in lines clear and strong, upon the limpid blue sky tying cloudless and serene above. The subject is one which frequently engages the pencil or the brush of the amateur; but the situation is public, and one cannot attempt a sketch without inviting inquisitive looks by crowds of those who are too polite to stop and hang over one’s head in heaps, like the wondering and intently watchful, concerned, and admiring _gamins_ of the street, but who are rude enough sometimes to pass repeatedly back and forward, shaking the bridge with every footfall, and jostling each other and the artist for a look over the shoulder as they pass. The scene is one which I never could tire of beholding. It has been photographed, but photographs never give a mountain view with the clearness and effect of a good drawing. * * * * * But leaving the bridge and proceeding to the Avenue de la Gare, we find on inquiry that this is the commencement of the road to Turin, which is nearly 100 miles off, although about half way it is met by a railway from Cuneo to Turin, and is now all but superseded for traffic by the coast railway towards Genoa, the direct line to Turin branching off at Savona, making a distance by rail of about, according to my calculation, 183 miles. This road is the only one up the valleys which can be traversed for any distance. A strong current of air frequently blows down the valley and renders it occasionally in its shady parts a cold walk for the invalid, who must in winter months carry wraps for use when either he gets out of sunshine or the sun retires behind a cloud. This current is, I presume, the cause of the west bay being cooler than the east. It is, however, a charming walk up the road, level for nearly two miles, and the greater part of the way—indeed, almost the whole of it—being fringed with trees. For a little distance after passing under the railway viaduct, pretty houses, in gardens full of orange and lemon trees covered with fruit, are seen on both sides of the river; and in spring, women are constantly met bearing on their heads to town immense basketfuls of lemons and oranges. Farther on, and on emerging from the shade of the monastery hill, a curious range of oil–mills has been placed like steps one over the other on the slope of the hill, driven each by a separate water wheel of large diameter—the same water, apparently, by an economical arrangement, driving the wheels successively as it falls. Some way beyond these mills, the road begins to ascend and to wind, and, as the valley closes in, thickly planted with trees on both sides, seems to become more and more inviting; while peeps are had of Castellar, high overhead, on the right, embosomed among olive groves. Rocky mountains, bold and bluff, oppose themselves nearer and nearer to the spectator; the small village of Monti and its white church and long spire is attained, and after some miles by a zig–zag road, the summit, upwards of 2000 feet