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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
66
XXIII.
Every
morning
when
I
awake,
I
thank
heaven
for
silence.
This
is
my
orison.
I
remember
the
London
days
when
sleep
was
broken
by
clash
and
clang,
by
roar
and
shriek,
and
when
my
first
sense
on
returning
to
consciousness
was
hatred
of
the
life
about
me.
Noises
of
wood
and
metal,
clattering
of
wheels,
banging
of
implements,
jangling
of
bells--all
such
things
are
bad
enough,
but
worse
still
is
the
clamorous
human
voice.
Nothing
on
earth
is
more
irritating
to
me
than
a
bellow
or
scream
of
idiot
mirth,
nothing
more
hateful
than
a
shout
or
yell
of
brutal
anger.
Were
it
possible,
I
would
never
again
hear
the
utterance
of
a
human
tongue,
save
from
those
few
who
are
dear
to
me.
Here,
wake
at
what
hour
I
may,
early
or
late,
I
lie
amid
gracious
stillness.
Perchance
a
horse's
hoof
rings
rhythmically
upon
the
road;
perhaps
a
dog
barks
from
a
neighbour
farm;
it
may
be
that
there
comes
the
far,
soft
murmur
of
a
train
from
the
other
side
of
Exe;
but
these
are
almost
the
only
sounds
that
could
force
themselves
upon
my
ear.
A
voice,
at
any
time
of
the
day,
is
the
rarest
thing.
But
there
is
the
rustle
of
branches
in
the
morning
breeze;
there
is
the
music
of
a
sunny
shower
against
the
window;
there
is
the
matin
song
of
birds.
Several
times
lately
I
have
lain
wakeful
when
there
sounded
the
first
note
of
the
earliest
lark;
it
makes
me
almost
glad
of
my
restless
nights.
The
only
trouble
that
touches
me
in
these
moments
is
the
thought
of
my
long
life
wasted
amid
the
senseless
noises
of
man's
world.
Year
after
year
this
spot
has
known
the
same
tranquillity;
with
ever
so
little
of
good
fortune,
with
ever
so
little
wisdom,
beyond
what
was
granted
me,
I
might
have
blessed
my
manhood
with
calm,
might
have
made
for
myself
in
later
life
a
long
retrospect
of
bowered
peace.
As
it
is,
I
enjoy
with
something
of
sadness,
remembering
that
this
melodious
silence
is
but
the
prelude
of
that
deeper
stillness
which
waits
to
enfold
us
all.
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