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.