An entire month has passed since the date of my last letter to you; and I have now to recount an adventure which has deeply interested me, and will, I have no doubt, produce as much excitement in your mind as it has done in my own. When we had been at Turin about ten days, Mr. Otway, Emily, and I, returned late one evening from a _scramble_ amongst the rocky scenery by which we are surrounded, and found George Bentley seated with the rest of the party. You may imagine that the meeting affected us all. Poor fellow, he is a sincere mourner for his uncle’s loss, and is grown more serious than I ever saw him; but he is one whom I shall always love, and we all felt at sight of him as if Glenalta had come over to pay us a visit. After George had rested for a day or two we made our final arrangements, which had been pending for some time previous to his arrival, for the projected excursion into the vallies. It was ruled in congress that we juniors should not all desert the home party together; and as it was considered likely that at a future day when you rejoin us, another _sortie_ may be determined upon; Stanley volunteered in remaining with my uncle, while Fanny begged to be left as guardian of my mother. To begin then, methodically, you may fancy the travelling party consisting of Mr. Otway, Falkland, George Bentley, Emily, Charlotte, and myself, in full march, on the fifteenth ultimo, issuing from the Posta Nuova, and taking the high road to Pinerolo. The Po rolled impetuously on its course, and brought to my mind those lines of Virgil, which describe its rushing flood, when swelled by the tributary waters of spring:-- “Proluit insano contorquens vortice Sylvas, Fluviorum rex Eridanus camposque per omnes, Cum stabulis armenta tulit;” appeared as just a character as could be given of this classic river, as we passed along for some miles in view of its winding course. The beautiful plains of the Cottian Alps were left behind us, when we quitted Pinerolo, and we soon opened on the rugged scenery which surrounds Pomaretto, which we entered on foot, so difficult was its approach. The valley of Perosa had much to interest us. We passed through that of Pragella, and wondered at the dreariness of the prospect. “Man wants but little here below, Nor wants that little long,” burst simultaneously from the lips of Emily and Falkland, as we gazed on the barren district before us.