of gay tropical color. To us also the cross, prominent against its dark background, has sweet symbolical meaning, sanctifying the glories of the spot; and, as in the old saintly legends flowers sprang up under the feet of martyrs, so here a spontaneous garland has grown to wreathe this emblem of sacrifice and love.
Observe next how exquisitely the sloping side of the road toward the dim precipice on the left clothes itself with a mossy verdure, and how the moss thickens and streams down into the chasm, meeting the slender line of sapphire water that trickles from a crevice in the steep. Foremost of all the picture the Artist has set up his trophy in the broken shaft, — the stem of some ancient monarch of the forest. Upon this he has flung his last brilliant spoils. The scarlet orchis stands out like a plume from a tuft of other air-plants, a fall of draping creepers hangs from above, strange rich forms of plants cluster about its base, and, fastened by a fillet of large leaves, each distinct upon its own shadow, one burning white blossom gleams, midway the column, like a jewel upon an argent shield. Upon a branch just by, in bravery of lustrous green plumage, sits the “royal bird of the Incas,” and below gay butterflies twinkle. Through some cleft of forest, beyond the verge of the picture, one trenchant sunbeam strikes, and, falling upon this propylon shaft, seems to set upon the whole great work the sun’s final signet of approval.
