wasteful river-beds.  As we rise, we break into a wilder country, forested with oak, where oxen and goats are browsing.  The turf is starred with lilac gentian and crocus bells, but sparely.  Then comes the highest village, Berceto, with keen Alpine air.  After that, broad rolling downs of yellowing grass and russet beech-scrub lead onward to the pass La Cisa.  The sense of breadth in composition is continually satisfied through this ascent by the fine-drawn lines, faint tints, and immense air-spaces of Italian landscape.  Each little piece reminds one of England; but the geographical scale is enormously more grandiose, and the effect of majesty proportionately greater.

From La Cisa the road descends suddenly; for the southern escarpment of the Apennine, as of the Alpine, barrier is pitched at a far steeper angle than the northern.  Yet there is no view of the sea.  That is excluded by the lower hills which hem the Magra.  The upper valley is beautiful, with verdant lawns and purple hillsides breaking down into thick chestnut woods, through which we wound at a rapid pace for nearly an hour.  The leaves were still green, mellowing to golden; but the fruit was ripe and heavy, ready at all points to fall.  In the still October air the husks above our heads would loosen, and the brown nuts rustle through the foliage, and with a dull short thud, like drops of thunder-rain, break down upon the sod.  At the foot of this rich forest, wedged in between huge buttresses, we found Pontremoli, and changed our horses here for the last time.  It was Sunday, and the little town was alive with country-folk; tall stalwart fellows wearing peacock’s feathers in their black slouched hats, and nut-brown maids.

From this point the valley of the Magra is exceeding rich with fruit trees, vines, and olives.  The tendrils of the vine are yellow now, and in some places hued like generous wine; through their thick leaves the sun shot crimson.  In one cool garden, as the day grew dusk, I noticed quince trees laden with pale fruit entangled with pomegranates—­green spheres and ruddy amid burnished leaves.  By the roadside too were many berries of bright hues; the glowing red of haws and hips, the amber of the pyracanthus, the rose tints of the spindle-wood.  These make autumn even lovelier than spring.  And then there was a wood of chestnuts carpeted with pale pinkling, a place to dream of in the twilight.  But the main motive of this landscape was the indescribable Carrara range, an island of pure form and shooting peaks, solid marble, crystalline in shape and texture, faintly blue against the blue sky, from which they were but scarce divided.  These mountains close the valley to south-east, and seem as though they belonged to another and more celestial region.

Soon the sunlight was gone, and moonrise came to close the day, as we rolled onward to Sarzana, through arundo donax and vine-girdled olive trees and villages, where contadini lounged upon the bridges.  There was a stream of sound in our ears, and in my brain a rhythmic dance of beauties caught through the long-drawn glorious golden autumn-day.