the starting-point for the homeward journey, who takes the casks up to that place and sees them duly charged.  Merchants of old standing maintain relations with the same peasants, taking their wine regularly; so that from Lorenz Gredig at Pontresina or Andreas Gredig at Davos Doerfli, from Fanconi at Samaden, or from Giacomi at Chiavenna, special qualities of wine, the produce of certain vineyards, are to be obtained.  Up to the present time this wine trade has been conducted with simplicity and honesty by both the dealers and the growers.  One chief merit of Valtelline wine is that it is pure.  How long so desirable a state of things will survive the slow but steady development of an export business may be questioned.

III

With so much practical and theoretical interest in the produce of the Valtelline to stimulate my curiosity, I determined to visit the district at the season when the wine was leaving it.  It was the winter of 1881-82, a winter of unparalleled beauty in the high Alps.  Day succeeded day without a cloud.  Night followed night with steady stars, gliding across clear mountain ranges and forests of dark pines unstirred by wind.  I could not hope for a more prosperous season; and indeed I made such use of it, that between the months of January and March I crossed six passes of the Alps in open sleighs—­the Fluela Bernina, Spluegen, Julier, Maloja, and Albula—­with less difficulty and discomfort in mid-winter than the traveller may often find on them in June.

At the end of January, my friend Christian and I left Davos long before the sun was up, and ascended for four hours through the interminable snow-drifts of the Fluela in a cold grey shadow.  The sun’s light seemed to elude us.  It ran along the ravine through which we toiled; dipped down to touch the topmost pines above our heads; rested in golden calm upon the Schiahorn at our back; capriciously played here and there across the Weisshorn on our left, and made the precipices of the Schwartzhorn glitter on our right.  But athwart our path it never fell until we reached the very summit of the pass.  Then we passed quietly into the full glory of the winter morning—­a tranquil flood of sunbeams, pouring through air of crystalline purity, frozen and motionless.  White peaks and dark brown rocks soared up, cutting a sky of almost purple blueness.  A stillness that might be felt brooded over the whole world; but in that stillness there was nothing sad, no suggestion of suspended vitality.  It was the stillness rather of untroubled health, of strength omnipotent but unexerted.