the spirit of place and other essays-第3章

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power；　her　intimacy；　her　opportunity；　that　should　be　her　accusers；

are　held　to　excuse　her。　　She　gains　the　most　slovenly　of　indulgences

and　the　grossest　compassion；　on　the　vulgar　grounds　that　her　crime

was　easy。



Lawless　and　vain　art　of　a　certain　kind　is　apt　to　claim　to…day；　by

the　way；　some　such　fondling　as　a　heroine　of　the　dock　receives　from

common　opinion。　　The　vain　artist　had　all　the　opportunities　of　the

situation。　　He　was　master　of　his　own　purpose；　such　as　it　was；　it　was

his　secret；　and　the　public　was　not　privy　to　his　artistic　conscience。

He　does　violence　to　the　obligations　of　which　he　is　aware；　and　which

the　world　does　not　know　very　explicitly。　　Nothing　is　easier。　　Or　he

is　lawless　in　a　more　literal　sense；　but　only　hopes　the　world　will

believe　that　he　has　a　whole　code　of　his　own　making。　　It　would；

nevertheless；　be　less　unworthy　to　break　obvious　rules　obviously　in

the　obvious　face　of　the　public；　and　to　abide　the　common　rebuke。



It　has　just　been　said　that　a　park　is　by　no　means　necessary　for　the

preparation　of　a　country　solitude。　　Indeed；　to　make　those　far　and

wide　and　long　approaches　and　avenues　to　peace　seems　to　be　a　denial

of　the　accessibility　of　what　should　be　so　simple。　　A　step；　a　pace　or

so　aside；　is　enough　to　lead　thither。



A　park　insists　too　much；　and；　besides；　does　not　insist　very

sincerely。　　In　order　to　fulfil　the　apparent　professions　and　to　keep

the　published　promise　of　a　park；　the　owner　thereof　should　be　a　lover

of　long　seclusion　or　of　a　very　life　of　loneliness。　　He　should　have

gained　the　state　of　solitariness　which　is　a　condition　of　life　quite

unlike　any　other。　　The　traveller　who　may　have　gone　astray　in

countries　where　an　almost　life…long　solitude　is　possible　knows　how

invincibly　apart　are　the　lonely　figures　he　has　seen　in　desert　places

there。　　Their　loneliness　is　broken　by　his　passage；　it　is　true；　but

hardly　so　to　them。　　They　look　at　him；　but　they　are　not　aware　that　he

looks　at　them。　　Nay；　they　look　at　him　as　though　they　were　invisible。

Their　un…self…consciousness　is　absolute；　it　is　in　the　wild　degree。

They　are　solitaries；　body　and　soul；　even　when　they　are　curious；　and

turn　to　watch　the　passer…by；　they　are　essentially　alone。　　Now；　no

one　ever　found　that　attitude　in　a　squire's　figure；　or　that　look　in

any　country　gentleman's　eyes。　　The　squire　is　not　a　life…long

solitary。　　He　never　bore　himself　as　though　he　were　invisible。　　He

never　had　the　impersonal　ways　of　a　herdsman　in　the　remoter

Apennines；　with　a　blind；　blank　hut　in　the　rocks　for　his　dwelling。

Millet　would　not　even　have　taken　him　as　a　model　for　a　solitary　in

the　briefer　and　milder　sylvan　solitudes　of　France。　　And　yet　nothing

but　a　life…long；　habitual；　and　wild　solitariness　would　be　quite

proportionate　to　a　park　of　any　magnitude。



If　there　is　a　look　of　human　eyes　that　tells　of　perpetual　loneliness；

so　there　is　also　the　familiar　look　that　is　the　sign　of　perpetual

crowds。　　It　is　the　London　expression；　and；　in　its　way；　the　Paris

expression。　　It　is　the　quickly　caught；　though　not　interested；　look；

the　dull　but　ready　glance　of　those　who　do　not　know　of　their

forfeited　place　apart；　who　have　neither　the　open　secret　nor　the

close；　no　reserve；　no　need　of　refuge；　no　flight　nor　impulse　of

flight；　no　moods　but　what　they　may　brave　out　in　the　street；　no　hope

of　news　from　solitary　counsels。







THE　LADY　OF　THE　LYRICS







She　is　eclipsed；　or　gone；　or　in　hiding。　　But　the　sixteenth　century

took　her　for　granted　as　the　object　of　song；　she　was　a　class；　a

state；　a　sex。　　It　was　scarcely　necessary　to　waste　the　lyrist's　time…

…time　that　went　so　gaily　to　metre　as　not　to　brook　delaysin　making

her　out　too　clearly。　　She　had　no　more　of　what　later　times　call

individuality　than　has　the　rose；　her　rival；　her　foil　when　she　was

kinder；　her　superior　when　she　was　cruel；　her　ever　fresh　and　ever

conventional　paragon。　　She　needed　not　to　be　devised　or　divined；　she

