To sit down toward the evening on the summit of the Klopp--to see the
town at its base, with an immense horizon on all sides, the mountains
overshadowing all--to see the slated roofs smoking, the shadows
lengthening, and the scenery breathing to life the verses of Virgil--to
respire at once the wind which rustles the leaves, the breeze of the
flood, and the gale of the mountain--is an exquisite and inexpressible
pleasure, full of secret enjoyment, which is veiled by the grandeur of
the spectacle, by the intensity of contemplation. At the windows of
huts, young women, their eyes fixt upon their work, are gaily singing;
among the weeds that grow round the ruins birds whistle and pair; barks
are crossing the river, and the sound of oars splashing in the water,
and unfurling of sails, reaches our ears. The washerwomen of the Rhine
spread their clothes on the bushes; and those of the Nahe, their legs
and feet naked, beat their linen upon floating rafts, and laugh at some
poor artist as he sketches Ehrenfels.
The sun sets, night comes on, the slated roofs of the houses appear as
one, the mountains congregate and take the aspect of an immense dark
body; and the washerwomen, with bundles on their heads, return
cheerfully to their cabins; the noise subsides, the voices are hushed; a
faint light, resembling the reflections of the other world upon the
countenance of a dying man, is for a short time observable on the
Ehrenfels; then all is dark, except the tower of Hatto, which, tho
scarcely seen in the day, makes its appearance at night, amid a light
smoke and the reverberation of the forge.
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