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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
204
In
the
middle
years
of
my
life--those
years
that
were
the
worst
of
all--I
used
to
dread
the
sound
of
a
winter
storm
which
woke
me
in
the
night.
Wind
and
rain
lashing
the
house
filled
me
with
miserable
memories
and
apprehensions;
I
lay
thinking
of
the
savage
struggle
of
man
with
man,
and
often
saw
before
me
no
better
fate
than
to
be
trampled
down
into
the
mud
of
life.
The
wind's
wail
seemed
to
me
the
voice
of
a
world
in
anguish;
rain
was
the
weeping
of
the
feeble
and
the
oppressed.
But
nowadays
I
can
lie
and
listen
to
a
night-storm
with
no
intolerable
thoughts;
at
worst,
I
fall
into
a
compassionate
sadness
as
I
remember
those
I
loved
and
whom
I
shall
see
no
more.
For
myself,
there
is
even
comfort
in
the
roaring
dark;
for
I
feel
the
strength
of
the
good
walls
about
me,
and
my
safety
from
squalid
peril
such
as
pursued
me
through
all
my
labouring
life.
"Blow,
blow,
thou
winter
wind!"
Thou
canst
not
blow
away
the
modest
wealth
which
makes
my
security.
Nor
can
any
"rain
upon
the
roof"
put
my
soul
to
question;
for
life
has
given
me
all
I
ever
asked--infinitely
more
than
I
ever
hoped--and
in
no
corner
of
my
mind
does
there
lurk
a
coward
fear
of
death.
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