He and his sorrow seemed dwarfed, for the moment, by the grand magnificence of the world as God made it—not the world of cities, but the world of Nature. His hand was visible in the grouping of the Alpine giants, in the variegated beauty of their hidden vales, and beneath that hand the traveller felt himself.
Of carriages and mules he would have none. With his staff in his hand he crossed the mountains, courting the healthy physical weariness, sure precursor of that which denies itself to the brain overwrought by excitement—blessed sleep. And with the exertion and consequent rest his health returned, his muscles played freely, Life carried on her great functions with ease. By the time he had reached Grindelwald, the little village in which he intended to stay for some time, even some of his cynicism had melted. Doubtless it was only for the time. Nature can do much, but she cannot really draw the sting of bitter aching from the heart, or give back to the spirit the brightness and elasticity of that fresh time when men are divine and women are earth-angels, and the world is a region of enchantment, a "palace of delights;" even the eternal snows and the grand sights and sounds of the mountain-country may pall upon the eyes and sicken the disappointed heart. For in human nature are the elements of the divine—its infinite cravings only the Infinite can fill. Beautiful as God's world may be, it is powerless to fill the heart or satisfy the soul of man. Hither and thither he may wander; like the dying poet Shelley's marvellous creation,
"Nature's most secret steps
He, like her shadow, may pursue;"
and yet for the haunting vision, the great unfound loveliness, the unfelt joy, his spirit may sicken unceasingly.