54 Idle Days in Patagonia. 



For nearly an hour we rode with this vision of 

 glory always before us ; grove after grove of leafless 

 black-barked willow-trees on our right hand, and 

 grey thorny hill after hill on our left, did we pass in 

 our swift ride, while great flocks of upland geese 

 continually rose up before us, with shrill whistlings 

 mingled with solemn deep droning cries ; and the 

 arch of watery fire still lived, now fading as the 

 flying wrack grew thinner arid thinner, then, just 

 when it seemed about to vanish, brightening once 

 more to a new and more wondeVful splendour, its 

 arch ever widening to greater proportions as the sun 

 sunk lower in the sky. 



I do not suppose that the colours were really 

 more vivid than in numberless other rainbows I 

 have seen ; it was, I think, the universal greyness 

 of earth and heaven in that grey winter season, in 

 a region where colour is so sparsely used by Nature, 

 that made it seem so supremely beautiful, so that 

 the sight of it affected us like wine. 



The eyes, says Bacon, are ever most pleased with 

 a lively embroidery on a sad and sombre ground. 

 This was taught to us by the green and violet arch 

 on the slaty grey vapour. But Nature is too 

 wise 



To blunt the fine point of seldom pleasure. 



The day of supernatural splendour and glory 

 comes only after many days tha,t are only natural, 

 and of a neutral colour. It is watched and waited 

 for, and when it comes is like a day of some great 



