After ascending for hours in zigzags through pine woods, where the
only sound was of the little streams trotting down to the valley
below, or the distant hush of some thin waterfall, he reached a
level, and came out of the woods. The path now led along the edge
of a precipice descending sheer to the uppermost terrace of the
valley he had left. The valley was but a cleft in the mass of the
mountain: a little way over sank its other wall, steep as a
plumb-line could have made it, of solid rock. On his right lay
green fields of clover and strange grasses. Ever and anon from the
cleft steamed up great blinding clouds of mist, which now wandered
about over the nations of rocks on the mountain side beyond the
gulf, now wrapt himself in their bewildering folds. In one moment
the whole creation had vanished, and there seemed scarce existence
enough left for more than the following footstep; the next, a mighty
mountain stood in front, crowned with blinding snow, an awful fact;
the lovely heavens were over his head, and the green sod under his
feet; the grasshoppers chirped about him, and the gorgeous
butterflies flew. From regions far beyond came the bells of the
kine and the goats. He reached a little inn, and there took up his
quarters.
I am able to be a little minute in my description, because I have
since visited the place myself. Great heights rise around it on all
sides. It stands as between heaven and hell, suspended between
peaks and gulfs.
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