e sunset. It is
truly a sublime spectacle, which tunes the soul to prayer. For a full
quarter of an hour all stood in solemn silence, gazing on the beautiful
fire-ball as it gradually sank in the west; our faces were bathed in the
rosy light; our hands were involuntarily folded; it seemed as if we, a
silent congregation, stood in the nave of a giant cathedral, that the
priest raised the body of the Lord, and the Palestrina's immortal hymns
poured forth from the organ.

As I stood thus, lost in devotion, I heard some one near me exclaim,
"Ah, how beautiful Nature is, as a general thing!" These words came from
the sentimental heart of my room-mate, the young merchant. They brought
me back to my week-day frame of mind, and I was now able to say a few
neat things to the ladies about the sunset and to accompany them, as
calmly as if nothing had happened, to their room. They permitted me to
talk an hour longer with them. Our conversation, like the earth's
course, was about the sun. The mother declared that the sun, as it sank
in the snowy clouds, seemed like a red glowing rose, which the gallant
heaven had thrown upon the white outspreading bridal-veil of his loved
earth. The daughter smiled, and thought that a frequent observation of
such phenomena weakened their impression. The mother corrected this
error by a quotation from Goethe's _Letters of Travel_, and asked me if
I had read _Werther_. I believe that we also spoke of Angora cats,
Etruscan vases, Turkish shawls, maccaroni, and Lord Byron, from whose
poems the elder lady, daintly lisping and sighing, recited several
passages about the sunset. To the younger lady, who did not understand
English, and who wished to become familiar with those poems, I
recommended the translation of my fair and gifted countrywoman, the
Baroness Elise von Hohenhausen. On this occasion, as is my custom when
talking with young ladies, I did not fail to declaim against Byron's
godlessness, heartlessness, cheerlessness, and heaven knows what
besides.

After this business I took a walk on the Brocken, for there it is never
quite dark. The mist was not heavy, and I could see the outlines of the
two hills known as the Witch's Altar and the Devil's Pulpit. I fired my
pistol, but there was no echo. Suddenly, however, I heard familiar
voices and found myself embraced and kissed. The newcomers were
fellow-students from my own part of Germany, and had left Goettingen four
days later than I. Great was t