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 Ephemerae,
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.

But what is even this to the delight of finding a new species? - of
rescuing (as it seems to you) one more thought of the Divine mind
from Hela, and the realms of the unknown, unclassified,