the spirit of place and other essays-第4部分

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counterpoint　in　the　part…song；　and　she　frightened　Love　out　of　her

sight　in　a　ballet。　　Those　occupations　are　gone；　and　the　lovely

Elizabethan　has　slipped　away。　　She　was　something　less　than　mortal。



But　she　who　was　more　than　mortal　was　mortal　too。　　This　was　no　lady

of　the　unanimous　lyrists；　but　a　rare　visitant　unknown　to　these

exquisite　little　talents。　　She　was　not　set　for　singing；　but　poetry

spoke　of　her；　sometimes　when　she　was　sleeping；　and　then　Fletcher

said　…





None　can　rock　Heaven　to　sleep　but　her。





Or　when　she　was　singing；　and　Carew　rhymed　…





Ask　me　no　more　whither　doth　haste

The　nightingale　when　May　is　past；

For　in　your　sweet　dividing　throat

She　winters；　and　keeps　warm　her　note。





Sometimes　when　the　lady　was　dead；　and　Carew；　again；　wrote　on　her

monument　…





And　here　the　precious　dust　is　laid；

Whose　purely…tempered　clay　was　made

So　fine　that　it　the　guest　betrayed。





But　there　was　besides　another　Lady　of　the　lyrics；　one　who　will　never

pass　from　the　world；　but　has　passed　from　song。　　In　the　sixteenth

century　and　in　the　seventeenth　century　this　lady　was　Death。　　Her

inspiration　never　failed；　not　a　poet　but　found　it　as　fresh　as　the

inspiration　of　life。　　Fancy　was　not　quenched　by　the　inevitable

thought　in　those　days；　as　it　is　in　ours；　and　the　phrase　lost　no

dignity　by　the　integrity　of　use。



To　every　man　it　happens　that　at　one　time　of　his　lifefor　a　space　of

years　or　for　a　space　of　monthshe　is　convinced　of　death　with　an

incomparable　reality。　　It　might　seem　as　though　literature；　living

the　life　of　a　man；　underwent　that　conviction　in　those　ages。　　Death

was　as　often　on　the　tongues　of　men　in　older　ages；　and　oftener　in

their　hands；　but　in　the　sixteenth　century　it　was　at　their　hearts。

The　discovery　of　death　did　not　shake　the　poets　from　their　composure。

On　the　contrary；　the　verse　is　never　measured　with　more　majestic

effect　than　when　it　moves　in　honour　of　this　Lady　of　the　lyrics。　　Sir

Walter　Raleigh　is　but　a　jerky　writer　when　he　is　rhyming　other

things；　however　bitter　or　however　solemn；　but　his　lines　on　death；

which　are　also　lines　on　immortality；　are　infinitely　noble。　　These

are；　needless　to　say；　meditations　upon　death　by　law　and　violence；

and　so　are　the　ingenious　rhymes　of　Chidiock　Tichborne；　written　after

his　last　prose　in　his　farewell　letter　to　his　wife〃Now；　Sweet…

cheek；　what　is　left　to　bestow　on　thee；　a　small　recompense　for　thy

deservings〃and　singularly　beautiful　prose　is　this。　　So　also　are

Southwell's　words。　　But　these　are　exceptional　deaths；　and　more

dramatic　than　was　needed　to　awake　the　poetry　of　the　meditative　age。



It　was　death　as　the　end　of　the　visible　world　and　of　the　idle

business　of　lifenot　death　as　a　passage　nor　death　as　a　fear　or　a

darknessthat　was　the　Lady　of　the　lyrists。　　Nor　was　their　song　of

the　act　of　dying。　　With　this　a　much　later　and　much　more　trivial

literature　busied　itself。　　Those　two　centuries　felt　with　a　shock

that　death　would　bring　an　end；　and　that　its　equalities　would　make

vain　the　differences　of　wit　and　wealth　which　they　took　apparently

more　seriously　than　to　us　seems　probable。　　They　never　wearied　of　the

wonder。　　The　poetry　of　our　day　has　an　entirely　different　emotion　for

