenly by gusts of wind from the southwest, they show now the tremendous wall of the Cimandela Pala, now the Castelazo over against the Costelapas, and behind the Costelaza, the Cimadasti, now all the great Primero Peaks in detached glimpses, from the Pala de San Martino to the Sassodi Campo. The Pala de San Lucano, which rises dooth-south of our position, also gleams out now and then, as also does the volcanic cone of the Cima Department. What might be visible on this side under more favorable circumstances, it is, of course, impossible to say, but I am inclined to think that the southward view, including as it does the Primero group, would be finer than that for Montepaveon, which is some two hundred feet lower than the Sasso Bianco. As it is even with one half of the horizon continually obscured, we succeed in identifying over fifty great summits, including all the Dolomite giants. I should be afraid to conjecture how many peaks which could not be verified with certainty must have been in sight. It was at the time, and is still, a matter of regret to the rider not to have been able to make some kind of panoramic outline, however rough of the view from the summit. But it would have been useless to make the attempt under such heavy disadvantages, not more than forty-five degrees of horizon being absolutely clear at any time. As regards the height of the Sasso Bianco, there can, I think, be no doubt that it rather exceeds than falls below eight thousand feet. A traveler more experienced in the use of the aneroid would doubtless be able to determine the matter to within a few feet. But I should myself be very diffident of giving a decided measurement. We observed the aneroid closely all the way from Capril to the summit, and found that it rose four thousand five hundred English feet. This, without any correction for the mean temperature of the column of air between the upper and lower stations, if added to the height at which Capril stands above the sea level, namely three thousand three hundred seventy six feet, would give an elevation of seven thousand eight hundred seventy six feet. The temperature, however, varied greatly, the heat being intense as we round round the mountain from east to south, and the change to cold and damp being very sudden when we came into the mists a thousand feet below the summit. These mists, however, never rose to the height of the actual summit during the whole two hours that we remained upon the top. On the contrary, the sun shone uninterruptedly, and the temperature must have stood at from seventy to seventy five. Not venturing myself to deduce results from these imperfect observations, I have submitted my notes to an eminent mountaineer whose opinion I prefer to give in his own words. Assuming the temperature to be respectively fifty and seventy, we should have a correction of two hundred and eighty feet, which must be added to your forty five hundred. The height would them come out three thousand three hundred seventy six plus forty five hundred plus two hundred and eighty to eight thousand one hundred and fifty six feet, so that I think you may safely put it at over eight thousand feet. In your letter you spoke of your peak being four hundred to six hundred feet higher than Montemignon. Now, Trinker gives the latter a seven thousand eight hundred thirty eight feet, which would bring the Sasso Bianco up to eight thousand two hundred thirty eight or eight thousand four hundred thirty eight feet, so that in this way you too get the estimate of over eight thousand feet confirmed. F F T. For the present then, and until some more competent traveler shall determine this point with accuracy, the height of the Sasso Bianco may be allotted to stand at something over eight thousand feet. Having spent two hours on the top and seeing no hope of any change for the better on the southern side, we reluctantly packed up and came down. By the time we reached Signora Pezzi's pastridges, the Segro was breaking up in Roca, and the Contadini who lived in the scattered farms and cottages of Monte Pesa were coming up homewards. All asked if we had had a good view, if we were very tired, if we had found it difficult, and how long it had taken us to get to the top. Brava brava, said one old man, so, Signoras, you have been up our mountain, e bene, e una bella montagna, but you are the first forest theory who have cared to find it out. It was amusing to see how pleased and even flattered they all seemed, as if being born and bred upon the mountain they took the expedition as an indirect compliment paid to themselves. When at length we reached Capriol it was just half past five o'clock. We had been gone precisely twelve hours and a half. That is to say we had been six hours getting to the top, including stoppages, and four hours and a half, including another stoppage