s
gallery Petra Pertusa, or Intercisa, or more familiarly Forulus,
whence comes the modern name. Indeed, the stations on the old
Flaminian Way are still well marked by Latin designations; for Cagli
is the ancient Calles, and Fossombrone is Forum Sempronii, and Fano
the Fanum Fortunae. Vespasian commemorated this early achievement in
engineering by an inscription carved on the living stone, which still
remains; and Claudian, when he sang the journey of his Emperor
Honorius from Rimini to Rome, speaks thus of what was even then an
object of astonishment to travellers:--

Laetior hinc fano recipit fortuna vetusto,
Despiciturque vagus praerupta valle Metaurus,
Qua mons arte patens vivo se perforat arcu
Admittitque viam sectae per viscera rupis.

The Forulus itself may now be matched, on any Alpine pass, by several
tunnels of far mightier dimensions; for it is narrow, and does not
extend more than 126 feet in length. But it occupies a fine position
at the end of a really imposing ravine. The whole Furlo Pass might,
without too much exaggeration, be described as a kind of Cheddar on
the scale of the Via Mala. The limestone rocks, which rise on either
hand above the gorge to an enormous height, are noble in form and
solemn, like a succession of gigantic portals, with stupendous
flanking obelisks and pyramids. Some of these crag-masses rival the
fantastic cliffs of Capri, and all consist of that southern mountain
limestone which changes from pale yellow to blue grey and dusky
orange. A river roars precipitately through the pass, and the
roadsides wave with many sorts of campanulas--a profusion of azure and
purple bells upon the hard white stone. Of Roman remains there is
still enough (in the way of Roman bridges and bits of broken masonry)
to please an antiquary's eye. But the lover of nature will dwell
chiefly on the picturesque qualities of this historic gorge, so alien
to the general character of Italian scenery, and yet so remote from
anything to which Swiss travelling accustoms one.

The Furlo breaks out into a richer land of mighty oaks and waving
cornfields, a fat pastoral country, not unlike Devonshire in detail,
with green uplands, and wild-rose tangled hedgerows, and much running
water, and abundance of summer flowers. At a point above Fossombrone,
the Barano joins the Metauro, and here one has a glimpse of faraway
Urbino, high upon its mountain eyrie. It is so rare, in spite of
immemorial belief, to find