death　as　parting。　　It　was　not　parting　that　the　lyrists　sang　of；　it

was　the　mere　simplicity　of　death。　　None　of　our　contemporaries　will

take　such　a　subject；　they　have　no　more　than　the　ordinary　conviction

of　the　matter。　　For　the　great　treatment　of　obvious　things　there　must

evidently　be　an　extraordinary　conviction。



But　whether　the　chief　Lady　of　the　lyrics　be　this；　or　whether　she　be

the　implacable　Elizabethan　feigned　by　the　love…songs；　she　has

equally　passed　from　before　the　eyes　of　poets。







JULY







One　has　the　leisure　of　July　for　perceiving　all　the　differences　of

the　green　of　leaves。　　It　is　no　longer　a　difference　in　degrees　of

maturity；　for　all　the　trees　have　darkened　to　their　final　tone；　and

stand　in　their　differences　of　character　and　not　of　mere　date。

Almost　all　the　green　is　grave；　not　sad　and　not　dull。　　It　has　a

darkened　and　a　daily　colour；　in　majestic　but　not　obvious　harmony

with　dark　grey　skies；　and　might　look；　to　inconstant　eyes；　as　prosaic

after　spring　as　eleven　o'clock　looks　after　the　dawn。



Gravity　is　the　wordnot　solemnity　as　towards　evening；　nor　menace　as

at　night。　　The　daylight　trees　of　July　are　signs　of　common　beauty；

common　freshness；　and　a　mystery　familiar　and　abiding　as　night　and

day。　　In　childhood　we　all　have　a　more　exalted　sense　of　dawn　and

summer　sunrise　than　we　ever　fully　retain　or　quite　recover；　and　also

a　far　higher　sensibility　for　April　and　April　eveningsa　heartache

for　them；　which　in　riper　years　is　gradually　and　irretrievably

consoled。



But；　on　the　other　hand；　childhood　has　so　quickly　learned　to　find

daily　things　tedious；　and　familiar　things　importunate；　that　it　has

no　great　delight　in　the　mere　middle　of　the　day；　and　feels　weariness

of　the　summer　that　has　ceased　to　change　visibly。　　The　poetry　of　mere

day　and　of　late　summer　becomes　perceptible　to　mature　eyes　that　have

long　ceased　to　be　sated；　have　taken　leave　of　weariness；　and　cannot

now　find　anything　in　nature　too　familiar；　eyes　which　have；　indeed；

lost　sight　of　the　further　awe　of　midsummer　daybreak；　and　no　longer

see　so　much　of　the　past　in　April　twilight　as　they　saw　when　they　had

no　past；　but　which　look　freshly　at　the　dailiness　of　green　summer；　of

early　afternoon；　of　every　sky　of　any　form　that　comes　to　pass；　and　of

the　darkened　elms。



Not　unbeloved　is　this　serious　tree；　the　elm；　with　its　leaf　sitting

close；　unthrilled。　　Its　stature　gives　it　a　dark　gold　head　when　it

looks　alone　to　a　late　sun。　　But　if　one　could　go　by　all　the　woods；

across　all　the　old　forests　that　are　now　meadowlands　set　with　trees；

and　could　walk　a　county　gathering　trees　of　a　single　kind　in　the

mind；　as　one　walks　a　garden　collecting　flowers　of　a　single　kind　in

the　hand；　would　not　the　harvest　be　a　harvest　of　poplars？　　A

veritable　passion　for　poplars　is　a　most　intelligible　passion。　　The

eyes　do　gather　them；　far　and　near；　on　a　whole　day's　journey。　　Not

one　is　unperceived；　even　though　great　timber　should　be　passed；　and

hill…sides　dense　and　deep　with　trees。　　The　fancy　makes　a　poplar　day

of　it。　　Immediately　the　country　looks　alive　with　signals；　for　the

poplars　everywhere　reply　to　the　glance。　　The　woods　may　be　all

various；　but　the　poplars　are　separate。



All　their　many　kinds　（and　aspens；　their　kin；　must　be　counted　with

them）　shake　themselves　perpetually　free　of　the　motionless　forest。

It　is　easy　to　gather　them。　　Glances　sent　into　the　far　distance　pay