coming down. We might, of course, as I have already said, have had a better day. We might, as I fully believe, there being an almost continuous line of valleys and no mountain range of any importance between, have seen straight down to Venice and the Adriatic on the south, to the Lake of Garda on the southeast, and perhaps, if the Marmalata is not in the way, to the Ortler Spites on the east. In any case the view to the north and northwest was extremely fine, and the near view over the whole surrounding group of Dolomites, which is of more importance than any distant view of peaks, which are continually seen from other heights, is of the greatest interest. I doubt indeed if there can be any other point from which all the giants of the district can be seen at once, and to so much advantage. END OF SECTION 30 UNTRADON PEEKS AND UNFREQUITED VALLEYS SECTION 31 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. UNTRADON PEEKS AND UNFREQUITED VALLEYS AMID SUMMER RAMBLE THROUGH THE DOLOMITES by Amelia B. Edwards CHAPTER XIII FORNO DIZILDA AND ZOLPE PART I There remained yet another important excursion to be taken from Capriol, before we could finally break up our camp and depart. We must go over the pass of Alegge, visit the Val Dizildo, make a pilgrimage to a certain village called Zolpe, where a Titian was to be seen, and come home by way of the Val Fiorentino. Now the main attractions of this expedition did not appear upon the surface. We had been over a good many passes already, and through a good many valleys, and had been plentifully pelted with Titians of all degrees of genuineness. But what we really wanted was to see the back of the Savita, and to get a near view of the Palmo. As both of these ends would be answered by following the route thus laid down, and as the expedition was guaranteed not to exceed three days, we once more packed our black bags, stocked the luncheon basket, rose at daybreak one fine morning, and departed.   The path, rising and winding continually, passes farmlands and farmhouses, barns, orchards, gardens, green slopes striped with rows of yellow flax laid down to bleach in the sun, and terraces after terraces of wheat, barley, flax, hemp, potatoes, and glossy-leaved, tassel-blossomed indian corn. And as the path rises, so also rises the civita, its lower precipices detaching themselves in grand proportions from the main mass, while every riven pinnacle, spire, obelisk, and needle-point stands out sharply against the deep blue sky. Thus the mountain grows in grandeur with every upward foot of the way. Quite patches that looked like snow drifts from the valley now show as glaciers coated with snow, through which the blue ice glitters, and by and by as we draw still nearer another of those strange circular holes or uchi, as they are here called, stares down at us from near the top of a small peak, like a hole drilled in a dagger-blade. So, with exquisite glimpses over the bluish green lake, we emerge at length from the gorge and climb a steep, stony lane with never a tree on either side to screen off the burning sun. Suddenly a long, steel-blue snake speckled with white darts out from under the very feet of white nestle. Clementi utters a wild war-whoop, Elle a scream, the mule a snort of terror. Giuseppe and young Pezzi leap forward with their sticks, and in a second the poor reptile, which is as thick as one's wrist and about four feet in length, but I believe quite harmless, lies dead by the wayside. The stony path now leads out upon a wild and desolate mule tracks girding the grim flanks of Montefrananza, a gruesome mountain whose slow black precipices have crashed down before now in many a burgfall, covering the barren slopes with shattered debris and huge purpley blocks all blistered over with poisonous-looking lichens. Winding now round the head of the glen by which we have come up from a leggy, we arrive at last upon a grassy plateau at the foot of an overhanging cliff, which, though locally called the Montecaldi, is in truth the huge northeastern shoulder of the Savita. Above here, in a hollow among the rocks, nestles a small tarn, called the Legocaldi, said to command a fine view, but which we had not time to climb to. Beyond Montecaldi, the way lies up a fine rock-strewn gorge, just like the gorge of the Evisio, where it leads up to the Fidaha Alp. Gradually we lose sight of the long fretted façade of the Savita, which retires behind the Cordae rocks, and, looking back, find that the lake has sunk quite out of sight. The Sasso Bianco, which till now had been standing out against the sky, has all at once dropped below the horizon, and is immeasurably overtopped by the towering altitudes of the Marmalata. The Boe, the Sema di Pape, the Monte Vanale, the Sasso di Valfreda, and many another now familiar peak have also risen into view, but