THE DAWN OF DAY. 7 
It matters not; for who shall rightly determine what is really great 
or little? Everything is great, everything important, everything equal 
in the bosom of nature and the impartiality of universal love. And 
where is it more perceptible than in the infinite travail of the little 
organic world on which our eyes were fixed? To lift them towards 
the mountains, or lower them towards the insects, was one and the 
same thing. 
EXTRACT FROM MADAME MICHELET’S JOURNAL. 
“On the 20th of July, a very hot day, but freshened nevertheless 
by the morning breeze which disported on the lake between Chillon 
and Clarens, I went out for a walk alone, my husband remaining in- 
doors to write. The sun shot athwart our valleys of the Pays de Vaud, 
and poured his full splendour on the opposite mountains of Savoy. The 
lake, already illumined, reflected the sharp ridges of the rocks, whose 
base, clothed in pastures, lends life and freshness to its borders. 
“ By-and-by the sun turned, and the scene changed. A warm ray of 
light penetrated beyond Chillon, the long defile of the Valais, illuminated 
the pointed Dent du Midi, and coloured in vapour the summit of the 
remote St. Bernard. But to this scene of glory I preferred the morning 
hour, when our Montreux reposed in shadow. It was the hour of divine 
service at its little church, whose terrace, half-way down the slope, 
propped up by sharp acclivities, wooded, and therefore obscure, pours 
out the crystal waters on the thirsty vineyards lying below. Beneath 
the terrace a beautiful mossy grot, glittering with stalactites, preserves 
