What can the
citizen, who can see only the red light on the canvas of the wagon at
the end of the street, and the crimson colour of the bricks of his
neighbour's chimney, know of the flood of fire which deluges the sky
from the horizon to the zenith? What can even the quiet inhabitant of
the English lowlands, whose scene for the manifestation of the fire of
heaven is limited to the tops of hayricks, and the rooks' nests in the
old elm trees, know of the mighty passages of splendour which are tossed
from Alp to Alp over the azure of a thousand miles of champaign? Even
granting the constant vigour of observation, and supposing the
possession of such impossible knowledge, it needs but a moment's
reflection to prove how incapable the memory is of retaining for any
time the distinct image of the sources even of its most vivid
impressions. What recollection have we of the sunsets which delighted us
last year? We may know that they were magnificent, or glowing, but no
distinct image of colour or form is retained--nothing of whose _degree_
(for the great difficulty with the memory is to retain, not facts, but
_degrees_ of fact) we could be so certain as to say of anything now
presented to us, that it is like it.
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