The Private Papers of Henry RyecroftGissing, George
General
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
Gissing, George
English fiction -- 19th century
the elves, shows how advanced is the process of rural degeneration. Most
likely it is foolishness to hope for the revival of any bygone social
virtue. The husbandman of the future will be, I daresay, a well-paid
mechanic, of the engine-driver species; as he goes about his work he will
sing the last refrain of the music-hall, and his oft-recurring holidays
will be spent in the nearest great town. For him, I fancy, there will be
little attraction in ever such melodious talk about "common objects of
the country." Flowers, perhaps, at all events those of tilth and
pasture, will have been all but improved away. And, as likely as not,
the word Home will have only a special significance, indicating the
common abode of retired labourers who are drawing old-age pensions.
XVIII.
I cannot close my eyes upon this day without setting down some record of
it; yet the foolish insufficiency of words! At sunrise I looked forth;
nowhere could I discern a cloud the size of a man's hand; the leaves
quivered gently, as if with joy in the divine morning which glistened
upon their dew. At sunset I stood in the meadow above my house, and
watched the red orb sink into purple mist, whilst in the violet heaven
behind me rose the perfect moon. All between, through the soft circling
of the dial's shadow, was loveliness and quiet unutterable. Never, I
could fancy, did autumn clothe in such magnificence the elms and beeches;
never, I should think, did the leafage on my walls blaze in such royal
crimson. It was no day for wandering; under a canopy of blue or gold,
where the eye could fall on nothing that was not beautiful, enough to be
at one with Nature in dreamy rest. From stubble fields sounded the long
caw of rooks; a sleepy crowing ever and anon told of the neighbour farm;
my doves cooed above their cot. Was it for five minutes, or was it for
an hour, that I watched the yellow butterfly wafted as by an insensible
tremor of the air amid the garden glintings? In every autumn there comes
one such flawless day. None that I have known brought me a mind so
touched to the fitting mood of welcome, and so fulfilled the promise of
its peace.
XIX.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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