brunn and the awfully romantic Ammertenthal: in the distance roared the torrents which, for thousands of years, have poured their never-failing tribute into the valleys; still farther down glistened the flames of the smelting-houses. From the hills round about me resounded the solitary tinkling of the bells of the dispersed cattle, now and then intermingled with the bleating of a young kid, or the hum of a droning beetle.
The evening was mild and serene; a slight breeze blew refreshingly from the glaciers, and millions of flowers of all hues perfumed the pure mountain air with their aromatic fragrance. It was one of the most delicious moments of my life. From my couch, enamelled with clover blossom, I contemplated with increasing rapture the wonders of the unexplored regions of snow above me. An indefinable sensation of delight pervaded me: I could have given utterance to my joy aloud, had not a certain feeling of humility or melancholy chained my tongue. I cannot describe it; but it seemed to me as if I had never felt so devout. The colossal mountains of granite and the sparkling seas of ice before me—what were they but a speck to the myriads of worlds that bespangle the nocturnal sky!
I folded my hands and prayed; never was I so sensible of the presence of God. All at once I heard the sound of distant footsteps. “Some
