A few days ago it was very hot. Afterwards we
had a thunderstorm, followed by rain from the south-west.
The wind has veered a point northerly, and the barometer
is rising. This morning at half-past five the
valley below was filled with white mist. Above
it the tops of the trees on the highest points emerged
sharply distinct. It was motionless, but gradually
melted before the ascending sun, recalling Plutarch’s
“scenes in the beautiful temple of the world
which the gods order at their own festivals, when
we are initiated into their own mysteries.”
Here was a divine mystery, with initiation for those
who cared for it. No priests were waiting, no
ritual was necessary, the service was simple—solitary
adoration and perfect silence.
As the day advances, masses of huge, heavy clouds
appear. They are well defined at the edges,
and their intricate folds and depths are brilliantly
illuminated. The infinitude of the sky is not
so impressive when it is quite clear as when it contains
and supports great clouds, and large blue spaces are
seen between them. On the hillsides the fields
here and there are yellow and the corn is in sheaves.
The birds are mostly dumb, the glory of the furze
and broom has passed, but the heather is in flower.
The trees are dark, and even sombre, and, where they
are in masses, look as if they were in solemn consultation.
A fore-feeling of the end of summer steals upon me.
Why cannot I banish this anticipation? Why
cannot I rest and take delight in what is before me?
If some beneficent god would but teach me how to take
no thought for the morrow, I would sacrifice to him
all I possess.
It is the first south-westerly gale of the autumn.
Its violence is increasing every minute, although
the rain has ceased for awhile. For weeks sky
and sea have been beautiful, but they have been tame.
Now for some unknown reason there is a complete change,
and all the strength of nature is awake. It
is refreshing to be once more brought face to face
with her tremendous power, and to be reminded of the
mystery of its going and coming. It is soothing
to feel so directly that man, notwithstanding his
science and pretentions, his subjugation of steam
and electricity, is as nothing compared with his Creator.
The air has a freshness and odour about it to which
we have long been strangers. It has been dry,
and loaded with fine dust, but now it is deliciously
wet and clean. The wind during the summer has
changed lightly through all the points of the compass,
but it has never brought any scent save that of the
land, nothing from a distance. Now it is charged
with messages from the ocean.
