34. Degrades, While it Intensifies

(5.) It degrades, while it intensifies, ordinary storm; but before I read you any description of its efforts in this kind, I must correct an impression which has got abroad through the papers,1 that I speak as if the plague-wind blew now always, and there were no more any natural weather. On the contrary, the winter of 1878–9 was one of the most healthy and lovely I ever saw ice in;—Coniston lake shone under the calm clear frost in one marble field, as strong as the floor of Milan Cathedral, half a mile across and four miles down; and the first entries in my diary which I read you shall be from the 22nd to 26th June, 1876, of perfectly lovely and natural weather:—

“Sunday, 25th June, 1876.

“Yesterday, an entirely glorious sunset, unmatched in beauty since that at Abbeville,2—deep scarlet, and purest rose, on purple grey, in bars; and stationary, plumy, sweeping filaments above in upper sky, like ‘using up the brush,’ said Joanie; remaining in glory, every moment best, changing from one good into another, (but only in colour or light—form steady,) for half an hour full, and the clouds afterwards fading into the grey against amber twilight, stationary in the same form for about two hours, at least. The darkening rose tint remained till half-past ten, the grand time being at nine.

“The day had been fine,—exquisite green light on afternoon hills.”

“Monday, 26th June, 1876.

“Yesterday an entirely perfect summer light on the Old Man; Lancaster Bay all clear; Ingleborough and the great Pennine fault as on a map. Divine beauty of western colour on thyme and rose,—then twilight of clearest warm amber far into night, of pale amber all night long; hills dark-clear against it.

“And so it continued, only growing more intense in blue and sunlight, all day. After breakfast, I came in from the well under strawberry bed, to say I had never seen anything like it, so pure or intense, in Italy; and so it went glowing on, cloudless, with soft north wind, all day.”

“16th July.

“The sunset almost too bright through the blinds for me to read Humboldt at tea by,—finally, new moon like a lime-light, reflected on breeze-struck water; traces, across dark calm, of reflected hills.”