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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
166
XIX.
I
was
at
ramble
in
the
lanes,
when,
from
somewhere
at
a
distance,
there
sounded
the
voice
of
a
countryman--strange
to
say--singing.
The
notes
were
indistinct,
but
they
rose,
to
my
ear,
with
a
moment's
musical
sadness,
and
of
a
sudden
my
heart
was
stricken
with
a
memory
so
keen
that
I
knew
not
whether
it
was
pain
or
delight.
For
the
sound
seemed
to
me
that
of
a
peasant's
song
which
I
once
heard
whilst
sitting
among
the
ruins
of
Paestum.
The
English
landscape
faded
before
my
eyes.
I
saw
great
Doric
columns
of
honey-golden
travertine;
between
them,
as
I
looked
one
way,
a
deep
strip
of
sea;
when
I
turned,
the
purple
gorges
of
the
Apennine;
and
all
about
the
temple,
where
I
sat
in
solitude,
a
wilderness
dead
and
still
but
for
that
long
note
of
wailing
melody.
I
had
not
thought
it
possible
that
here,
in
my
beloved
home,
where
regret
and
desire
are
all
but
unknown
to
me,
I
could
have
been
so
deeply
troubled
by
a
thought
of
things
far
off.
I
returned
with
head
bent,
that
voice
singing
in
my
memory.
All
the
delight
I
have
known
in
Italian
travel
burned
again
within
my
heart.
The
old
spell
has
not
lost
its
power.
Never,
I
know,
will
it
again
draw
me
away
from
England;
but
the
Southern
sunlight
cannot
fade
from
my
imagination,
and
to
dream
of
its
glow
upon
the
ruins
of
old
time
wakes
in
me
the
voiceless
desire
which
once
was
anguish.
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