The tune is not recorded, but it is the eternal chorus of mankind,
that modifies all the arts and mocks all the individualisms,
like the laughter and thunder of some distant sea.
A Romance of the Marshes
In books as a whole marshes are described as desolate and colourless,
great fields of clay or sedge, vast horizons of drab or grey. But this,
like many other literary associations, is a piece of poetical injustice.
Monotony has nothing to do with a place; monotony, either in its
sensation or its infliction, is simply the quality of a person.
There are no dreary sights; there are only dreary sightseers.
It is a matter of taste, that is of personality, whether marshes
are monotonous; but it is a matter of fact and science that they are
not monochrome. The tops of high mountains (I am told) are all white;
the depths of primeval caverns (I am also told) are all dark.
The sea will be grey or blue for weeks together; and the desert,
I have been led to believe, is the colour of sand. The North Pole
(if we found it) would be white with cracks of blue; and Endless Space
(if we went there) would, I suppose, be black with white spots.
If any of these were counted of a monotonous colour I could well
understand it; but on the contrary, they are always spoken of as if
they had the gorgeous and chaotic colours of a cosmic kaleidoscope.
Now exactly where you can find colours like those of a tulip
garden or a stained-glass window, is in those sunken and sodden
lands which are always called dreary.
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