it is the Marmalata that claims all one's attention, and seems to fill the scene. Presently an obstinate cloud that has been clinging to the highest point of the summit clears off little by little, and leaves the whole noble mass distinctly relieved against the western sky. Guardate, says young Pese, seeing a sketch in preparation, la Marmalata has thrown her veil aside to have her portrait taken. It is a grand view of the mountain, even though its snows and glaciers are all out of sight. From here, as from the Sasso Bianco, one sees its true form and its actual summit, while of the one no idea can be formed and of the other no vestiges visible from either the Tresace or the Fidaha. Clementi can even identify the tiny topmost patch of snow on which FFT placed his barometer when he reached the summit. And now a grassy cull about a quarter of an hour ahead is pointed out as the summit of the pass. There we shall see the mountains of Val di Zoldo and take our midday rest in whatever shady spot we can find. There, too, as young Pese pleasantly prophesies, we shall be within reach of a chalet where milk and even cream may be purchased. So we press on eagerly, but stopping suddenly a little below the top are amazed to see the Palmo. Snow ridged, battlemented, stupendous, chewed up all at once as it seems from behind the slopes and firwoods to the left of the pass, as near to us as the Savita. Large masses of vapor are rising and falling round those mighty towers, never leaving them wholly uncovered for an instant, but they look all the mightier for that touch of mystery. And now a few yards higher and the Marmalata, the Sasso Bianco, and the Bowie, and all the rest disappear altogether, and a lovely grassy plane dotted over with strewn rocks and clumps of furs, and bounded by a line of mountain peaks as wild and fantastic as anything we have yet seen, lies spread out in sunshine before us. This according to the map must be the grand chain of which the Monte Promper and Monte Piazzadel, both as yet unascended, are the dominating summits. Up here we encamp for an hour and a half, sub-jove, and the mules graze while we take luncheon. Clementi vanishes up the hillside and returns by and by with a bowl of cream in each hand, which, beaten up with wine and sugar, and eaten in the midst of such a scene, is at least as delicious as the dulcet creams prepared by Eve for the angels' entertainment. Meanwhile the cowherd comes down from the chalet to stare at the forest dairy, and is so overpaid with half a lira that I begin to fear we must have given him a piece of gold by mistake. A deep, narrow gorge now leads down from a little below the summit of the pass to a point whence the Val de Zodo, sunny, cultivated, sparkling with villages and spires, opens out far and wide beneath our feet. And now, at last, we see the back of the Savita, accustomed as one has become to the strangely different aspects under which a dolomite is capable of presenting itself from opposite points of the compass. Here is a metamorphosis which the most erratic imagination could never have foreseen. To say that the Savita is unrecognizable from the Zodo side is to say nothing, for the mountain is so strangely unlike itself that, although one has, so to say, but just turn the corner of it, the discrepancy in form, in character, and apparently also in extant, is almost past acceptance. Calm, perpendicular, majestic on the side of a lege, here it is wild, tossed, tormented, and irregular. From a lege it appears as a vast upright symmetrical screen. Here it consists of a long succession of huge straggling buttresses divided by wild glens, the birthplaces of mists and torrents. If from Caprile the mountain looks, as I have said more than once, like a mighty organ, from here it seems as if each vertical pipe in that organ front were but the narrow end of rock in which each of these buttresses terminates. Looking at them thus in lateral perspective I can compare them, wild and savage as they are, to nothing, save that vista of exquisitely carved and decorated flying buttresses just below the roof of Milan Cathedral, which is known as the Giardino Batonico. The Civita was first ascended by Mr. F. F. Tuckett, who gives the height at about ten thousand four hundred and forty feet. The summit, snow-crowned and lonely, is plainly seen from this side, and looks as if it might be reached without serious difficulty. The valley of Zoldo is richly cultivated, the farmhouses are solidly built, and the whole district wears a face of smiling prosperity. The usual little dusty hamlets with the usual religious frescoes on the principal house fronts, the usual little white church and the usual village fountain follow one another rather more thickly than in most other valleys. At San Nicolo where the valley narrows and the rocks close