I Should Soon
Come To Long For The Burst Of Spring With Its General Tenderness Of
Green, And Its Great Broad Splashes Of Sociable Flowers, Its Masses Of
Buttercups, Or Ox-Eye Daisies, Or Dandelions, And For The Glories Of
Autumn With Its Red And Gold, And Leagues Of Purple Heather.
These
splendid orchids and other epiphytes grow singly.
One sees one and not
another, there are no broad masses of color to blaze in the distance,
the scents are heavy and overpowering, the wealth is embarrassing. I
revel in it all and rejoice in it all; it is intoxicating, yet I am
haunted with visions of mossy banks starred with primroses and
anemones, of stream sides blue with gentian, of meadows golden with
buttercups, and fields scarlet with poppies, and in spite of my
enjoyment and tropical enthusiasm, I agree with Mr. Wallace and others
that the flowers of a temperate climate would give one more lasting
pleasure.
On either side of the road the ground is densely carpeted with the
sensitive plant, whose lovely tripartite leaves are green above and
brown below. It is a fascinating plant, and at first one feels guilty
of cruelty if one does more than look at it, but I have already
learned, as all people do here, to take delight in wounding its
sensibilities. Touch any part of a leaf ever so lightly, and as quick
as thought it folds up. Touch the centre of the three ever so lightly,
and leaf and stalk fall smitten. Touch a branch and every leaf closes,
and every stalk falls as if weighted with lead. Walk over it, and you
seem to have blasted the earth with a fiery tread, leaving desolation
behind. Every trailing plant falls, the leaves closing, show only their
red-brown backs, and all the beauty has vanished, but the burned and
withered-looking earth is as fair as ever the next morning.
After walking for four miles we came upon a glorious sight at a turn of
the road, a small lake behind which the mountains rise forest-covered,
with a slope at their feet on which stand the cocoa-nut groves, and the
beautiful Malay house of the exiled Mentri of Larut. I have written of
a lake, but no water was visible, for it was concealed by thousands and
thousands of the peltate leaves of the lotus, nearly round, attaining a
diameter of eighteen inches, cool and dewy-looking under the torrid
sun, with a blue bloom upon their intense green. Above them rose
thousands of lotus flowers, buds, and seed-vessels, each one a thing of
perfect beauty, and not a withered blossom was to be seen. The immense
corollas varied in color from a deep rose crimson to a pink as pale as
that of a blush rose. Some were just opening, others were half open,
and others wide open, showing the crowded golden stamens and the golden
disk in the centre. From far off the deep rose pink of the glorious
blossoms is to be seen, and their beauty carried me back to the castle
moats of Yedo, and to many a gilded shrine in Japan, on which the lotus
blooms as an emblem of purity, righteousness, and immortality.
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