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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
93
XII.
A
whole
day's
walk
yesterday
with
no
plan;
just
a
long
ramble
of
hour
after
hour,
entirely
enjoyable.
It
ended
at
Topsham,
where
I
sat
on
the
little
churchyard
terrace,
and
watched
the
evening
tide
come
up
the
broad
estuary.
I
have
a
great
liking
for
Topsham,
and
that
churchyard,
overlooking
what
is
not
quite
sea,
yet
more
than
river,
is
one
of
the
most
restful
spots
I
know.
Of
course
the
association
with
old
Chaucer,
who
speaks
of
Topsham
sailors,
helps
my
mood.
I
came
home
very
tired;
but
I
am
not
yet
decrepit,
and
for
that
I
must
be
thankful.
The
unspeakable
blessedness
of
having
a
home!
Much
as
my
imagination
has
dwelt
upon
it
for
thirty
years,
I
never
knew
how
deep
and
exquisite
a
joy
could
lie
in
the
assurance
that
one
is
at
home
for
ever.
Again
and
again
I
come
back
upon
this
thought;
nothing
but
Death
can
oust
me
from
my
abiding
place.
And
Death
I
would
fain
learn
to
regard
as
a
friend,
who
will
but
intensify
the
peace
I
now
relish.
When
one
is
at
home,
how
one's
affections
grow
about
everything
in
the
neighbourhood!
I
always
thought
with
fondness
of
this
corner
of
Devon,
but
what
was
that
compared
with
the
love
which
now
strengthens
in
me
day
by
day!
Beginning
with
my
house,
every
stick
and
stone
of
it
is
dear
to
me
as
my
heart's
blood;
I
find
myself
laying
an
affectionate
hand
on
the
door-post,
giving
a
pat,
as
I
go
by,
to
the
garden
gate.
Every
tree
and
shrub
in
the
garden
is
my
beloved
friend;
I
touch
them,
when
need
is,
very
tenderly,
as
though
carelessness
might
pain,
or
roughness
injure
them.
If
I
pull
up
a
weed
in
the
walk,
I
look
at
it
with
a
certain
sadness
before
throwing
it
away;
it
belongs
to
my
home.
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