There was the night of my great disappointment, when I was borne
from my comfortable bed to see the wonders of the moon's eclipse.
Disappointment was so great that it sealed my lips; but, once back
on my pillow, I sobbed for grief that I had seen a wonder so far
below my expectation. Then there was a night at Whitby, when the
wind made speech impossible, and the seas rushed up and over the
great lighthouse like the hungry spirits of the deep. I like
better to remember the scent of the first cowslip field under the
warm side of the hedge, when I sang to myself for pure joy of their
colour and fragrance. Again, there were the bluebells in the
deserted quarry like the backwash of a southern sea, and below them
the miniature forest of sheltering bracken with its quaint
conceits; and, crowned above all, the day I stood on Watcombe Down,
and looked across a stretch of golden gorse and new-turned blood-
red field, the green of the headland, and beyond, the sapphire sea.
Time sped, and there came a day when I first set foot on German
soil and felt the throb of its paternity, the beat of our common
Life. England is my mother, and most dearly do I love her swelling
breasts and wind-swept, salt-strewn hair. Scotland gave me my
name, with its haunting derivation handed down by brave men; but
Germany has always been to me the Fatherland par excellence. True,
my love is limited to the southern provinces, with their medieval
memories; for the progressive guttural north I have little
sympathy, but the Rhine claimed me from the first, calling,
calling, with that wonderful voice which speaks of death and life,
of chivalry and greed of gold.
Pages:
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96