a merry life of it, for
the wine-cellar of the abbey furnished the French army 50,000 measures
for several days in succession. The shores of the Danube here are
extremely beautiful. The valley where it spreads out, is filled with
groves, but where the hills approach the stream, its banks are rocky and
precipitous, like the Rhine. Although not so picturesque as the latter
river, the scenery of the Danube is on a grander scale. On the south
side the mountains bend down to it with a majestic sweep, and there
must be delightful glances into the valleys that lie between, in passing
down the current.

But we soon left the river, and journeyed on through the enchanting
inland vales. To give an idea of the glorious enjoyment of traveling
through such scenes, let me copy a leaf out of my journal, written as we
rested at noon on the top of a lofty hill:--"Here, while the delightful
mountain breeze that comes fresh from the Alps cools my forehead, and
the pines around are sighing their eternal anthem, I seize a few moments
to tell what a paradise is around me. I have felt an elevation of mind
and spirit, a perfect rapture from morning till night, since we left
Vienna. It is the brightest and balmiest June weather; an ever fresh
breeze sings through the trees and waves the ripening grain on the
verdant meadows and hill-slopes. The air is filled with bird-music. The
larks sing above us out of sight, the bullfinch wakes his notes in the
grove, and at eve the nightingale pours forth her thrilling strain. The
meadows are literally covered with flowers--beautiful purple salvias,
pinks such as we have at home in our gardens and glowing buttercups,
color the banks of every stream. I never saw richer or more luxuriant
foliage. Magnificent forests clothe the hills, and the villages are
imbedded in fruit trees, shrubbery and flowers. Sometimes we go for
miles through some enchanting valley, lying like a paradise between the
mountains, while the distant, white Alps look on it from afar; sometimes
over swelling ranges of hills, where we can see to the right the valley
of the Danube, threaded by his silver current and dotted with white
cottages and glittering spires, and farther beyond, the blue mountains
of the Bohemian Forest. To the left, the range of the Styrian Alps
stretches along the sky, summit above summit, the farther ones robed in
perpetual snow. I could never tire gazing on those glorious hills. They
fill the soul with a conception