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The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
88
Whilst
I
was
reading
this
afternoon
my
thoughts
strayed,
and
I
found
myself
recalling
a
hillside
in
Suffolk,
where,
after
a
long
walk
I
rested
drowsily
one
midsummer
day
twenty
years
ago.
A
great
longing
seized
me;
I
was
tempted
to
set
off
at
once,
and
find
again
that
spot
under
the
high
elm
trees,
where,
as
I
smoked
a
delicious
pipe,
I
heard
about
me
the
crack,
crack,
crack
of
broom-pods
bursting
in
the
glorious
heat
of
the
noontide
sun.
Had
I
acted
upon
the
impulse,
what
chance
was
there
of
my
enjoying
such
another
hour
as
that
which
my
memory
cherished?
No,
no;
it
is
not
the
place
that
I
remember;
it
is
the
time
of
life,
the
circumstances,
the
mood,
which
at
that
moment
fell
so
happily
together.
Can
I
dream
that
a
pipe
smoked
on
that
same
hillside,
under
the
same
glowing
sky,
would
taste
as
it
then
did,
or
bring
me
the
same
solace?
Would
the
turf
be
so
soft
beneath
me?
Would
the
great
elm-branches
temper
so
delightfully
the
noontide
rays
beating
upon
them?
And,
when
the
hour
of
rest
was
over,
should
I
spring
to
my
feet
as
then
I
did,
eager
to
put
forth
my
strength
again?
No,
no;
what
I
remember
is
just
one
moment
of
my
earlier
life,
linked
by
accident
with
that
picture
of
the
Suffolk
landscape.
The
place
no
longer
exists;
it
never
existed
save
for
me.
For
it
is
the
mind
which
creates
the
world
about
us,
and,
even
though
we
stand
side
by
side
in
the
same
meadow,
my
eyes
will
never
see
what
is
beheld
by
yours,
my
heart
will
never
stir
to
the
emotions
with
which
yours
is
touched.
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