OVER.THE SPLÜGEN.

BY ALGERNON BLACK WOOD.

I STEPPED on board the steamer at Harwich just as the full moon was rising over the waters. It was the last week in August, and a gentle breeze was blowing up the channel. After nine months' prosaic office work in a flat country, who would not look forward with pleasure to a tramp over the Alps? Antwerp, Brussels, Luxembourg and Basle -how familiar the stations seemed; even the faces (and certainly the uniforms) of the officials spoke of former "jaunts" on the Continent, and Soon we were whirling

along through mountain gorges. Pfäfers and Ragatz were passed. At two o'clock in the afternoon, we reached Coire (German, Chur), and here, in soaking rain, I shouldered my knapsack and walked, or rather splashed, up to the hotel.

I had the afternoon to spend in laziness, and the next morning was to begin the first day of hard work. With eagerness I looked forward to it. I was quite alone-no companion but a light cloak, a bag which I was to send ahead of me every morning, and a strong, straight staff of knotty holly which was furnished with a sharp spike at its lower end.

That afternoon, like a deer set free, I wandered up the sides of

*The old cathedral of Coire dates from the thirteenth century. On either side of the gates are two statues in priestly attire, placed back to back, with lions beneath their feet and above their heads. These ancient sculptures bear a striking resemblance to those found in the oldest churches of northern Italy, whence, no doubt, the workmen employed in the construction of the cathedral were obtained.

the great mountains that close around the picturesque little town with impassable walls. The mists hung low and heavy, draping their shoulders in grey cloaks that moved slowly to and fro, as if the vast forms they clothed were breathing gently with heaving chests. The pine trees, with their dusky forms and myriad needles, stood gaunt and sombre like the ranks of some great army suddenly arrested in their march up the mountain. Here and there an officer reared his form above the heads of the rest, and throughout the whole mass the moist wind played a melancholy music.

The air was laden with the delicious odour of damp mould, fresh and sweet, and mingled with it was the fragrance of the pine trees. These mountain odours carry with them an exhilarating and uplifting sense of liberty, freedom and purity that nature alone can give in these her grandest revelations. There is a sense of lightness, of wings to the body. Care vanishes, the future looks bright, and regrets for the past are smoothed over and lose their keenest edge. The wind sings a lullaby to the soothing undernotes of the trees; the cow-bells tinkle sweetly in the distance, and the strong mountain air attunes the soul to a higher level than can be ever attained in the smoky streets of a city. My walk among the dripping

pines and over the sopping moss, with the Simplon

and Via Mala in prospect for the next day, gave me a good appetite and the soundest sleep I had enjoyed for many weeks.

Next morning, I left Coire shrouded in heavy mist and driving rain, the smoke, curling in dusky wreaths from the chimneys, indicating preparations for many breakfasts. With a light heart, though a damp prospect, I set forth on my lonely journey. My bag was to follow in the midday diligence, and was addressed to the hotel on the summit of the pass. The distance was between thirty

and thirty-five miles, and I was doubtful of getting so far before nightfall. As far as the bad weather was concerned, I consoled myself with the consideration that it was far better to commence a trip of this nature under the worst possible meteorological conditions, because then any change must be for the better. Had the weather been brilliant at the start and execrable towards the close of the expedition, I should have been considerably disappointed. As it was, I had no fears and strong hopes.

The road lay in the bed of a valley. On either side, the mountains hid their heads and shoulders in the mists which, "shepherded by the slow, unwilling wind," swept along the mountain sides in heavy grey masses. I longed to pierce their sombre gloom and catch a glimpse of the summits beyond, bathed probably in warm sunlight.

Meanwhile, I passed the little village of Felsberg. Indiscriminately

mingling with the quaint cottages and chalets, stood huge, misshapen boulders. Behind one cottage-almost touching it-rose an ugly, black mass of rock, that looked every moment as if it meant to topple over and crush the roof beneath it. Some years before, the village that stood there had been demolished by an enormous land-slide. Half a mile of the mountain slope had moved down towards the valley, and the rock and masses above, loosened from their beds, came crashing down. The village was crushed like an egg-shell, and many lives lost. But in its place, and protected by the position of the boulders, a new village had gradually sprung up and presented a very strange appearance.

RAVINE OF PASSUGY.

its pretty street and quaint hotel, and here I entered the Domlesch Valley, where the road follows the rushing Hinter-Rhein, and begins the gradual ascent of the valley, which continues through the Via Mala and reaches a climax in the summit of the Splügen.

The day was still, dull, grey and wet. The road was lonely in the extreme; beyond one diligence and an occasional roadmender, I saw no one. But this was not solitude. The spirits of the air and mountains, of the clinging mists and great pine woods, sang sweetly to me as I passed along, and the voice of the rushing water was pleasanter by far than the conversation of any companion I could meet.

Then Thusis came in view near the opening of the grim and demoniac-looking gash in the mountain side-the Via Mala. The road, after leaving this charming village, descended for a few

hundred feet to the level of the water, and then plunged straight into the heart of the open-jawed Via Mala-the Evil Way. Straight into this dark defile plunged the path I was to follow, and I quickly passed within the jaws. As I went further in, following the road by the narrow bed of the raging torrent, listening to its roar and to the swish of the moist wind in the pines around me, sweeping the grey, clinging mists up and down in long, wreath-like bands, my spirits rose within me.

*Near here stands the castle of Fürstenau, with its adjacent buildings. The benevolence of its present owner, Herr P. von Planta, has converted the old castle, formerly in the possession of the Bishops of Coire, into a home for invalids, while the new castle serves its owner as a summer residence. The small lake, bordered by dark fir-groves and commanded by the lofty but dilapidated tower, forms a picture both romantic and pleasing. The noble mansion of Fürstenau is here seen to great advantage.