Every morning when I awake, I thank heaven for silence.This is my orison.I remember the London days when sleep was broken by clash and clang, by roar and shriek, and when my first sense on returning to consciousness was hatred of the life 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.