in upon the rushing may far below, we enter upon an excellent carriage road which goes from this point by an immense detour to Longarone. At a certain village called Daunt, some way below San Nicolo, we had proposed to pass the night, but being daunted by the dirt and general disorder of the inn, push on for Forno di Zoldi, where Ball's Guide reports comfortable quarters at Cercenas Inn. Here we arrive at the end of another three quarters of an hour, and a light at the door of a very large, very old, and very dirty looking house up a small steep street in the heart of the village. Passing through a gloomy stone kitchen where some fifteen or twenty harvesters are eating polenta out of wooden platters, we are shown up a dark staircase and into a large room, the floor of which is encrusted with the filth of centuries. The sofa, the chairs, the window curtains look as if dropping to pieces with age and only held together by cobwebs. The windows open on a steep side lane where all the children in the place presently congregate, for no other purpose than to flatten their noses against the panes and stare at us, till candles are brought and curtains can be drawn to exclude them. As for the landing, which in most other Chirolean Inns is the cleanest and smartest place in the house, it is the dreariest wilderness of old furniture, old presses, old saddles and harnesses, sacks, undressed skins, and dusty lumber of all kinds that was ever seen or heard of outside the land of the dawn. Yet the Cercenas themselves are well-mannered, superior people, and their forefathers have owned estates in Val d'Zoldo for over five hundred years. The daughter-in-law of the house, a pretty, refined-looking young woman, waits upon us, and is made quite wretched by our few and modest requirements. We are not, I think, unreasonable travelers, but we have been riding and walking for nearly twelve hours, and wish not unnaturally for water, towels, food, and coffee. For all these things we have to wait interminably. That we should require a tablecloth is a serious affliction, and that we cannot sup like the haymakers off Palenta is almost more than young Senora Sarcena knows how to bear. A few small lumps of smoke blackened meat, a dish of unwashed salad, and some greasy fritters are at length brought, and this young lady, while professing I imagine to wait at table, walks over quite coolly to a looking-glass at the farther end of the room, and there deliberately tries on El's hat and all my rings and bracelets. It is a dreadful supper, and is followed by a dreadful night, hot and close and wakeful, and enlivened in a way that has associated forno dizoldo, for ever in my mind, with that Arab proverb which describes Malaga as a city where fleas are always dancing to the tunes played by the mosquitoes. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys, a Midsummer Ramble through the Dolomites, by Amelia B. Edwards. CHAPTER XIII. FORNO DIZOLDO AND ZOPE. PART II. The mules are brought round early next morning, for we have a long day before us. Zope, distant rather more than three hours from Forno Dizoldo, has to be visited in the morning, and at two p.m. on our way back, we have promised, in compliance with Senora Pezzi's particular request, to call upon her married daughter who lives at P. of Dizoldo about a quarter of an hour above Forno. While we are at breakfast, it being a little after five a.m., the church bells ring out a merry peel. Concluding that it is either a saint's day or a wedding, I inquire what the joyful occasion may be, and learn, not without surprise, that an old and highly respected inhabitant has just given up the ghost. The Valdizope, sometimes called the Valdirutorto, branches away from the Valdizoldo at an acute angle from a point a little way below Forno, and runs off northward towards the Palmo. Our way thither lies at first through a chain of villages, Campo, Piev, Doza, Pra, and Braguereza. In Piev we are met by César E. Pezzi, who is to take us to the studio of a certain self-taught wood sculptor named Valentino Gamba. He lives at Braguereza, a miserable, tumbled-down hamlet on a steep hillside a mile or two farther on, where we first catch sight of him sitting in a desponding attitude on the doorstep of a small cottage. Being addressed by young Pezzi and invited to show his video, he jumps up in red confusion and leads the way into a little back room, where stands an enormous oval frame of carved pinewood, destined for the Vienna exhibition of the present year, 1873. It is an unwieldy, overdone thing, loaded with arabesques, fruits, flowers, musical instruments, cupids, and the like. Too big, too heavy, fit neither for a mirror nor a picture, but quite wonderful as an effort of untaught genius. An ideal bust of Italia, all-stow in wood, is full of sweet and subtle