Pages from a Journal with Other Papers | Page 5

one of them,
darker than the rest, has descended in a mist of rain, blotting out the
ships. The surface of the water is paved curiously in green and violet,
and where the light lies on it scintillates like millions of stars. The grass
is not yet cut, and the showers have brought it up knee-deep. Its gentle
whisper is plainly heard, the most delicate of all the voices in the world,
and the meadow bends into billows, grey, silvery, and green, when a
breeze of sufficient strength sweeps across it. The larks are so
multitudinous that no distinct song can be caught, and amidst the
confused melody comes the note of the thrush and the blackbird. A
constant under-running accompaniment is just audible in the hum of
innumerable insects and the sharp buzz of flies darting past the ear.
Only those who live in the open air and watch the fields and sea from
hour to hour and day to day know what they are and what they mean.
The chance visitor, or he who looks now and then, never understands
them. While I have lain here, the clouds have risen, have become more
aerial, and more suffused with light; the horizon has become better
defined, and the yellow shingle beach is visible to its extremest point
clasping the bay in its arms. The bay itself is the tenderest blue-green,
and on the rolling plain which borders it lies intense sunlight chequered
with moving shadows which wander eastwards. The wind has shifted a
trifle, and comes straight up the Channel from the illimitable ocean.

AUGUST

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.

THE END OF OCTOBER

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.
The sky is not uniformly overcast, but is covered with long horizontal
folds of cloud, very dark below and a little lighter where they turn up
one into the other. They are incessantly modified by the storm, and
fragments are torn away from them which sweep overhead. The sea,
looked at from the height, shows white edges almost to the