Berne, June.—“To-day the mountains may be seen. It is clear,” said the waiter at the Crown Hotel, as he handed me my morning coffee. I dispatched my breakfast in all haste and then went out. It had rained and been stormy during the night, but now it was bright and I could see the mountains.
I stood upon the lofty terrace of the Cathedral and looked around me. Yes, it was bright, indescribably bright and glorious. The splendor of heaven and earth seemed to me twofold. Far below my feet rushed the rapid Aar through verdant meadows, and there, encircling the distant horizon in their white draperies, stood the pyramids of the Alpine land, Schreckhorn, Doldenhorn, Finster-Aarhorn, Eiger, Monch, Yungfrau with its Silverhorn, and whatever other names they may bear, those primeval Titans, the beautiful and magnificent forms of Switzerland. They were quiet now, those ancient assaulters of Heaven. The Lord of Heaven had scattered over them a handful of snow and they were turned to stone. And now in helmet and armor of eternal ice they stand and reflect the glory of the sun. Oh, how white, how beautiful they looked, and how their majesty was enhanced by him. The storm of the preceding night had gathered itself into little islets of clouds which were collected in dark specks at their feet and there vanished, dissolved by the sunbeams and attracted by the concealed spirits of the mountains to the springs in their bosoms.
How my soul's eyes and ears drank in this sight, and listened to the voices which spoke to me from it!
“Have confidence in the sun! Let not thy courage
