are still strong: it is the Virgin Mary with the child Jesus. Fresh
flower wreaths are hung around hers and the child's head; fragrant
garlands are twined around the pedestal, as festive as on Madonna's
birthday feast in the times of Popery. The young folks who have been
confirmed, have this day, on receiving the sacrament for the first
time, ornamented this old image--nay, even set the priest's name in
flowers upon the altar; and he has, to our astonishment, let it remain
there.

The image of Madonna seems to have become young by the fresh wreaths:
the fragrant flowers here have a power like that of poetry--they bring
back the days of past centuries to our own times. It is as if the
extinguished glory around the head shone again; the flowers exhale
perfume: it is as if incense again streamed through the aisles of the
church--it shines around the altar as if the consecrated tapers were
lighted--it is a sunbeam through the window.

The sky without has become clear: we drive again in under Cleven, the
barren side of Kinnakulla: it is a rocky wall, different from almost
all the others. The red stone blocks lie, strata on strata, forming
fortifications with embrasures, projecting wings and round towers; but
shaken, split and fallen in ruins--it is an architectural fantastic
freak of nature. A brook falls gushing down from one of the highest
points of the Cleven, and drives a little mill. It looks like a
plaything which the mountain sprite had placed there and forgotten.

Large masses of fallen stone blocks lie dispersed round about; nature
has spread them in the forms of carved cornices. The most significant
way of describing Kinnakulla's rocky wall is to call it the ruins of a
mile-long Hindostanee temple: these rocks might be easily transformed