attractions whatever of its own, it was
abundantly clear that I must proceed, and
at once. After some search I found the
office of the coach, or eilwagen, where some
very rude Austrian officials condescended
to give me tickets for the coupé to the
furthest point the eilwagen reaches,
Niederndorf: a town not in, but bordering on
the delectable country I sought. We started
next day in a very shabby conveyance at
six o'clock in the morning. The weather
was fine, which, as the month was September,
and the summer season soon breaks up
among these mountain regions, was special
good luck. Not to confuse unacquainted
readers, I here note that this is the only
carriageable road through the Dolomite
country, and that it terminates at Belluno
and Venice.

I am an old traveller, and what between
sleep induced by the early start, and an
unemotional state of mind produced by
frequent appeals during many years to the
organs of admiration, I must confess to little
enthusiasm during this traverse of the
green hills of Tyrol: almost monotonously
green with emerald pastures of the finest
grass, green with forests of pine clothing
the lower limbs of the heights, mounting
through the rocky rifts and lonely glens to
the grassy summits, altogether an exuberance
of verdure characteristic of Tyrolese
scenery.

We mounted many steep ascents, passing
Neustift and Schabs, and changing
horses at Mühlbach. Here a foaming river
made its appearance, accompanying us all
the way. A higher plateau was reached, and
the road became better and less precipitate,
following a wide valley, which the driver
informed us was the Pusterthal. Beautiful
woodland everywhere, it was still very
monotonous, and really did justify the malicious
remark of a friend, that "the Tyrol is a
bad Switzerland." Despondency crept over
me. Had I come so far, was I desolate and
alone in that jolting conveyance rumbling
through this pea-green landscape, was I
hungry, sleepy, and tired, for a sufficient
recompense? Would the Dolomites reward
me? Should I really see these long dreamed
of mountains? Or would they, like cloud
spectres, melt into the heavens? What,
too, was to become of me at Niederndorf?
Should I be drifted off, a prey to some
brigand driver, into distant countries where
I did not desire to go? Should I be robbed,
frightened, lost perhaps, and after all not
see those Dolomites for which I was risking
so much? Dismal fancies such as these sat
heavy on my soul in the morning hours as
we crept along with German deliberation
through the forest-bordered valley. I
believe I was dreaming and had a nightmare,
caused by the weight of the Dolomites.

At Brunecker we woke up. The sun
shone out hotly, and bathed the valley, the
meadows, and the wooded hills with golden
light. A clean and cheerful little town
swarmed with honest-looking peasants, for
it was market-day. A large and neatly-
appointed inn, with smiling, kindly people,
welcomed our arrival. Above the town
stood a castle, a feudal remnant of imperial
power; but, alas! the forest around was
felled, and fields and cultivation entail baldness
and ugliness. Still I had been told
that Brunecker was the portal to the
promised land. Determined to see all that
presented itself, and to strain my eyes for
the first glimpse of the Dolomites, I got
on the box beside the driver—not the
brigand deceiver of my dream, but an
honest, stupid peasant, decorated with a
horn, on which he blew with more zeal
than discretion. On we went through
the Pusterthal by the same river, dividing
the same line of hills we had traversed
since morning. Clouds came down upon
the summits—light floating clouds, that
shut up the lateral valleys, and veiled the
upper summits. It was clear that, mounting
by easy but continual ascents, we were
reaching a very considerable elevation. The
undulating grassy heights gradually
separated and broke into distinct points—rocky
and isolated, forcing downwards the ever-
climbing forests to a lower level. Were it
not for those clinging clouds, I believe
Dolomites might have been seen up the
stretches of the lateral valleys, but they
were wrapped in mist.

At two o'clock we reached Niederndorf,
a bright little town, lying cosy in the
sunshine. The inn was homely, but comfortable,
and we were received with the hearty
welcome of valued and expected guests.
What a contrast to the insolent indifference
of the extortionate Swiss, so overladen
with customers, that they bestow their
rooms and entertainment with the
reluctance of a forced gift, although demanding
profuse remuneration! Here—where the
advent of the eilwagen and of rare tourist
passengers was the event of the day—the
whole establishment, including dogs, goats,
and poultry, gave us hail. We were led
to the guest chamber, where an abundant
and excellent dinner smoked on the board.
Fish from the river, game from the hills,