We had plenty of quinine with us; and cheerily we went up the valley of Caura, first over the great boulder and pebble ridges, not bare like those of the Moor of Dinnet, or other Deeside stone heap, but clothed with cane-pieces and richest rastrajo copses; and then entered the narrow gorge, which we had to follow into the heart of the hills, as our leader, taking one parting look at the broad green lowland behind us, reminded us of Shelley's lines about the plains of Lombardy seen from the Euganean hills:-- 'Beneath me lies like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy,.

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Where a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst, Or an air-dissolved stone, Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky; And the plains that silent lie Underneath, the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright fruit is gleaming yet; And the red and golden vines Piercing with their trellised lines The rough dark-skirted wilderness.' But there the analogy stopped.