小说园

第17部分（第1页）

h　as　though　new　minted　from　the　brain　of　the　poet。　Being　perfect；　they　can　never　droop　under　that　satiety　which　arises　from　the　perception　of　fault；　their　virtue　can　never　be　so　entirely　savoured　as　to　leave　no　pungency　of　gusto　for　the　next　approach。

Among　the　many　reasons　which　make　me　glad　to　have　been　born　in　England；　one　of　the　first　is　that　I　read　Shakespeare　in　my　mother　tongue。　If　I　try　to　imagine　myself　as　one　who　cannot　know　him　face　to　face；　who　hears　him　only　speaking　from　afar；　and　that　in　accents　which　only　through　the　labouring　intelligence　can　touch　the　living　soul；　there　es　upon　me　a　sense　of　chill　discouragement；　of　dreary　deprivation。　I　am　wont　to　think　that　I　can　read　Homer；　and；　assuredly；　if　any　man　enjoys　him；　it　is　I；　but　can　I　for　a　moment　dream　that　Homer　yields　me　all　his　music；　that　his　word　is　to　me　as　to　him　who　walked　by　the　Hellenic　shore　when　Hellas　lived？　I　know　that　there　reaches　me　across　the　vast　of　time　no　more　than　a　faint　and　broken　echo；　I　know　that　it　would　be　fainter　still；　but　for　its　blending　with　those　memories　of　youth　which　are　as　a　glimmer　of　the　worlds　primeval　glory。　Let　every　land　have　joy　of　its　poet；　for　the　poet　is　the　land　itself；　all　its　greatness　and　its　sweetness；　all　that　inmunicable　heritage　for　which　men　live　and　die。　As　I　close　the　book；　love　and　reverence　possess　me。　Whether　does　my　full　heart　turn　to　the　great　Enchanter；　or　to　the　Island　upon　which　he　has　laid　his　spell？　I　know　not。　I　cannot　think　of　them　apart。　In　the　love　and　reverence　awakened　by　that　voice　of　voices；　Shakespeare　and　England　are　but　one。

AUTUMN

I

This　has　been　a　year　of　long　sunshine。　Month　has　followed　upon　month　with　little　unkindness　of　the　sky；　I　scarcely　marked　when　July　passed　into　August；　August　into　September。　I　should　think　it　summer　still；　but　that　I　see　the　lanes　yellow…purfled　with　flowers　of　autumn。

I　am　busy　with　the　hawkweeds；　that　is　to　say；　I　am　learning　to　distinguish　and　to　name　as　many　as　I　can。　For　scientific　classification　I　have　little　mind；　it　does　not　happen　to　fall　in　with　my　habits　of　thought；　but　I　like　to　be　able　to　give　its　name　（the　〃trivial〃　by　choice）　to　every　flower　I　meet　in　my　walks。　Why　should　I　be　content　to　say；　〃Oh；　its　a　hawkweed〃？　That　is　but　one　degree　less　ungracious　than　if　I　dismissed　all　the　yellow…rayed　as　〃dandelions。〃　I　feel　as　if　the　flower　were　pleased　by　my　recognition　of　its　personality。　Seeing　how　much　I　owe　them；　one　and　all；　the　least　I　can　do　is　to　greet　them　severally。　For　the　same　reason　I　had　rather　say　〃hawkweed〃　than　〃hieracium〃；　the　homelier　word　has　more　of　kindly　friendship。

II

How　the　mood　for　a　book　sometimes　rushes　upon　one；　either　one　knows　not　why；　or　in　consequence；　perhaps；　of　some　most　trifling　suggestion。　Yesterday　I　was　walking　at　dusk。　I　came　to　an　old　farmhouse；　at　the　garden　gate　a　vehicle　stood　waiting；　and　I　saw　it　was　our　doctors　gig。　Having　passed；　I　turned　to　look　back。　There　was　a　faint　afterglow　in　the　sky　beyond　the　chimneys；　a　light　twinkled　at　one　of　the　upper　windows。　I　said　to　myself；　〃Tristram　Shandy；〃　and　hurried　home　to　plunge　into　a　book　which　I　have　not　opened　for　I　dare　say　twenty　years。

Not　long　ago；　I　awoke　one　morning　and　suddenly　thought　of　the　Correspondence　between　Goethe　and　Schiller；　and　so　impatient　did　I　bee　to　open　the　book　that　I　got　up　an　hour　earlier　than　usual。　A　book　worth　rising　for；　much　better　worth　than　old　Burton；　who　pulled　Johnson　out　of　bed。　A　book　which　helps　one　to　forget　the　idle　or　venomous　chatter　going　on　everywhere　about　us；　and　bids　us　cherish　hope　for　a　world　〃which　has　such　people　int。〃

