e about me. Noises of wood and metal,
clattering of wheels, banging of implements, jangling of bells--all such
things are bad enough, but worse still is the clamorous human voice.
Nothing on earth is more irritating to me than a bellow or scream of
idiot mirth, nothing more hateful than a shout or yell of brutal anger.
Were it possible, I would never again hear the utterance of a human
tongue, save from those few who are dear to me.

Here, wake at what hour I may, early or late, I lie amid gracious
stillness. Perchance a horse's hoof rings rhythmically upon the road;
perhaps a dog barks from a neighbour farm; it may be that there comes the
far, soft murmur of a train from the other side of Exe; but these are
almost the only sounds that could force themselves upon my ear. A voice,
at any time of the day, is the rarest thing.

But there is the rustle of branches in the morning breeze; there is the
music of a sunny shower against the window; there is the matin song of
birds. Several times lately I have lain wakeful when there sounded the
first note of the earliest lark; it makes me almost glad of my restless
nights. The only trouble that touches me in these moments is the thought
of my long life wasted amid the senseless noises of man's world. Year
after year this spot has known the same tranquillity; with ever so little
of good fortune, with ever so little wisdom, beyond what was granted me,
I might have blessed my manhood with calm, might have made for myself in
later life a long retrospect of bowered peace. As it is, I enjoy with
something of sadness, remembering that this melodious silence is but the
prelude of that deeper stillness which waits to enfold us all.

XXIV.

Morning after morning, of late, I have taken my walk in the same
direction, my purpose being to look at a plantation of young larches.
There is no lovelier colour on earth than that in which they are now
clad; it seems to refresh as well as gladden my eyes, and its influence
sinks deep into my heart. Too soon it will change; already I think the
first radiant verdure has begun to pass into summer's soberness. The
larch has its moment of unmatched beauty--and well for him whose chance
permits him to enjoy it, spring after spring.

Could anything be more wonderful than the fact that here am I, day by
day, not only at leisure to walk forth and gaze at the larches, but
blessed with the tranquillity of mind needful for such enjoyment? On a