Wanderings through unknown Austria

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m for walks. I feel I am doing good to suffering humanity-he may get rid of a little of his superfluous flesh by the exertion. I cannot say that up to now he has exhibited much thankfulness for my philanthropic efforts. We took Pixner, the gamekeeper, and his t

hour or so. It is classic ground, for does not the world-f

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let, but a wide, fast-flowing river. There is no doubt that the original springs are somewhere underground, and that it runs for a considerable distance in the bowels of the earth. Every now and then

OF THE

ind of history of the river, but I will spare the reader, and merely say that they believed it to be the entrance t

Diomed-either the Greek hero or the Thracian Diomed who was celebrated for his horses. The latter gentleman seems to have had a stud in the neighbourhood of San Giovanni. The horses from this part of the coun

untry houses were here in abundance; it was then quite a fashionable watering-place on account of the warm springs in the neighbourhood. There is still a miserable little

of the Timavo, the great lake (now a marsh), with its banks bright with glistening white monuments and

a), the wife of Augustus, who died in Aquileia at the age of eighty-three. She gave all

en the Roman legions and the Barbarians, whilst, later on, the German Emperors would generally choose this way to sweep down from the north upon Italy. The Veneti

into the earth. The pigeons, which are identically the same bird as the old-fashioned English "Blue-rock," make their nests in the

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go out in a yacht for a cruise of an hour or two, and you may be sure that yacht will become becalmed, and the unhappy people on board will have to choose between a night "on the ocean wave" and a row home in a small boat. I seem to be a so

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amer, a choppy sea, and there was a young man with a Kodak on board. I abominate amateur photographers. They are offensive. It is the fact that they insist on photography being an art that make

in his misery, I "chortled in my joy"; but the Fates were on my track. Half an hour before we reached Calais I began to feel very miserable. I thought I was dying. Somebody came to me, a sailor, or a steward, or an admiral, or something of that sort, and asked me if I felt ill. I said I did, that my last hour had come, that I wanted to throw myself overboard and hasten the end. He would not let me do this. I should

and generally very silent. He only talks to particular chums, but then he does talk. The "Fat Boy" is the proud possessor of his confidence, and to him Checco unfolds his theories; he even puts the two learned men in the shade with regard to theories. On this particular occasion he was explaining earthquakes. (There have been some here lately.) This is what Checco said to the "Fat Boy": "People are very much afraid of earthquakes, you know. I am not afraid, for it is no use. What must be, must be. But I say, What is the reason for them? I will tell you: it is the doing of those mad winds. When I was young, things were quite different on the sea. The winds blew steadily. Either it was Bora, or Levante, or Scirocco, or Libeccio, and you knew how long it would blow in the same direction. It was a pleasure to sail a boat then. But now the winds bl

ce, and not even the "Fat Boy"

NO FROM TH

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Giovanni we landed, and walked home. Our path, for part of the way, lay along an old Roman road, and then we passed through a little wood of stunted trees (the last remnant of the "boundless forests" of old times), which in autumn is one pink carpet of heavily-scented cyclamens

l gray rocks. A few bushes manage to extract enough nourishment from somewhere to e

so brightly, the sky is so blue; and then there is always the sea, ever changeful and ever beauti