ples and violets of the supporting ranges, and these again into
those most delicate hues of the snows which vary according to the
time of day, from decided rose-pink in the early morning and
evening to, perhaps, faintest blue or violet in the full day. And over
all and as a background is a sky of the intensest blue. What these
colours are it is impossible to describe in words, for even the violet,
the rose, and the forget-me-not have not the delicacy which these
colours in the atmosphere possess. And assuredly no painter could
do them justice, simply because paints and canvas are mediums far
too coarse in which to reproduce the impression which such
brilliance of light acting on a medium so fine as the thin air produces.
The great Russian painter Verestchagin once visited Darjiling, and
took his seat to paint the scene. He looked and looked, but did not
paint. His wife kept handing him the brush and paints. But time after
time he said: "Not now, not now; it is all too splendid." Night came
and the picture never was painted. And it never _could_ be painted,
though great artists most assuredly could at least point out to us in
their pictures the subtler glories which are to be seen, and which we
expect them to indicate to us.

* * *

So the view of the snows from Darjiling, grand and almost
overpowering though it is, has warmth in it too. The main
impression is one of magnitude and amplitude, of vastness and
immensity, and withal of serene composure. The first view of the
mountain seen through a rent in the clouds was perhaps more
uplifting, though this view excites a sense of elevation also, for the
eye is continually being drawn to the highest point. But in this full
view the impression of breadth and bigness of scale is combined
with the impression of height. The _dimensions_ of life in every
direction seem to be enlarged. We seem to be able to look at things
from a broader, bigger point of view, as well as a higher. We
ourselves and the world at large are all on a larger scale than we had
hitherto suspected. And while on a broader scale, we feel that things
are always working _upward_ and converging towards some lofty
but distinct, defined summit. This also do we feel, as we look upon
the view, that with all the bigness and massiveness and loftiness
there is the very finest tenderness as well--such delicacy as we had
never before imagined.

And to anyone who really knows them the littleness of man in
comparison w