INSPRUCK, _June_ 4_th_.
No sooner had we passed Fuezen than we entered the Tyrol, and the country
of wonders. Those lofty peaks, those steeps of wood I delight in, lay
before us. Innumerable clear springs gush out on every side, overhung by
luxuriant shrubs in blossom. The day was mild, though overcast, and a
soft blue vapour rested upon the hills, above which rise mountains that
bear plains of snow into the clouds.
At night we lay at Nasariet, a village buried amongst savage
promontories. The next morning we advanced, in bright sunshine, into
smooth lawns on the slopes of mountains, scattered over with larches,
whose delicate foliage formed a light green veil to the azure sky.
Flights of birds were merrily travelling from spray to spray. I ran
delighted into this world of boughs, whilst C. sat down to draw the huts
which are scattered about for the shelter of herds, and discover
themselves amongst the groves in the most picturesque manner.
These little edifices are uncommonly neat, and excite those ideas of
pastoral life to which I am so fondly attached. The turf from whence
they rise is enamelled, in the strict sense of the word, with flowers. A
sort of bluebell predominated, brighter than ultramarine; here and there
auriculas looked out of the moss, and I often reposed upon tufts of
ranunculus. Bushes of phillerea were very frequent, the sun shining full
on their glossy leaves. An hour passed away swiftly in these pleasant
groves, where I lay supine under a lofty fir, a tower of leaves and
branches.