54 Ladle Days in Patagonza. 
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 and thinner, then, just 
when it seemed about to vanish, brightening once 
more to a new and more wonderful 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 that are only natural, 
and of a neutral colour. Itis watched and waited 
for, and when it comes is like a day of some great 
