All through the morning, the air was held in an ominous
stillness. Sitting over my books, I seemed to feel the
silence; when I turned my look to the window, I saw
nothing but the broad, grey sky, a featureless expanse,
cold, melancholy. Later, just as I was bestirring myself
to go out for an afternoon walk, something white fell
softly across my vision. A few minutes more, and all was
hidden with a descending veil of silent snow.
It is a disappointment. Yesterday I half believed that
the winter drew to its end; the breath of the hills was
soft; spaces of limpid azure shone amid slow-drifting
clouds, and seemed the promise of spring. Idle by the
fireside, in the gathering dusk, I began to long for the
days of light and warmth. My fancy wandered, leading me
far and wide in a dream of summer England. . . .
This is the valley of the Blythe. The stream ripples
and glances over its brown bed warmed with sunbeams; by
its bank the green flags wave and rustle, and, all about,
the meadows shine in pure gold of buttercups. The
hawthorn hedges are a mass of gleaming blossom, which
scents the breeze. There above rises the heath,
yellow-mantled with gorse, and beyond, if I walk for an
hour or two, I shall come out upon the sandy cliffs of
Suffolk, and look over the northern sea. . . .
I am in Wensleydale, climbing from the rocky river that
leaps amid broad pastures up to the rolling moor. Up and
up, till my feet brush through heather, and the grouse
whirrs away before me. Under a glowing sky of summer,
this air of the uplands has still a life which spurs to
movement, which makes the heart bound. The dale is
hidden; I see only the brown and purple wilderness,
cutting against the blue with great round shoulders, and,
far away to the west, an horizon of sombre heights. . .
.
I ramble through a village in Gloucestershire, a
village which seems forsaken in this drowsy warmth of the
afternoon. The houses of grey stone are old and
beautiful, telling of a time when Englishmen knew how to
build whether for rich or poor; the gardens glow with
flowers, and the air is delicately sweet. At the village
end, I come into a lane, which winds upwards between
grassy slopes, to turf and bracken and woods of noble
beech. Here I am upon a spur of the Cotswolds, and before
me spreads the wide vale of Evesham, with its ripening
crops, its fruiting orchards, watered by sacred Avon.
Beyond, softly blue, the hills of Malvern. On the branch
hard by warbles a little bird, glad in his leafy
solitude. A rabbit jumps through the fern. There sounds
the laugh of a woodpecker from the copse in yonder hollow.
. . .
In the falling of a summer night, I walk by Ullswater.
The sky is still warm with the afterglow of sunset, a
dusky crimson smouldering above the dark mountain line.
Below me spreads a long reach of the lake, steel-grey
between its dim colourless shores. In the profound
stillness, the trotting of a horse beyond the water sounds
strangely near; it serves only to make more sensible the
repose of Nature in this her sanctuary. I feel a solitude
unutterable, yet nothing akin to desolation; the heart of
the land I love seems to beat in the silent night
gathering around me; amid things eternal, I touch the
familiar and the kindly earth. Moving, I step softly, as
though my footfall were an irreverence. A turn in the
road, and there is wafted to me a faint perfume, that of
meadow-sweet. Then I see a light glimmering in the
farmhouse window—a little ray against the blackness of the
great hillside, below which the water sleeps. . . .
A pathway leads me by the winding of the river Ouse.
Far on every side stretches a homely landscape, tilth and
pasture, hedgerow and clustered trees, to where the sky
rests upon the gentle hills. Slow, silent, the river
lapses between its daisied banks, its grey-green osier
beds. Yonder is the little town of St. Neots. In all
England no simpler bit of rural scenery; in all the world
nothing of its kind more beautiful. Cattle are lowing
amid the rich meadows. Here one may loiter and dream in
utter restfulness, whilst the great white clouds mirror
themselves in the water as they pass above. . . .
I am walking upon the South Downs. In the valleys, the
sun lies hot, but here sings a breeze which freshens the
forehead and fills the heart with gladness. My foot upon
the short, soft turf has an unwearied lightness; I feel
capable of walking on and on, even to that farthest
horizon where the white cloud casts its floating shadow.
Below me, but far off, is the summer sea, still, silent,
its ever-changing blue and green dimmed at the long limit
with luminous noontide mist. Inland spreads the undulant
vastness of the sheep-spotted downs, beyond them the
tillage and the woods of Sussex weald, coloured like to
the pure sky above them, but in deeper tint. Near by, all
but hidden among trees in yon lovely hollow, lies an old,
old hamlet, its brown roofs decked with golden lichen; I
see the low church-tower, and the little graveyard about
it. Meanwhile, high in the heaven, a lark is singing. It
descends; it drops to its nest, and I could dream that
half the happiness of its exultant song was love of
England. . . .
It is all but dark. For a quarter of an hour I must
have been writing by a glow of firelight reflected on to
my desk; it seemed to me the sun of summer. Snow is still
falling. I see its ghostly glimmer against the vanishing
sky. To-morrow it will be thick upon my garden, and
perchance for several days. But when it melts, when it
melts, it will leave the snowdrop. The crocus, too, is
waiting, down there under the white mantle which warms the
earth.