tailor ran over with sentimentalism in the words--

"Sadly by the rose-beds now I weep,
Where the late moon found us oft alone!
Moaning where the silver fountains sleep,
Once which whispered joy in every tone."

* * * * *

The hills here became steeper, the fir-woods below were like a green
sea, and white clouds above sailed along over the blue sky. The wildness
of the region was, as it were, tamed by its uniformity and the
simplicity of its elements. Nature, like a true poet, abhors abrupt
transitions. Clouds, however fantastically formed they may at times
appear, still have a white, or at least a subdued hue, harmoniously
corresponding with the blue heaven and the green earth; so that all the
colors of a landscape blend into one another like soft music, and every
glance at such a natural picture tranquilizes and reassures the soul.
The late Hofmann would have painted the clouds spotted and chequered.
And, like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest
effects with the most limited means. She has, after all, only a sun,
trees, flowers, water, and love to work with. Of course, if the latter
be lacking in the heart of the observer, the whole will, in all
probability, present but a poor appearance; the sun is then only so many
miles in diameter, the trees are good for firewood, the flowers are
classified according to their stamens, and the water is wet.

A little boy who was gathering brushwood in the forest for his sick
uncle pointed out to me the village of Lerrbach, whose little huts with
gray roofs lie scattered along for over a mile through the valley.
"There," said he, "live idiots with goitres, and white negroes." By
white negroes the people mean "albinos." The little fellow lived on
terms of peculiar understanding with the trees, addressing them like old
acquaintances, while they in turn seemed by their waving and rustling to
return his salutations. He chirped like a thistle-finch; many birds
around answered his call, and, ere I was aware, he had disappeared amid
the thickets with his little bare feet and his bundle of brush.
"Children," thought I, "are younger than we; they can remember when they
were once trees or birds, and are consequently still able to understand
them. We of larger growth are, alas, too old for that, and carry about
in our heads too many sorrows and bad verses and too much legal lore."
But the time when it was otherwise recurred vividly