DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.62133#0165
AUTUMNAL RAMBLES.
149
Oh, if man would only strive with instead of against
nature, what a world this would be !—and will be in time.
Still more so is this the case with the soul,—of which all
these outward things are but types.
How lovely are our walks, to and fro, through the Eng-
lish Garden ! The ground is covered with pure, crisp
snow; the trees often sparkling with hoar-frost, till all is
like a forest of enchantment; and the sun sparkles and
glitters upon their branches as though they were covered
with diamonds. Or, perhaps, there is no hoar-frost, only
the trunks and branches are powdered with snow, and the
delicate, wondrous tracery of branches relieves itself against
the purest, deepest, most glowing azure sky, like a warm
summer’s sky,—so blue and cloudless. I have no words to
describe the delight which these walks are to me: the air
is pure, keen, and bracing ■, the ground hard and crisp,
and morning and evening I find some lovely, fresh picture
painted for me by that most wonderful of all artists-
Nature. Now it is a sky all creamy and pale amber, with
early morning light, the more distant groups of trees lost in
delicate haze; mist hanging about mysteriously among the
glades and hollows of the garden, dropping from branches
and veiling grotesque giant stems, and yet sunshine is
struggling through the haze, casting long blue shadows over
the snow. Now, the effect is different; ruddy sunset-light
falls across the snow, turning it to rose-colour, and burns
upon boles and branches with a glory almost unearthly.
The trees stand as of molten copper, with an azure sky
behind them, and the green ice of the mill-stream, pow-
dered with snow, looks yet more vivid in colour.
Last night, as I returned, a large, calm moon was
rising out of a rose-tinted horizon, above a lawny opening
in the garden. The ground was a sheet of snow, with
lovely groups of trees rising here and there into the
149
Oh, if man would only strive with instead of against
nature, what a world this would be !—and will be in time.
Still more so is this the case with the soul,—of which all
these outward things are but types.
How lovely are our walks, to and fro, through the Eng-
lish Garden ! The ground is covered with pure, crisp
snow; the trees often sparkling with hoar-frost, till all is
like a forest of enchantment; and the sun sparkles and
glitters upon their branches as though they were covered
with diamonds. Or, perhaps, there is no hoar-frost, only
the trunks and branches are powdered with snow, and the
delicate, wondrous tracery of branches relieves itself against
the purest, deepest, most glowing azure sky, like a warm
summer’s sky,—so blue and cloudless. I have no words to
describe the delight which these walks are to me: the air
is pure, keen, and bracing ■, the ground hard and crisp,
and morning and evening I find some lovely, fresh picture
painted for me by that most wonderful of all artists-
Nature. Now it is a sky all creamy and pale amber, with
early morning light, the more distant groups of trees lost in
delicate haze; mist hanging about mysteriously among the
glades and hollows of the garden, dropping from branches
and veiling grotesque giant stems, and yet sunshine is
struggling through the haze, casting long blue shadows over
the snow. Now, the effect is different; ruddy sunset-light
falls across the snow, turning it to rose-colour, and burns
upon boles and branches with a glory almost unearthly.
The trees stand as of molten copper, with an azure sky
behind them, and the green ice of the mill-stream, pow-
dered with snow, looks yet more vivid in colour.
Last night, as I returned, a large, calm moon was
rising out of a rose-tinted horizon, above a lawny opening
in the garden. The ground was a sheet of snow, with
lovely groups of trees rising here and there into the