them　a　flash　of　recognition　of　their　gentle　flashes；　and　as　you

journey　you　are　suddenly　aware　of　them　close　by。　　Light　and　the

breezes　are　as　quick　as　the　eyes　of　a　poplar…lover　to　find　the

willing　tree　that　dances　to　be　seen。



No　lurking　for　them；　no　reluctance。　　One　could　never　make　for

oneself　an　oak　day　so　well。　　The　oaks　would　wait　to　be　found；　and

many　would　be　missed　from　the　gathering。　　But　the　poplars　are　alert

enough　for　a　traveller　by　express；　they　have　an　alarum　aloft；　and　do

not　sleep。　　From　within　some　little　grove　of　other　trees　a　single

poplar　makes　a　slight　sign；　or　a　long　row　of　poplars　suddenly　sweep

the　wind。　　They　are　salient　everywhere；　and　full　of　replies。　　They

are　as　fresh　as　streams。



It　is　difficult　to　realize　a　drought　where　there　are　many　poplars。

And　yet　their　green　is　not　rich；　the　coolest　have　a　colour　much

mingled　with　a　cloud…grey。　　It　does　but　need　fresh　and　simple　eyes

to　recognize　their　unfaded　life。　　When　the　other　trees　grow　dark　and

keep　still；　the　poplar　and　the　aspen　do　not　darkenor　hardlyand

the　deepest　summer　will　not　find　a　day　in　which　they　do　not　keep

awake。　　No　waters　are　so　vigilant；　even　where　a　lake　is　bare　to　the

wind。



When　Keats　said　of　his　Dian　that　she　fastened　up　her　hair　〃with

fingers　cool　as　aspen　leaves；〃　he　knew　the　coolest　thing　in　the

world。　　It　is　a　coolness　of　colour；　as　well　as　of　a　leaf　which　the

breeze　takes　on　both　sidesthe　greenish　and　the　greyish。　　The

poplar　green　has　no　glows；　no　gold；　it　is　an　austere　colour；　as

little　rich　as　the　colour　of　willows；　and　less　silvery　than　theirs。

The　sun　can　hardly　gild　it；　but　he　can　shine　between。　　Poplars　and

aspens　let　the　sun　through　with　the　wind。　　You　may　have　the　sky

sprinkled　through　them　in　high　midsummer；　when　all　the　woods　are

close。



Sending　your　fancy　poplar…gathering；　then；　you　ensnare　wild　trees；

beating　with　life。　　No　fisher's　net　ever　took　such　glancing　fishes；

nor　did　the　net　of　a　constellation's　shape　ever　enclose　more

vibrating　Pleiades。







WELLS







The　world　at　present　is　inclined　to　make　sorry　mysteries　or

unattractive　secrets　of　the　methods　and　supplies　of　the　fresh　and

perennial　means　of　life。　　A　very　dull　secret　is　made　of　water；　for

example；　and　the　plumber　sets　his　seal　upon　the　floods　whereby　we

live。　　They　are　covered；　they　are　carried；　they　are　hushed；　from　the

spring　to　the　tap；　and　when　their　voices　are　released　at　last　in　the

London　scullery；　why；　it　can　hardly　be　said　that　the　song　is

eloquent　of　the　natural　source　of　waters；　whether　earthly　or

heavenly。　　There　is　not　one　of　the　circumstances　of　this　capture　of

streamsthe　company；　the　water…rate；　and　the　restthat　is　not　a

sign　of　the　ill…luck　of　modern　devices　in　regard　to　style。　　For

style　implies　a　candour　and　simplicity　of　means；　an　action；　a

gesture；　as　it　were；　in　the　doing　of　small　things；　it　is　the

ignorance　of　secret　ways；　whereas　the　finish　of　modern　life　and　its

neatness　seem　to　be　secured　by　a　system　of　little　shufflings　and

surprises。



Dress；　among　other　things；　is　furnished　throughout　with　such

fittings；　they　form　its　very　construction。　　Style　does　not　exist　in

modern　arrayings；　for　all　their　prettiness　and　precision；　and　for

all　the　successeswhich　are　not　to　be　deniedof　their　outer　part；