the window, and the great walnut-tree stretched up, towards the evening heaven, its young, red-brown leaf-buds upon its yet naked branches, whilst above the quiet, verdant grounds stood the new moon in the hour of twilight. It was wonderfully tranquil and fresh; wonderfully pleasing! It produced at once a soothing and solemn effect upon my mind. Home, sweet home!
Those “living waters,” these fresh streams from the great ice-fountains in the bosom of the Alps, which murmur through the whole neighborhood of Jargonaut,[1] are now nearly dried up on this little property, but I feel the breath of the living waters in the atmosphere, in the domestic life, within which my own life is now flowing on quietly. The cheerful piety and affection, the silent activity, the inner life which prevails there, like a blooming spring-time, and united together all its members, the good, old parents, the young daughters, who are eyes to the half-blind mother and hands to the aged father, whose hands are crippled by rheumatic pains; the one servant of the family, so pleasant and so clever at the same time; the hours of worship, morning and evening, which assemble all; the cheerful meal-times—all were good!
How good it was for me to be there; how precious and agreeable to become acquainted with a family at once so excellent and so happy! For, as yet, no sorrow had approached this home; no adversity. The
- ↑ Naut signifies, in the old language of the country, a little stream, or beck.—Author's Note.
