the spirit of place and other essays-第4节

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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　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