The early coming of spring in this happy Devon gladdens my heart.Ithink with chill discomfort of those parts of England where the primrose shivers beneath a sky of threat rather than of solace.
Honest winter, snow-clad and with the frosted beard, I can welcome not uncordially; but that long deferment of the calendar's promise, that weeping gloom of March and April, that bitter blast outraging the honour of May--how often has it robbed me of heart and hope.
Here, scarce have I assured myself that the last leaf has fallen, scarce have I watched the glistening of hoar-frost upon the evergreens, when a breath from the west thrills me with anticipation of bud and bloom.Even under this grey-billowing sky, which tells that February is still in rule:-Mild winds shake the elder brake, And the wandering herdsmen know That the whitethorn soon will blow.
I have been thinking of those early years of mine in London, when the seasons passed over me unobserved, when I seldom turned a glance towards the heavens, and felt no hardship in the imprisonment of boundless streets.It is strange now to remember that for some six or seven years I never looked upon a meadow, never travelled even so far as to the tree-bordered suburbs.I was battling for dear life;on most days I could not feel certain that in a week's time I should have food and shelter.It would happen, to be sure, that in hot noons of August my thoughts wandered to the sea; but so impossible was the gratification of such desire that it never greatly troubled me.At times, indeed, I seem all but to have forgotten that people went away for holiday.In those poor parts of the town where Idwelt, season made no perceptible difference; there were no luggage-laden cabs to remind me of joyous journeys; the folk about me went daily to their toil as usual, and so did I.I remember afternoons of languor, when books were a weariness, and no thought could be squeezed out of the drowsy brain; then would I betake myself to one of the parks, and find refreshment without any enjoyable sense of change.Heavens, how I laboured in those days! And how far I was from thinking of myself as a subject for compassion! That came later, when my health had begun to suffer from excess of toil, from bad air, bad food and many miseries; then awoke the maddening desire for countryside and sea-beach--and for other things yet more remote.
But in the years when I toiled hardest and underwent what now appear to me hideous privations, of a truth I could not be said to suffer at all.I did not suffer, for I had no sense of weakness.My health was proof against everything, and my energies defied all malice of circumstance.With however little encouragement, I had infinite hope.Sound sleep (often in places I now dread to think of) sent me fresh to the battle each morning, my breakfast, sometimes, no more than a slice of bread and a cup of water.As human happiness goes, I am not sure that I was not then happy.
Most men who go through a hard time in their youth are supported by companionship.London has no pays latin, but hungry beginners in literature have generally their suitable comrades, garreteers in the Tottenham Court Road district, or in unredeemed Chelsea; they make their little vie de Boheme, and are consciously proud of it.Of my position, the peculiarity was that I never belonged to any cluster;I shrank from casual acquaintance, and, through the grim years, had but one friend with whom I held converse.It was never my instinct to look for help, to seek favour for advancement; whatever step Igained was gained by my own strength.Even as I disregarded favour so did I scorn advice; no counsel would I ever take but that of my own brain and heart.More than once I was driven by necessity to beg from strangers the means of earning bread, and this of all my experiences was the bitterest; yet I think I should have found it worse still to incur a debt to some friend or comrade.The truth is that I have never learnt to regard myself as a "member of society."For me, there have always been two entities--myself and the world, and the normal relation between these two has been hostile.Am Inot still a lonely man, as far as ever from forming part of the social order?
This, of which I once was scornfully proud, seems to me now, if not a calamity, something I would not choose if life were to live again.
