The Crypt Of St. Zeno's Church.

For some mysterious reason, however, St. Zeno seemed to accomplish little for Meran, and his prestige and popularity diminished. Perhaps if the town had suffered less from inundations, the sanctuary of the saint would not have been allowed to crumble to decay. As for the castle, it is renowned as having been one of the earliest residences of the Tyrolese counts, and was especially prominent in the fourteenth century, as the favorite abode of the pleasure-loving Heinrich, father of the famous Margaret Maultasch, of whose adventurous life we shall find many interesting traces when we arrive at Schloss Tyrol.

Along The Passer.

Among the most conspicuous and, in the right season, beautiful features of the Meran valley are its vineyards. Unlike the vineries of Switzerland and the Rhine, where myriads of upright poles stand stiffly on the hillsides, adorned with somewhat scanty evidences of the gifts of Bacchus, the South Tyrolean vineyards climb the mountain sides in a vast series of arcades, made out of rustic porticos, or skeleton sheds, of which the only covering is the foliage of the vine. The practical result of this arrangement is that the grapes, spread out upon square miles of mammoth frames, receive an immense amount of light and heat.

In A Meran Vineyard.

Artistically, this mode of viticulture is enchanting; since all the mountain flanks are mantled with a labyrinth of grape arbors, presenting to the passer-by innumerable leafy avenues, from whose green roofs hang presently those white or purple clusters of imprisoned sunshine, destined to turn to drops of sweetness on the lips of men.

Arcaded Vineyards Ranged In Terraces.

In May one lives here in a region of surpassing loveliness. Aside from a profusion of the choicest roses, the blossoming vines themselves perfume the entire region with a subtile odor, which seems a delicate blending of violet and mignonette, combined with a faint trace of new-mown hay. One can then literally walk for miles within these corridors of scented bloom, and scarcely ever lose the sound of rippling streams. Some of these vine-roofed galleries are made to serve a double purpose, since in them most of the vegetables cultivated here are planted. The solar rays, falling directly on the plants, would either burn them or produce too forced a growth; hence the broad grape leaves bear the brunt of the first fiery lances of the sun, which, when they reach the undergrowth below, are bent and harmless. As the season advances, the beauty of chese Tyrolese vineyards is enhanced by the repeated spraying of their foliage with copperas water, which gives to it a rich, metallic hue of bluish green.

A Corridor Of Scented Bloom.

But it is in the autumn that their glory is especially apparent; for then, at the approach of frost, this forest of innumerable vine leaves glows with brilliant colors, till the ascending terraces suggest superbly cushioned seats in a gigantic amphitheatre, or broad cascades of molten gold, descending silently from some celestial treasury. In looking on such scenes, and then, above them, at the pure, white snow, which often at the vintage time already crowns the summits piercing the serene and cloudless sky, one's heart responds to their suggestions of the infinite, as an Æolian harp, touched by a breath of heaven, thrills with the divinest chords. A few weeks later, when the luscious grapes are gathered, and the leaves have fallen, and the glory of the vineland has departed, these trellised corridors look gray and bare. Yet, even in winter, they at times regain a transitory loveliness, hardly less alluring than their autumn splendor. This happens when their forms are outlined in the dazzling whiteness of new-fallen snow. Then every shaft is so bedecked with the soft element, that the unlovely galleries of yesterday are transformed into porticos of crystal, beautiful beyond description, as they rise, tier on tier, and terrace above terrace, and bind the mountain sides with silver chains. At such a time, when night draws on, the atmosphere seems filled with powdered pearls, through which the lights of happy households gleam like jewels. Meanwhile, innumerable evergreens, in soft, white wrappings, stand like richly laden Christmas trees; and, on the surrounding hills, the boughs of countless pines and firs, bending beneath their spotless burden, suggest half-folded wings, as if a heavenly host had just alighted, to gaze in silence on a scene of more than earthly beauty.