tely through the pass, and the
roadsides wave with many sorts of campanulas--a profusion of azure and
purple bells upon the hard white stone. Of Roman remains there is
still enough (in the way of Roman bridges and bits of broken masonry)
to please an antiquary's eye. But the lover of nature will dwell
chiefly on the picturesque qualities of this historic gorge, so alien
to the general character of Italian scenery, and yet so remote from
anything to which Swiss travelling accustoms one.

The Furlo breaks out into a richer land of mighty oaks and waving
cornfields, a fat pastoral country, not unlike Devonshire in detail,
with green uplands, and wild-rose tangled hedgerows, and much running
water, and abundance of summer flowers. At a point above Fossombrone,
the Barano joins the Metauro, and here one has a glimpse of faraway
Urbino, high upon its mountain eyrie. It is so rare, in spite of
immemorial belief, to find in Italy a wilderness of wild flowers, that
I feel inclined to make a list of those I saw from our carriage
windows as we rolled down lazily along the road to Fossombrone. Broom,
and cytisus, and hawthorn mingled with roses, gladiolus, and sainfoin.
There were orchises, and clematis, and privet, and wild-vine, vetches
of all hues, red poppies, sky-blue cornflowers, and lilac pimpernel.
In the rougher hedges, dogwood, honeysuckle, pyracanth, and acacia
made a network of white bloom and blushes. Milk-worts of all bright
and tender tints combined with borage, iris, hawkweeds, harebells,
crimson clover, thyme, red snap-dragon, golden asters, and dreamy
love-in-a-mist, to weave a marvellous carpet such as the looms of
Shiraz or of Cashmere never spread. Rarely have I gazed on Flora in
such riot, such luxuriance, such self-abandonment to joy. The air was
filled with fragrances. Songs of cuckoos and nightingales echoed from
the copses on the hillsides. The sun was out, and dancing over all the
landscape.

After all this, Fano was very restful in the quiet sunset. It has a
sandy