The good S- writes me a kindly letter.He is troubled by the thought of my loneliness.That I should choose to live in such a place as this through the summer, he can understand; but surely Ishould do better to come to town for the winter? How on earth do Ispend the dark days and the long evenings?
I chuckle over the good S-'s sympathy.Dark days are few in happy Devon, and such as befall have never brought me a moment's tedium.
The long, wild winter of the north would try my spirits; but here, the season that follows autumn is merely one of rest, Nature's annual slumber.And I share in the restful influence.Often enough I pass an hour in mere drowsing by the fireside; frequently I let my book drop, satisfied to muse.But more often than not the winter day is blest with sunshine--the soft beam which is Nature's smile in dreaming.I go forth, and wander far.It pleases me to note changes of landscape when the leaves have fallen; I see streams and ponds which during summer were hidden; my favourite lanes have an unfamiliar aspect, and I become better acquainted with them.Then, there is a rare beauty in the structure of trees ungarmented; and if perchance snow or frost have silvered their tracery against the sober sky, it becomes a marvel which never tires.
Day by day I look at the coral buds on the lime-tree.Something of regret will mingle with my joy when they begin to break.
In the middle years of my life--those years that were the worst of all--I used to dread the sound of a winter storm which woke me in the night.Wind and rain lashing the house filled me with miserable memories and apprehensions; I lay thinking of the savage struggle of man with man, and often saw before me no better fate than to be trampled down into the mud of life.The wind's wail seemed to me the voice of a world in anguish; rain was the weeping of the feeble and the oppressed.But nowadays I can lie and listen to a night-storm with no intolerable thoughts; at worst, I fall into a compassionate sadness as I remember those I loved and whom I shall see no more.For myself, there is even comfort in the roaring dark;for I feel the strength of the good walls about me, and my safety from squalid peril such as pursued me through all my labouring life.
"Blow, blow, thou winter wind!" Thou canst not blow away the modest wealth which makes my security.Nor can any "rain upon the roof"put my soul to question; for life has given me all I ever asked--infinitely more than I ever hoped--and in no corner of my mind does there lurk a coward fear of death.
