ng back behind him down the precipice. I should be giddy
to see such a shadow of my own. I should doubt if it would consent to
be drawn up by the heels to the summit of the mountain--whether it
would not rather drag me down with it into the abyss.

* * * * *

I have seen hills on which lay the clear unclouded sky, making them
blue as itself. I have gazed on those beautiful far-receding
valleys--as the valley of the Rhone--when they have appeared to
collect and retain the azure ether. They were full of Heaven. Angels
might breathe that air. And yet I better love the interchange, the
wild combination of cloud and mountain. Not cloud that intercepts the
sun, but that reflects its brilliancy, and brightens round the hills.
It is but a gorgeous drapery that the sky lets fall on the broad
Herculean shoulders of the mountain. No, it should not intercept the
beams of the great luminary; for the mountain loves the light. I have
observed that the twilight, so grateful to the plain, is mortal to the
mountain. It craves light--it lifts up its great chalice for
light--this great flower is the first to close, to fade, at the
withdrawal of the sun. It stretches up to heaven seeking light; it
cannot have too much--under the strongest beam it never droops--its
brow is never dazzled.

But then these clouds, you will tell me, that hover about the
mountain, all wing, all plumage, with just so much of substance for
light to live in them--these very clouds can descend, and thicken, and
blacken, and cover all things with an inexpressible gloom. True, and
the mountain, or what is seen of it, becomes now the very image of a
great and unfathomable sorrow. And only the great can express a great
sadness. This aspect of nature shall never by me be forgotten; nor
will I ever shrink from encountering it. If you would know the gloom
of heart which nature can betray, as well as the glory it can
manifest, you must visit the mountains. For days together, clouds,
huge, dense, unwieldy, lie heavily upon the hills--which stand, how
mute, how mournful!--as if they, too, knew of death. And look at the
little lake at their feet. What now is its tranquillity when not a
single sunbeam plays upon it? Better the earth opened and received it,
and hid for ever its leaden despondency. And now there comes the
paroxysm of terror and despair; deep thunders are heard, and a madness
flashes forth in the vivid lightning. There is desperati