smoked on that same
hillside, under the same glowing sky, would
taste as it then did, or bring me the same
solace? Would the turf
be so soft beneath me? Would the great elm-branches
temper so
delightfully the
noontide rays
beating upon them? And, when the
hour of rest was over, should I spring to my feet as then I did,
eager to put forth my strength again? No, no; what I remember is
just one moment of my earlier life, linked by accident with that
picture of the Suffolk
landscape. The place no longer exists; it
never existed save for me. For it is the mind which creates the
world about us, and, even though we stand side by side in the same
meadow, my eyes will never see what is
beheld by yours, my heart
will never stir to the emotions with which yours is touched.
XI
I awoke a little after four o'clock. There was
sunlight upon the
blind, that pure gold of the earliest beam which always makes me
think of Dante's angels. I had slept
unusually well, without a
dream, and felt the
blessing of rest through all my frame; my head
was clear, my pulse beat
temperately. And, when I had lain thus for
a few minutes, asking myself what book I should reach from the shelf
that hangs near my pillow, there came upon me a desire to rise and
go forth into the early morning. On the moment I bestirred myself.
The
drawing up of the blind, the
opening of the window, only
increased my zeal, and I was soon in the garden, then out in the
road, walking light-heartedly I cared not whither.
How long is it since I went forth at the hour of summer
sunrise? It
is one of the greatest pleasures,
physical and
mental, that any man
in
moderate health can grant himself; yet hardly once in a year do
mood and circumstance
combine to put it within one's reach. The
habit of lying in bed hours after broad
daylight is strange enough,
if one thinks of it; a habit entirely evil; one of the most foolish
changes made by modern
system in the healthier life of the old time.
But that my energies are not equal to such great
innovation, I would
begin going to bed at
sunset and rising with the beam of day; ten to
one, it would
vastly improve my health, and
undoubtedly it would add
to the pleasures of my existence.
When travelling, I have now and then watched the
sunrise, and always
with an
exultationunlike anything produced in me by other aspects
of nature. I remember
daybreak on the Mediterranean; the shapes of
islands growing in hue after hue of tenderest light, until they
floated amid a sea of glory. And among the mountains--that crowning
height, one moment a cold pallor, the next soft-glowing under the
touch of the rosy-fingered
goddess. These are the things I shall
never see again; things, indeed, so perfect in memory that I should
dread to blur them by a newer experience. My senses are so much
duller; they do not show me what once they did.
How far away is that school-boy time, when I found a pleasure in
getting up and escaping from the
dormitorywhilst all the others
were still asleep. My purpose was
innocent enough; I got up early
only to do my lessons. I can see the long school-room, lighted by
the early sun; I can smell the school-room odour--a blend of books
and slates and wall-maps and I know not what. It was a
mentalpeculiarity of mine that at five o'clock in the morning I could
apply myself with gusto to
mathematics, a subject
loathsome to me at
any other time of the day. Opening the book at some section which
was wont to scare me, I used to say to myself: "Come now, I'm going
to
tackle this this morning! If other boys can understand it, why
shouldn't I?" And in a
measure I succeeded. In a
measure only;
there was always a limit at which my powers failed me,
strive as I
would.
In my garret-days it was seldom that I rose early: with the
exception of one year--or the greater part of a twelvemonth--during
which I was
regularly up at half-past five for a special reason. I
had undertaken to "coach" a man for the London matriculation; he was
in business, and the only time he could
conveniently give to his
studies was before breakfast. I, just then, had my lodgings near
Hampstead Road; my pupil lived at Knightsbridge; I engaged to be
with him every morning at half-past six, and the walk, at a brisk
pace, took me just about an hour. At that time I saw no
severity in
the
arrangement, and I was
delighted to earn the
modest fee which
enabled me to write all day long without fear of
hunger; but one
inconvenience attached to it. I had no watch, and my only means of
knowing the time was to hear the
striking of a clock in the
neighbourhood. As a rule, I awoke just when I should have done; the
clock struck five, and up I
sprang. But occasionally--and this when
the mornings had grown dark--my
punctual habit failed me; I would
hear the clock chime some
fraction of the hour, and could not know
whether I had awoke too soon or slept too long. The
horror of
un
punctuality, which has always been a craze with me, made it
impossible to lie
waiting; more than once I dressed and went out
into the street to discover as best I could what time it was, and
one such
expedition, I well remember, took place between two and
three o'clock on a morning of foggy rain.
It happened now and then that, on reaching the house at
Knightsbridge, I was informed that Mr.--felt too tired to rise.
This
concerned me little, for it meant no deduction of fee; I had
the two hours' walk, and was all the better for it. Then the
appetite with which I sat down to breakfast, whether I had done my
coaching or not! Bread and butter and coffee--such coffee!--made
the meal, and I ate like a navvy. I was in
magnificent spirits.
All the way home I had been thinking of my day's work, and the
morning brain, clarified and whipped to
vigour by that brisk
exercise, by that
wholesomehunger,
wrought its best. The last
mouthful swallowed, I was seated at my writing-table; aye, and there
I sat for seven or eight hours, with a short munching interval,
working as only few men worked in all London, with pleasure, zeal,
hope. . . .
Yes, yes, those were the good days. They did not last long; before
and after them were cares, miseries,
endurance multiform. I have
always felt
grateful to Mr.--of Knightsbridge; he gave me a year of
health, and almost of peace.
XII
A whole day's walk
yesterday with no plan; just a long
ramble of
hour after hour, entirely enjoyable. It ended at Topsham, where I
sat on the little
churchyardterrace, and watched the evening tide
come up the broad estuary. I have a great
liking for Topsham, and
that
churchyard, overlooking what is not quite sea, yet more than
river, is one of the most restful spots I know. Of course the
association with old Chaucer, who speaks of Topsham sailors, helps
my mood. I came home very tired; but I am not yet decrepit, and for
that I must be thankful.
The
unspeakable blessedness of having a HOME! Much as my
imagination has dwelt upon it for thirty years, I never knew how
deep and
exquisite a joy could lie in the
assurance that one is AT
HOME for ever. Again and again I come back upon this thought;
nothing but Death can oust me from my abiding place. And Death I
would fain learn to regard as a friend, who will but
intensify the
peace I now
relish.
When one is at home, how one's affections grow about everything in
the neighbourhood! I always thought with
fondness of this corner of
Devon, but what was that compared with the love which now
strengthens in me day by day! Beginning with my house, every stick
and stone of it is dear to me as my heart's blood; I find myself
laying an
affectionate hand on the door-post, giving a pat, as I go
by, to the garden gate. Every tree and shrub in the garden is my
beloved friend; I touch them, when need is, very
tenderly, as though
carelessness might pain, or roughness
injure them. If I pull up a
weed in the walk, I look at it with a certain
sadness before
throwing it away; it belongs to my home.
And all the country round about. These villages, how
delightful are
their names to my ear! I find myself
reading with interest all the
local news in the Exeter paper. Not that I care about the people;
with
barely one or two exceptions, the people are nothing to me, and
the less I see of them the better I am pleased. But the PLACES grow
ever more dear to me. I like to know of anything that has happened
at Heavitree, or Brampford Speke, or Newton St. Cyres. I begin to
pride myself on
knowing every road and lane, every
bridle path and
foot-way for miles about. I like to learn the names of farms and of
fields. And all this because here is my abiding place, because I am
home for ever.