WILD FLOWERS. 41 



was to fix the scene thrown by the lens upon the plate. 

 There the view appeared perfect to the least of details, 

 worked out by the sun, and made as complete in 

 miniature as that he shone upon in nature. But 

 it faded like the shadows as the summer sun declines. 

 Have you watched them in the fields among the 

 flowers? — the deep strong mark of the noonday 

 shadow of a tree such as the pen makes drawn 

 heavily on the paper ; gradually it loses its darkness 

 and becomes paler and thinner at the edge as it 

 lengthens and spreads, till shadow and grass mingle 

 together. Image after image faded from the plates, 

 no more to be fixed than the reflection in water of the 

 trees by the shore. Memory, like the sun, paints to 

 me bright pictures of the golden summer time of 

 lotus ; I can see them, but how shall I fix them for 

 you? By no process can that be accomplished. 

 It is like a story that cannot be told because he who 

 knows it is tongue-tied and dumb. Motions of hands, 

 wavings and gestures, rudely convey the framework, 

 but the finish is not there. 



To-day, and day after day, fresh pictures are 

 coloured instantaneously in the retina as bright and 

 perfect in detail and hue. This very power is often, 

 I think, the cause of pain to me. To see so clearly 

 is to value so highly and to feel too deeply. The 

 smallest of the pencilled branches of the bare ash- 

 tree drawn distinctly against the winter sky, waving 

 lines one within the other, yet following and partly 

 parallel, reproducing in the curve of the twig the 

 curve of the great trunk; is it not a pleasure to 

 trace each to its ending? The raindrops as they 



