subdued afternoon sunshine, are nearly perfect purple and of an exquisite tone), as well as in ploughed fields and dark ground in general. But among mountains, in addition to all this, large unbroken spaces of pure violet and purple are introduced in their distances; and even near, by films of cloud passing over the darkness of ravines or forests, blues are produced of the most subtle tenderness, these azures and purples passing into rose colour of otherwise wholly unattainable delicacy among the upper summits, the blue of the sky being at the same time purer and deeper than in the plains. Nay, in some sense, a person who has never seen the rose colour of the rays of dawn crossing a blue mountain twelve or fifteen miles away, can hardly be said to know what tenderness in colour means at all. Bright tenderness he may, indeed, see in the sky or in a flower, but this grave tenderness of the far-away hill-purples, he cannot conceive."
"Grey mist rests on the hills."
Tyndall, speaking of the scene from the summit of the little Scheideck[1], says:—"The upper air exhibited a commotion which we did not experience; clouds were wildly driven against the flanks of the Eiger, the Jungfrau thundered behind, while in front of us a magnificent rainbow, fixing one of its arms in the valley of Grindelwald, and throwing the other right over the crown of the Wetterhorn, claped the mountain in its embrace. Through jagged apertures in the clouds floods of golden light were poured down the sides of the mountain. On the slopes were innummerable châlets, glistening in the sunbeams, herds browsing peacefully and shaking their mellow bells; while the blackness of the pine trees, crowded into woods, or scattered in pleasant clusters over Alp and valley, contrasted forcibly with the lively green of the fields."
These were the summer scenes, but the autumn and winter again have a grandeur and beauty of their own.
"Autumn is dark on the mountains; grey mist rests on the hills. The whirlwind is heard on the heath. Dark rolls the river through the narrow plain. The leaves twirl round with the wind, and strew the grave of the dead."[2]
Even bad weather often only adds to the beauty and grandeur of mountains. When the lower parts are hidden, and the peaks stand out above the clouds, they look much loftier than if the whole mountain side is visible. The gloom lends a weirdness and mystery, while flying clouds give it additional variety.
Rain, moreover, adds vividness to the colouring. The leaves and grass become a brighter green. "Every sunburnt rock glows into an agate," and when fine weather returns the new snow gives intense brilliance to the scene, and invests the woods especially with the beauty of fairy-land. How often in Alpine districts have I longed "for the wings of a dove" more thoroughly to enjoy and more completely to explore the mysteries and recesses of the mountains. The mind, however, can go, even if the body must remain behind.
Each hour of the day has a beauty of its own. The mornings and evenings, again,