expression, and pleases me better than the frame. What possesses me that I should inquire the price of that bust? It is life-size and weighs heaven only knows how much it weighs, but certainly as much as all our scanty baggage put together. I have no sooner asked the unlucky question than seeing the flash of hope in the poor fellow's face I reproach myself for having done so. He only asks two hundred lira for it, less than eight pounds, but I could no more be burdened with it on such a journey than with the church steeple. So I ask for his card and promising to bid my English friends look out for his frame next summer in Vienna, take my leave with the awkward consciousness of having said more than I intended. From Braga Reza the way lies between forest-clad hills up a constantly rising valley. The farther we go the steeper and rougher the path becomes, the more desolate the valley, the more noisy the torrent. Then at last we have to dismount and let the mules scramble on alone. Now the palmo, as yesterday, comes suddenly into sight, its huge, tawny, snow-rigged battlements rising, close behind a near hillside, so close that it seems towering above our heads. And presently, for we are only just in time to see it clearly for a few minutes, a great white cloud sails slowly up from somewhere behind, wrapping the mountain round as with a mantle, so that we only catch flitting fragmentary glimpses of it now and then through openings in the mist. Finally Zope, a tiny brown village in white church perched high on a green mountainside, looks down upon us from the top of a steep path full four hundred feet above the valley. That little white church contains the Titian, which is the glory of all this countryside. A long pull up the hill and broiling sunshine brings us at last to the houses and the church. The door stands open and, followed by all the men out of a neighboring woodyard, we pass into the cool shade within. There, over the high altar hangs the Titian, uncurtained, dusty, dulled by the taper smoke of centuries of masses. It is a small picture measuring about four feet by three and represents the virgin and child enthroned. Supported by San Marco and San Girolamo with Santa Ana sitting on the steps of the throne. It is on the whole a perplexing picture. The Madonna and Child painted in the dry hard style of the early German school look as if they could not possibly have come from Titian's brush. The San Girolamo and Santa Ana scarcely rise above mediocrity, but the head and hands of San Marco are really fine and go far to redeem the rest of the picture. The color, too, is rich and solid throughout. This altar piece, painted, it is said, by order of one of the Palatini in fifteen twenty-six, is classed by Mr. Gilbert among the very few indubitable Titians yet preserved among the painter's native mountains. But not withstanding its reputation I find it difficult to believe that the great master painted much more than the head and hands of San Marco. The Peroco hearing that there were strangers in the church came presently to do the honors of his Titian. He was a fat, rosy, pleasant little priest, redolent of garlic and attired in light blue shorts, a light blue waistcoat, gray worsted stockings, and a long black clerical coat, worn bottle green with age. He chattered away quite volubly, telling how Titian had once upon a time come up to Zope for Vilegiatura in time of plague, and how he had then and there painted the picture by order of the afore said noble, who desired to place it in the church as a thank offering. Also how it had hung there venerated and undisturbed for centuries till the French came this way in the time of the First Napoleon and threatened to rob the commune of their treasure. Whereupon the men of Zope made a wooden cylinder and rolled the picture on it and buried it in a box at the foot of a certain tree up in the forest. And look, said the Peroco, you may see the marks of the cylinder upon the canvas to this day, and we have the cylinder still, senora, we have the cylinder still. I said something, I no longer remember what, to the effect that a genuine Titian was worth taking care of, and that the commune could not value it too highly. Value it, he repeated, bristling up rather unnecessarily. Value it, senora, of course we value it. Many governments have offered to buy it. We could sell it for three thousand gold dukets tomorrow, if we chose. At Bene, we are only six hundred souls up here in the Piaz. Our men are poor, all poor, Contidinian summer, legnatory in winter, but no price will purchase our Titian. We afterwards learned that this public spirited little Peroco had been a mighty chamois hunter in his youth, and one of the first to scale the fastnesses of the Pelmo. Now we leave Zope on its hillside and come down again into the valley, catching by the