2IO MY DEVON YEAR 



yellow frame of pollarded elms, the distant city and 

 the smoke above ocean — all speak of man. In these 

 vast harmonies he is everywhere apparent. He has 

 tamed the river, traversed the sea, dressed the ruddy 

 earth to his liking with rich habiliments. It is only 

 here, uplifted above the work of his hands, that you 

 stand apart from all that he has done — stand upon 

 this untamed and immemorial heath, and surprise 

 Time from slumber. 



The banks of venerable Roman trenches mark 

 human activity and lead backward through unnum- 

 bered autumn seasons to the days when the grey 

 wolf hunted here ; when Hayes was not and Ralegh 

 was not ; and when these mansions, that rise like 

 grey pearls over the remote woods, still lay hidden 

 within unquarried stone. 



I cannot escape from the immediate intrusion of 

 this waste upon thought, for now it glows like the 

 heart of furnace fires under such colours as only sun- 

 sets paint with. The sun pierces here and there with 

 arrows and daggers through the grey ; he sinks to the 

 West, and every moment an added warmth mellows 

 the light of him. Each distant bank of red brake- 

 fern, each triple leaf of the bramble, each cluster of 

 scarlet haws and aglets answers colour for colour, 

 touch for touch. It is not death I see spread here, 

 but the culmination of life ; these golds and scarlets 

 and imperial purples become the crown of a con- 

 queror ; they are the reward bestowed upon every 

 humble leaflet for its long summer of faithful service. 



