moods, which modern authors feel obliged to make? As if, for instance, any one could form an idea of water by being told that it consists of hydrogen and oxygen in a proportion of one to two, even if one were well acquainted with both of them. Surely it would take God Himself to do so, and then he eo ipso has created it, so that would be nothing to boast of. I can only say this much, that my heart was beating fast when I came up the hill, and I often stopped to look down into the valley, in which the little lights moved about, and where, in some places, a small shining lattice lit up the surrounding foliage, while around I felt rather than saw the steep rocks, all of which seemed to be the same distance from me.
On the stone step, leading up to the door, I saw one more lonely little spark, spreading its phosphorescent light. I lit a match and discovered a small grey, hairy insect, which was again turned into a spark as the match went out. However, I was afraid to disturb it, as I had a mysterious feeling for this glow-worm, which now, for three nights in succession, had been in the same place, in the inner corner of the step near the cellar window; and I had made sure that it was not there during the day. What was stirring in such a tiny creature, that, night after night, it found its way to this enchanted spot? Had it, perchance, been disappointed each time and still patiently returned with its erotic lantern of Diogenes, not searching for what it had found now—a human being—but a mate? and did it stay there in the hope that its burning love, in this conspicuous position, would attract its object?… Has, perhaps, a secret constant passion, such as this, an irresistible power in us also, though in our case hidden, while in the case of the glow-worm one can literally "see the heart burning through the waistcoat"?