was　ready。　　A　merry　heart　goes　all　the　day；　the　lyrist's　never　grew

weary。　　Honest　men　never　grow　tired　of　bread　or　of　any　other　daily

things　whereof　the　sweetness　is　in　their　own　simplicity。



The　lady　of　the　lyrics　was　not　loved　in　mortal　earnest；　and　her

punishment　now　and　then　for　her　ingratitude　was　to　be　told　that　she

was　loved　in　jest。　　She　did　not　love；　her　fancy　was　fickle；　she　was

not　moved　by　long　service；　which；　by　the　way；　was　evidently　to　be

taken　for　granted　precisely　like　the　whole　long　past　of　a　dream。

She　had　not　a　good　temper。　　When　the　poet　groans　it　seems　that　she

has　laughed　at　him；　when　he　flouts　her；　we　may　understand　that　she

has　chidden　her　lyrist　in　no　temperate　terms。　　In　doing　this　she　has

sinned　not　so　much　against　him　as　against　Love。　　With　that　she　is

perpetually　reproved。　　The　lyrist　complains　to　Love；　pities　Love　for

her　scorning；　and　threatens　to　go　away　with　Love；　who　is　on　his

side。　　The　sweetest　verse　is　tuned　to　love　when　the　loved　one　proves

worthy。



There　is　no　record　of　success　for　this　policy。　　She　goes　on　dancing

or　scolding；　as　the　case　may　be；　and　the　lyrist　goes　on　boasting　of

his　constancy；　or　suddenly　renounces　it　for　a　day。　　The　situation

has　variants；　but　no　surprise　or　ending。　　The　lover's　convention　is

explicit　enough；　but　it　might　puzzle　a　reader　to　account　for　the

lady's。　　Pride　in　her　beauty；　at　any　rate；　is　herspride　so　great

that　she　cannot　bring　herself　to　perceive　the　shortness　of　her　day。

She　is　so　unobservant　as　to　need　to　be　told　that　life　is　brief；　and

youth　briefer　than　life；　that　the　rose　fades；　and　so　forth。



Now　we　need　not　assume　that　the　lady　of　the　lyrics　ever　lived。　　But

taking　her　as　the　perfectly　unanimous　conception　of　the　lyrists；　how

is　it　she　did　not　discover　these　things　unaided？　　Why　does　the　lover

invariably　imagine　her　with　a　mind　intensely　irritable　under　his　own

praise　and　poetry？　　Obviously　we　cannot　have　her　explanation　of　any

of　these　matters。　　Why　do　the　poets　so　much　lament　the　absence　of

truth　in　one　whose　truth　would　be　of　little　moment？　　And　why　was　the

convention　so　pleasant；　among　all　others；　as　to　occupy　a　whole　age

nay；　two　great　agesof　literature？



Music　seems　to　be　principally　answerable。　　For　the　lyrics　of　the

lady　are　〃words　for　music〃　by　a　great　majority。　　There　is　hardly　a

single　poem　in　the　Elizabethan　Song…books；　properly　so　named；　that

has　what　would　in　our　day　be　called　a　tone　of　sentiment。　　Music　had

not　then　the　tone　herself；　she　was　ingenious；　and　so　must　the　words

be。　　She　had　the　air　of　epigram；　and　an　accurately　definite　limit。

So；　too；　the　lady　of　the　lyrics；　who　might　be　called　the　lady　of　the

stanzas；　so　strictly　does　she　go　by　measure。　　When　she　is

quarrelsome；　it　is　but　fuguishness；　when　she　dances；　she　does　it　by

a　canon。　　She　could　not　but　be　perverse；　merrily　sung　to　such　grave

notes。



So　fixed　was　the　law　of　this　perversity　that　none　in　the　song…books

is　allowed　to　be　kind　enough　for　a　〃melody；〃　except　one　lady　only。

She　may　thus　derogate；　for　the　exceedingly　Elizabethan　reason　that

she　is　〃brown。〃　　She　is　brown　and　kind；　and　a　〃sad　flower；〃　but　the

song　made　for　her　would　have　been　too　insipid；　apparently；　without

an　antithesis。　　The　fair　one　is　warned　that　her　disdain　makes　her

even　less　lovely　than　the　brown。



Fair　as　a　lily；　hard　to　please；　easily　angry；　ungrateful　for

innumerable　verses；　uncertain　with　the　regularity　of　the　madrigal；

and　inconstant　with　the　punctuality　of　a　stanza；　she　has　gone　with

the　arts　of　that　day；　and　neither　verse　nor　music　will　ever　make

such　another　lady。　　She　refused　to　observe　the　transiency　of　roses；

she　never　really　intendedmuch　as　she　was　urgedto　be　a

shepherdess；　she　was　never　persuaded　to　mitigate　her　dress。　　In

return；　the　world　has　let　her　disappear。　　She　scorned　the　poets

until　they　turned　upon　her　in　the　epigram　of　many　a　final　couplet；

and　of　these　the　last　has　been　long　written。　　Her　〃No〃　was　set　to

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　d