a glorious arc of the softest rose colour, which melts as it draws nearer to the blue of the zenith into a gradually paling lilac, through the very midst of which looks forth the silver of the evening star. The chastened magnificence, the sober splendour of this atmospheric effect surpasses imagination. It is the very classicism of colour, just as the gorgeous hues of the actual sunset—its splashes of fierce crimson and blazing gold—might stand as typical of the rich exuberance of romance. But the time and space of this aerial marvel, the sphere of its radiance and the spell of its duration, are, perhaps, most wonderful of all. Laterally measured, this arc of glory spans a full quarter of the horizon—from due north-west to a point about midway between west and south. Vertically, as has already been said, it climbs at least one-third of the dome of sky between the horizon and the zenith; and it lasts in flawless and unimpaired beauty for a full half-hour. The sunset orange against which yon passing string of camels
