lived, better than the laboured
portrait of Flamineo. Webster's Italian tragedies are consequently
true, not so much to the actual conditions of Italy, as to the moral
impression made by those conditions on a Northern imagination.

* * * * *

_AUTUMN WANDERINGS_

I.--ITALIAM PETIMUS

_Italiam Petimus!_ We left our upland home before daybreak on a clear
October morning. There had been a hard frost, spangling the meadows
with rime-crystals, which twinkled where the sun's rays touched them.
Men and women were mowing the frozen grass with thin short Alpine
scythes; and as the swathes fell, they gave a crisp, an almost
tinkling sound. Down into the gorge, surnamed of Avalanche, our horses
plunged; and there we lost the sunshine till we reached the Bear's
Walk, opening upon the vales of Albula, and Julier, and Schyn. But up
above, shone morning light upon fresh snow, and steep torrent-cloven
slopes reddening with a hundred fading plants; now and then it caught
the grey-green icicles that hung from cliffs where summer streams had
dripped. There is no colour lovelier than the blue of an autumn sky in
the high Alps, defining ridges powdered with light snow, and melting
imperceptibly downward into the warm yellow of the larches and the
crimson of the bilberry. Wiesen was radiantly beautiful: those aerial
ranges of the hills that separate Albula from Julier soared
crystal-clear above their forests; and for a foreground, on the green
fields starred with lilac crocuses, careered a group of children on
their sledges. Then came the row of giant peaks--Pitz d'Aela,
Tinzenhorn, and Michelhorn, above the deep ravine of Albula--all seen
across wide undulating golden swards, close-shaven and awaiting
winter. Carnations hung from cottage windows in full bloom, casting
sharp angular black shadows on white walls.

_Italiam petimus!_ We have climbed the valley of the Julier, following
its green, transparent torrent. A night has come and gone at Muehlen.
The stream still leads us up, diminishing in volume as we rise, up
through the fleecy mists that roll asunder for the sun, disclosing
far-off snowy ridges and blocks of granite mountains. The lifeless,
soundless waste of rock, where only thin winds whistle out of silence
and fade suddenly into still air, is passed. Then comes the descent,
with its forests of larch and cembra, golden and dark green upon a
ground of grey, and in front the serried shaf