170 John Bachman. 



the outer edges are wreathed with silver. The 

 houses situated on the very banks, cast their images 

 on the ahnost unbroken mirror before me. The 

 only bird that is flitting over the lake is the Euro- 

 pean " Stormy Petrel.'" The representative of a 

 storm seems out of place on this lovely, placid lake. 



I looked behind me ; how different the scene I 

 Dark and murky clouds are hanging over the snow- 

 clad Alps, and the setting sun renders the wintry 

 scene more desolate. Fogs from the thawing of 

 the ice arise from the valleys, and the rugged rocks 

 seem to extend their arms to protect the stunted 

 plants that are growing in their crevices. Now, as 

 we enter the little harbor of Constance, the sun is 

 casting his last shadows on the lake. The boat is 

 moving slowly. The sun seems to set almost behind 

 the waters, rising and sinking at the moment of his 

 departure, and leaving a golden stream on the edges 

 of the neighboring cloud, reminding me of the last 

 hours of a just man's life — calmly, as the setting- 

 sun, his day closes, and the bright light of his ex- 

 ample is left to edify and to gladden the world. For 

 half an hour after sunset, the golden hue lingered 

 on the waters. It softened and faded, and ray after 

 ray so impercej^tibly left the unruftied wave, that 

 my meditations were only broken off by the land- 

 ing of the boat, which reminded me that darkness 

 had set in. 



Freyhurg, September 18/// ; Presented myself yes- 

 terday afternoon before the Zoological Department 

 of the Society of Naturalists, at Freyburg. 



A great crowd hastening to this meeting' 

 thronged the doors. Tlie members with some diffi- 

 culty effected an entrance. 



The applicant for membership must prove that 

 he has published something in Natural History. 



^\y German friends had preceded me and notified 



