It cost me something of a pang to lose that fine sight, but I lived down the desire, and gained in my self-respect through the triumph.  I had a finer and a grander sight, however, where I was.  This was the mighty dome of the Jungfrau softly outlined against the sky and faintly silvered by the starlight.  There was something subduing in the influence of that silent and solemn and awful presence; one seemed to meet the immutable, the indestructible, the eternal, face to face, and to feel the trivial and fleeting nature of his own existence the more sharply by the contrast.  One had the sense of being under the brooding contemplation of a spirit, not an inert mass of rocks and ice—­a spirit which had looked down, through the slow drift of the ages, upon a million vanished races of men, and judged them; and would judge a million more—­and still be there, watching, unchanged and unchangeable, after all life should be gone and the earth have become a vacant desolation.

While I was feeling these things, I was groping, without knowing it, toward an understanding of what the spell is which people find in the Alps, and in no other mountains—­that strange, deep, nameless influence, which, once felt, cannot be forgotten—­once felt, leaves always behind it a restless longing to feel it again—­a longing which is like homesickness; a grieving, haunting yearning which will plead, implore, and persecute till it has its will.  I met dozens of people, imaginative and unimaginative, cultivated and uncultivated, who had come from far countries and roamed through the Swiss Alps year after year—­they could not explain why.  They had come first, they said, out of idle curiosity, because everybody talked about it; they had come since because they could not help it, and they should keep on coming, while they lived, for the same reason; they had tried to break their chains and stay away, but it was futile; now, they had no desire to break them.  Others came nearer formulating what they felt; they said they could find perfect rest and peace nowhere else when they were troubled:  all frets and worries and chafings sank to sleep in the presence of the benignant serenity of the Alps; the Great Spirit of the Mountain breathed his own peace upon their hurt minds and sore hearts, and healed them; they could not think base thoughts or do mean and sordid things here, before the visible throne of God.

Down the road a piece was a Kursaal—­whatever that may be —­and we joined the human tide to see what sort of enjoyment it might afford.  It was the usual open-air concert, in an ornamental garden, with wines, beer, milk, whey, grapes, etc.—­the whey and the grapes being necessaries of life to certain invalids whom physicians cannot repair, and who only continue to exist by the grace of whey or grapes.  One of these departed spirits told me, in a sad and lifeless way, that there is no way for him to live but by whey, and dearly, dearly loved whey, he didn’t know whey he did, but he did.  After making this pun he died—­that is the whey it served him.