way some wonderful glimpses of strange peaks, peeping out through mist and cloud in the direction of Montes Viorina in the premajorie range. And now, after a brief halt in the shade of a clump of trees beside a spring, we go on again, descending all the way till we find ourselves back at Piaz de Zoldo, and alighting at the gate of a large white house, where we are welcomed by young Pezzi's sister, senora Pellegrini. Now senora Pellegrini has married a man both wealthy and well descended, and lives in a large, plentiful, patriarchal way, much as our English gentry lived in the time of the tutors. She carries her keys at her girdle, and herself super intends her dairy, her cows, her pigs, her poultry, and her kitchen. Being ushered up a spacious staircase and across a landing hung with family portraits of Pellegrini's, who were once upon a time bishops, priors, captains, and powdered seniors in ruffles and laced coats, we are shown into a reception room where a table is laid for luncheon. The master of the house is unavoidably absent, being gone to a cattle fair at Longaron, but Cicere Pesse takes his place at table, where everything is fresh, abundant, homemade, and delicious. After luncheon we go to see the church, a large structure with a fine gothic nave, containing two or three curious, early Italian pictures, and an important, carved altar piece by Andrea Brustalon, the Grinling Gibbons of South Tyrol, born in this Valley of Zoldo in the year 1662. It is a quaint, strange subject, admirably executed, but not pleasant to look upon. They call it the Altari degli animi, or altar of the two souls. Two figures intended to represent human suffering and human sorrow, each attended by a warning skeleton, support the entablature on each side. Two angels and a peata crown it on the top. The execution is excellent, but the impression produced by the work is indefinitely painful. That evening we wander about the fields and lanes beyond the village, and the rider sketches some wild peaks, called by some the Monteserata, and by others the Monte Roschetta, which are seen from every point of view about the place. There is, of course, the customary difficulty of keeping intruders at bay. One old woman in wooden cloths, having looked on for a long time from her cottage door, comes hobbling out and surveys the sketch with a ludicrous expression of bewilderment. Why do you do that? she asks, pointing with one skinny finger and peering up sidewise into my face like a raven. I answer that it is in order to remember the mountain when I shall be far away. And will that make you remember it? she says, incredulously. To this I reply that it will not only answer that purpose, but even serve to make it known to many of my friends who have never been here. This, however, is evidently more than she can believe. And where do you come from? she asks next, after a long pause. From a country you have no doubt heard of many a time, I reply. From England. From England? Jaysu Maria, from England. And where is England? Is it near Milan? Being told that it is much more distant than Milan and in quite the opposite direction, she is so confounded that she can only shake her head in silence and hobble back again. When she is halfway across the road, however, she stops short, pauses a moment to consider, and then comes back, armed with one last question. Echo, she says, tell me this, tell me the truth. Why do you come here at all? Why do you travel? To this I reply, of course, that we travel to see the country. To see the country, she repeats, clasping her withered hands. Grandio, have you then no mountains and no trees in England? End of Section 32 Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys Section 33 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Untrodden Peaks and Unfrequited Valleys Amid Summer Ramble through the Dolomites by Amelia B. Edwards Chapter 13 Forno di Zoldo and Zocbe, Part 3 That evening, when we are at supper, Giuseppe comes up to say that the young sculptor is below, having brought the bust over from Braga Reza, to know if I will make him an offer for it. Having brought the bust over, I picture him toiling with it along the dusty road. I see him as I saw him this morning, pale, anxious looking, out at elbows, and for the moment I feel as if it were my fate to yield and buy. Seeing me waver, El pronounces me a dangerous lunatic and even Giuseppe ventures respectfully to represent that if the senior were really to purchase the testa di legno, we should in future require an extra mule to carry it. So, not daring to see him, lest I should commit the foolish deed, I send down a polite refusal and hear of the poor fellow no more. We are off again next morning by half-past five, thankful to see the last of Forno di Zoldo, with its filthy yin, its forges, and its noisy iron trade. Far