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164
Glaucus; Or, The Wonders of the Shore
·
Charles Kingsley
23
And
even,
to
take
a
simpler
instance,
there
are
those
who
will
excuse,
or
even
approve
of,
a
writer
for
saying
that,
among
the
memories
of
a
month’s
eventful
tour,
those
which
stand
out
as
beacon-points,
those
round
which
all
the
others
group
themselves,
are
the
first
wolf-track
by
the
road-side
in
the
Kyllwald;
the
first
sight
of
the
blue
and
green
Roller-birds,
walking
behind
the
plough
like
rooks
in
the
tobacco-fields
of
Wittlich;
the
first
ball
of
Olivine
scraped
out
of
the
volcanic
slag-heaps
of
the
Dreisser-Weiher;
the
first
pair
of
the
Lesser
Bustard
flushed
upon
the
downs
of
the
Mosel-kopf;
the
first
sight
of
the
cloud
of
white
Ephemeræ,
fluttering
in
the
dusk
like
a
summer
snowstorm
between
us
and
the
black
cliffs
of
the
Rheinstein,
while
the
broad
Rhine
beneath
flashed
blood-red
in
the
blaze
of
the
lightning
and
the
fires
of
the
Mausenthurm—
a
lurid
Acheron
above
which
seemed
to
hover
ten
thousand
unburied
ghosts;
and
last,
but
not
least,
on
the
lip
of
the
vast
Mosel-kopf
crater—
just
above
the
point
where
the
weight
of
the
fiery
lake
has
burst
the
side
of
the
great
slag-cup,
and
rushed
forth
between
two
cliffs
of
clink-stone
across
the
downs,
in
a
clanging
stream
of
fire,
damming
up
rivulets,
and
blasting
its
path
through
forests,
far
away
toward
the
valley
of
the
Moselle—
the
sight
of
an
object
for
which
was
forgotten
for
the
moment
that
battle-field
of
the
Titans
at
our
feet,
and
the
glorious
panorama,
Hundsruck
and
Taunus,
Siebengebirge
and
Ardennes,
and
all
the
crater
peaks
around;
and
which
was—
smile
not,
reader—
our
first
yellow
foxglove.
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