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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
181
WINTER
I.
Blasts
from
the
Channel,
with
raining
scud,
and
spume
of
mist
breaking
upon
the
hills,
have
kept
me
indoors
all
day.
Yet
not
for
a
moment
have
I
been
dull
or
idle,
and
now,
by
the
latter
end
of
a
sea-coal
fire,
I
feel
such
enjoyment
of
my
ease
and
tranquillity
that
I
must
needs
word
it
before
going
up
to
bed.
Of
course
one
ought
to
be
able
to
breast
weather
such
as
this
of
to-day,
and
to
find
one's
pleasure
in
the
strife
with
it.
For
the
man
sound
in
body
and
serene
of
mind
there
is
no
such
thing
as
bad
weather;
every
sky
has
its
beauty,
and
storms
which
whip
the
blood
do
but
make
it
pulse
more
vigorously.
I
remember
the
time
when
I
would
have
set
out
with
gusto
for
a
tramp
along
the
wind-swept
and
rain-beaten
roads;
nowadays,
I
should
perhaps
pay
for
the
experiment
with
my
life.
All
the
more
do
I
prize
the
shelter
of
these
good
walls,
the
honest
workmanship
which
makes
my
doors
and
windows
proof
against
the
assailing
blast.
In
all
England,
the
land
of
comfort,
there
is
no
room
more
comfortable
than
this
in
which
I
sit.
Comfortable
in
the
good
old
sense
of
the
word,
giving
solace
to
the
mind
no
less
than
ease
to
the
body.
And
never
does
it
look
more
homely,
more
a
refuge
and
a
sanctuary,
than
on
winter
nights.
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