down by the torrent side in this deep hollow below the village, there may be seen long rows of workshops, whence the smoke of many fires is always rising. Here the men of Zoldo, who are for the most part blacksmiths, have made nails from time immemorial, sending their goods down on mule-back to Longarone, and getting up in the same way stores of old iron from Sanita, Conegliano, and even Venice. We are returning today to Capriol by a pass leading from the head of the Val di Zoldo into the head of the Val Fiorentino, winding round the foot of the Pelmo between that mountain and the Monte Crote. For the first four hours of the journey we are simply retracing our route of the day before yesterday. A little beyond daunt, whence there is an easy and interesting way to agordo by the Val di Durum, the Pelmo rises up, pale and shadowy, and most majestical, while at San Nicolo the Savita comes into sight again, half hidden in rolling silvery mists. Beyond Marisone, about halfway between that village and Piccol, the road divides, and we turn off from the Val di Zoldo up a long, grassy, undulating valley lined between the Pelmo, the Monte Crote, and the back of the Monte Fernanza. This valley, known as the Valley of Palafevera, is the common property of the communes of Marisone and Piccol, who divide the pastures equally. Between the Monte Crote, a small but finely shaped, pyramidal mountain, and the Pelmo, which from here looks like a cloudy tower of babble, there rises a long green slope leading to the top of the pass. Here in the shade of a big tree on a grassy knoll, we call our first talt. The saddles are taken off and served for chairs. A running spring close by among the bushes supplies us with clear water, and Clementi again fetches cream from a milk farm a little farther on. So, sitting in the open air, under the bluest of blue skies, eating cream with wooden spoons out of a wooden bowl, we take our rest in as purely pastoral a fashion as the heart of even the fair scudery could have desired. The journey today is a long one, and it will be necessary to let the mules rest again by and by. So we presently go on again, and about midday reach the top of the pass, which is called by some the Passo di Palafevera, and by others the Forsella Stalanza. Hence the path winds down among scattered pines and larches to the very base of the Palmo. At first the Great Dolomite shows as only one stupendous tower, then the second tower till now hidden behind the first comes gradually into sight. Lastly they divide, showing a dip of blue sky between. Every turn of the path now brings us nearer so that the huge mass rising ledge above ledge, steep above steep, seems to hang above our heads and shut out half the sky. And now, being within two hundred feet of the base of the mountain, we realize as nearly as it is possible to do so without attempting any part of the ascent its amazing size, steepness, and difficulty. We are so near that a chamois hunter could hardly creep unseen along one of the narrow ledges three or four thousand feet above, and yet the extent of the hole is so enormous that a woman following a path leading across yonder slope of debris looks a mere speck against the rock. The Palmo blocks the whole end of the Valfirantino. The path leading over the low ridge just opposite is the Forsella Forada, six thousand eight hundred ninety six feet, leading directly to San Vito at the foot of the Anteleo and the Valdempezzo. It corresponds in position to the Forsella Stalanza over which we have just come from the foot of the Savita in Val di Zoldo. The height of the Palmo so far as has yet been ascertained appears to be ten thousand three hundred seventy seven feet. That is to say it is within a few feet the same as that of the Savita and scarcely two hundred feet below the summit of the Anteleo. The mountain has been repeatedly ascended by the daring chamois hunters of Val di Zoldo who have discovered four separate ways by which to reach the plateau on the top. It has also been ascended by Fuchs and by the author of the Guide to the Eastern Alps who took it from the Borca side above the Val Naharone. The two best routes however are supposed to be those from either Zope or just above San Nicolo in the Val di Zoldo. Mr. Bell describes the Palmo as a gigantic fortress of the most massive architecture defended by huge bastioned outworks whose walls in many places fall in sheer precipices for more than two thousand feet. He furthermore says the lightness to masonry is much increased by the fact that in great part the strata lie in nearly horizontal courses whence it happens that many of the steepest parts of the mountain are traversed by ledges wide enough to give passage to chamois and their pursuers. From the Forsella Salanza the Monte Rossata of Val di Pezzo and the jagged ridge of