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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
27
Well
do
I
remember
the
rambles
of
that
springtide.
I
had
a
lodging
in
one
of
those
outer
streets
of
Exeter
which
savour
more
of
country
than
of
town,
and
every
morning
I
set
forth
to
make
discoveries.
The
weather
could
not
have
been
more
kindly;
I
felt
the
influences
of
a
climate
I
had
never
known;
there
was
a
balm
in
the
air
which
soothed
no
less
than
it
exhilarated
me.
Now
inland,
now
seaward,
I
followed
the
windings
of
the
Exe.
One
day
I
wandered
in
rich,
warm
valleys,
by
orchards
bursting
into
bloom,
from
farmhouse
to
farmhouse,
each
more
beautiful
than
the
other,
and
from
hamlet
to
hamlet
bowered
amid
dark
evergreens;
the
next,
I
was
on
pine-clad
heights,
gazing
over
moorland
brown
with
last
year's
heather,
feeling
upon
my
face
a
wind
from
the
white-flecked
Channel.
So
intense
was
my
delight
in
the
beautiful
world
about
me
that
I
forgot
even
myself;
I
enjoyed
without
retrospect
or
forecast;
I,
the
egoist
in
grain,
forgot
to
scrutinize
my
own
emotions,
or
to
trouble
my
happiness
by
comparison
with
others'
happier
fortune.
It
was
a
healthful
time;
it
gave
me
a
new
lease
of
life,
and
taught
me--in
so
far
as
I
was
teachable--how
to
make
use
of
it.
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