It seemed to me, that I
could see a funeral train creeping along; the monks, with their black
cloaks, carrying tapers, and singing psalms; the whole procession
together not larger in proportion than a swarm of black gnats; and
yet, perhaps, hearts there wrung with an infinite sorrow.
In that
black, moving point, may be a soul, whose convulsions and agonies
cannot be measured or counted by any thing human, so impossible is it
to measure souls by space.
What can they think of, these creatures, who are born in this strange
place, half way between heaven and earth, to whom the sound of
avalanches is a cradle hymn, and who can never see the sun above the
top of the cliff on either side, till he really gets into the zenith?
What they can be thinking of I cannot tell. Life, I suppose, is made
up of the same prosaic material there that it is every where. The
mother thinks how she shall make her goat's milk and black bread hold
out. The grandmother knits stockings, and runs out to see if Jaques or
Pierre have not tumbled over the precipice. Jaques and Pierre, in
return, tangle grandmother's yarn, upset mother's milk bucket, pull
the goat's beard, tear their clothes to pieces on the bushes and
rocks, and, in short, commit incredible abominations daily, just as
children do every where.
In the night how curiously this little nest of houses must look,
lighted up, winking and blinking at the solitary traveller, like some
mysterious eyes looking out of a great eternity!
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