the Becc di Mazzotti are visible above the slopes of the Forsella Forata. The topmost peak of the Civita also peers out above the fir woods bordering on the eastern face of Monte Crott, and far away beyond the sunny vista of the Val Fiorentino the faint blue peak of the Marmalata is seen against the horizon its snow slope outlined in frosted silver. And now following the course of the infant Fiorentino Torrent we begin to leave the Palmo behind at every step. One by one the villages of Pescola and Selva, the Cal di Santaluccia, the Monte Frisale, the Sasso Bianco come into view. Stopping for a few moments at Pescola we go into the little church to see a carved tabernacle by Bruzel Tolan, a tiny toy-like thing evidently a recollection of the Baldicino at St. Peter's supported on flowery twisted columns crowned by an elaborate canopy and enclosing a crucifixion group with figures about three inches in height. Some of the little angels and cherubs clustered outside the canopy are so tenderly conceived and executed as to remind one of the designs of Luca della Robbia. The people of Pescola prized their little shrine just as the people of Zope prized their Titian and have refused large prices for it. It is now one o'clock and we have been upon the road since half-past five a.m. The mules are tired out and stumble at every step. The Valfiorentino stretches out interminably and the village of Selva, where we are to rest for a good two hours, seems never to draw nearer. We get there at last, however, and put up at a small roadside albergio as rough as any we have yet been into, but very clean and airy. Here the tired mules get each a hearty feed of Indian corn. The men, bread and wine, and we being shown into a whitewashed upstairs room, proceed to light the etna and brew a dish of libig. The women of the house, and there are four of them, pursue us to this retreat as soon as they have served out the corn and wine below, and stand wide-eyed and open mouth in a fever of curiosity, watching all we do as a party of children might watch the movements of a couple of wild beasts in a cage. They examine our hats, our umbrellas, our cloaks, and every individual article that we have laid aside. The etna stupefies them with amazement. As for El's field-glass lying in the window, they eye it a scant, taking it evidently for some kind of infernal machine that may be expected to go off suddenly and blow up the whole establishment. They are in truth mere savages, rosy, hearty, good-natured, but as ignorant and uncivilized as aboriginal Australians. The biggest and rosiest of the four, apparently the mistress of the house, emerging presently from the first dumbness of her astonishment, pours forth a volley of questions, repeating my answers with a triumphant air as if interpreting them to the rest, and cross-examining me as eagerly and unsparingly as an old Bailey council. Where did we come from? From Forno D'Zoldo. C.C. she knew that. The men downstairs had told her so much. But before Forno D'Zoldo. Where did we come from before Forno D'Zoldo? From Capriol. C.C. she knows that also. But before Capriol, surely we came from far away, from Lontana. Poor Encempio. Where were we born? In Inglaterra. Madonna. In Inglaterra. Here she throws up her hands, and the other three do the same. But have you come like this all the way from Inglaterra? What she means by like this it is impossible to say. She probably supposes we have ridden the two nestles the whole distance by land and sea, with one small black bag each by way of luggage. But the easiest answer is a nod of the head. Santo Spirito. And alone, all alone, again to save explanations, a nod. Eh, povrine, povrine.  A shake of the head this time instead of a nod. Are you married? Another negative, where at her surprise amounts to almost consternation. Come, not married, neither of you? Neither of us, I reply, laughing. Grandio, alone and not married, povrine, povrine. Hereupon they all cry, povrine, in chorus, with an air of such genuine concern and compassion that we are almost ashamed of the irrepressible laughter with which we cannot help perceiving their condolences. Being really tired and in want of rest, I am obliged at last to dismiss both Chorofaeus and Chorus, and when they are fairly gone to lock them out. So at last we eat our libyg in peace, and being only two hours from home, with plenty of daylight still at our disposal, the rider succeeds in getting a sketch of the pelmo as it appears through the open window, down at the far end of the valley. The rest of the journey lies chiefly along the rising verge of Montefrisole, passing over the cold de Santa Lucia. A little beyond Selva we enter upon Austrian territory, leaving it again on the hillside above Capriol, and reaching home by way of the old familiar zigzag, a little after six p.m.