Evidently
She Is Beside Herself, And Thinks She Can Remember The Names Of Those
Monsters, Born Of Earthquake And Storm, Which Cannot Be Named Nor
Known But By Sight, And Then Are Known At Once, Perfectly And Forever.
Mountains are Nature's testimonials of anguish.
They are the sharp cry
of a groaning and travailing creation. Nature's stern agony writes
itself on these furrowed brows of gloomy stone. These reft and
splintered crags stand, the dreary images of patient sorrow, existing
verdureless and stern because exist they must. In them hearts that
have ceased to rejoice, and have learned to suffer, find kindred, and
here, an earth worn with countless cycles of sorrow, utters to the
stars voices of speechless despair.
And all this time no dinner! All this time H. is at the glacier! How
do I know but she has fallen into a _crevasse_? How do I know but
that a cliff, one of those ice castles, those leaning turrets, those
frosty spearmen, have toppled over upon her? I shudder at the
reflection. I will write no more.
I had just written thus far, when in came H. and W. in high feather.
O, I had lost the greatest sight in Switzerland! There was such a
chasm, a mountain cut in twain, with a bridge, and a man to throw a
stone down; and you could hear it go _boom_, and _he held his
hat!_ "Not a doubt of that," said I. Then there was a cavern in the
ice, and the ice was so green, and the water dripped from the roof,
and a great river rushed out.
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