People talk a great deal about the rapid change which the sunset produces amongst the Alps. But this moment, their summits shone in gold and crimson; and the next, they pale, become ashy-gray, and stand, so to speak, a corpse. And this is true. But I have never heard any remark made about that which, however, is in the highest degree worthy of observation, namely: of the after-glow—the second brightness which lights up these snow-covered summits a short time after they have been observed,—a transfiguration which, during clear evenings, increases gradually, and illumines the heavens above them, to the very zenith, till one is sometimes ready to question whether the sun is not about to rise again; whether it is not the crimson of a new morning. The contemplation of this spectacle is a great enjoyment to me. I have sometimes seen this second brightness, such as to remind me of “that second light” of which our northern sages speak, which extends on to the midnight.
In order not to weary thee, my R——, by talking about these eternal mountains, their height, and their beauty, I will, once for all, tell thee what they told me, that is to say, when I became well acquainted with them. Because, often enough, I have felt myself more oppressed than elevated by their immensity and immovability. But I am now on good terms with them, and have come to understand their silent language to mankind.
They stand in nature, like the prophets of the Old Testament, or more correctly speaking, like the old wise men and teachers of the Pagan world, and point
