Whether merely warm grey, as when dry, or bright
purple, as when wet, the colour of the English slate well justifies
Mr. Ruskin's saying, that wherever there is a brick wall and a slate
roof there need be no want of rich colour in an English landscape.
But most beautiful is the hue of slate, when, shining wet in the
sunshine after a summer shower, its blue is brought out in rich
contrast by golden spots of circular lichen, whose spores, I presume,
have travelled with it off its native mountains. Then, indeed, it
reminds the voyager of a sight which it almost rivals in brilliancy--
of the sapphire of the deep ocean, brought out into blazing intensity
by the contrast of the golden patches of floating gulf-weed beneath
the tropic sun.
Beautiful, I say, is the slate; and curious likewise, nay, venerable;
a most ancient and elaborate work of God, which has lasted long
enough, and endured enough likewise, to bring out in it whatsoever
latent capabilities of strength and usefulness might lie hid in it;
which has literally been--as far as such words can apply to a thing
inanimate--
Heated hot with burning fears,
And bathed in baths of hissing tears,
And battered by the strokes of doom
To shape and use.
And yet it was at first naught but an ugly lump of soft and shapeless
ooze.
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