These　volumes　I　had　at　hand；　I　could　reach　them　down　from　my　shelves　at　the　moment　when　I　hungered　for　them。　But　it　often　happens　that　the　book　which　es　into　my　mind　could　only　be　procured　with　trouble　and　delay；　I　breathe　regretfully　and　put　aside　the　thought。　Ah！　the　books　that　one　will　never　read　again。　They　gave　delight；　perchance　something　more；　they　left　a　perfume　in　the　memory；　but　life　has　passed　them　by　for　ever。　I　have　but　to　muse；　and　one　after　another　they　rise　before　me。　Books　gentle　and　quieting；　books　noble　and　inspiring；　books　that　well　merit　to　be　pored　over；　not　once　but　many　a　time。　Yet　never　again　shall　I　hold　them　in　my　hand；　the　years　fly　too　quickly；　and　are　too　few。　Perhaps　when　I　lie　waiting　for　the　end；　some　of　those　lost　books　will　e　into　my　wandering　thoughts；　and　I　shall　remember　them　as　friends　to　whom　I　owed　a　kindness……friends　passed　upon　the　way。　What　regret　in　that　last　farewell！

III

Every　one；　I　suppose；　is　subject　to　a　trick　of　mind　which　often　puzzles　me。　I　am　reading　or　thinking；　and　at　a　moment；　without　any　association　or　suggestion　that　I　can　discover；　there　rises　before　me　the　vision　of　a　place　I　know。　Impossible　to　explain　why　that　particular　spot　should　show　itself　to　my　minds　eye；　the　cerebral　impulse　is　so　subtle　that　no　search　may　trace　its　origin。　If　I　am　reading；　doubtless　a　thought；　a　phrase；　possibly　a　mere　word；　on　the　page　before　me　serves　to　awaken　memory。　If　I　am　otherwise　occupied；　it　must　be　an　object　seen；　an　odour；　a　touch；　perhaps　even　a　posture　of　the　body　suffices　to　recall　something　in　the　past。　Sometimes　the　vision　passes；　and　there　an　end；　sometimes；　however；　it　has　successors；　the　memory　working　quite　independently　of　my　will；　and　no　link　appearing　between　one　scene　and　the　next。

Ten　minutes　ago　I　was　talking　with　my　gardener。　Our　topic　was　the　nature　of　the　soil；　whether　or　not　it　would　suit　a　certain　kind　of　vegetable。　Of　a　sudden　I　found　myself　gazing　at……the　Bay　of　Avlona。　Quite　certainly　my　thoughts　had　not　strayed　in　that　direction。　The　picture　that　came　before　me　caused　me　a　shock　of　surprise；　and　I　am　still　vainly　trying　to　discover　how　I　came　to　behold　it。

A　happy　chance　that　I　ever　saw　Avlona。　I　was　on　my　way　from　Corfu　to　Brindisi。　The　steamer　sailed　late　in　the　afternoon；　there　was　a　little　wind；　and　as　the　December　night　became　chilly；　I　soon　turned　in。　With　the　first　daylight　I　was　on　deck；　expecting　to　find　that　we　were　near　the　Italian　port；　to　my　surprise；　I　saw　a　mountainous　shore；　towards　which　the　ship　was　making　at　full　speed。　On　inquiry；　I　learnt　that　this　was　the　coast　of　Albania；　our　vessel　not　being　very　seaworthy；　and　the　wind　still　blowing　a　little　（though　not　enough　to　make　any　passenger　unfortable）；　the　captain　had　turned　back　when　nearly　half　across　the　Adriatic；　and　was　seeking　a　haven　in　the　shelter　of　the　snow…topped　hills。　Presently　we　steamed　into　a　great　bay；　in　the　narrow　mouth　of　which　lay　an　island。　My　map　showed　me　where　we　were；　and　with　no　small　interest　I　discovered　that　the　long　line　of　heights　guarding　the　bay　on　its　southern　side　formed　the　Acroceraunian　Promontory。　A　little　town　visible　high　up　on　the　inner　shore　was　the　ancient　Aulon。

Here　we　anchored；　and　lay　all　day　long。　Provisions　running　short；　a　boat　had　to　be　sent　to　land；　and　the　sailors　purchased；　among　other　things；　some　peculiarly　detestable　bread……according　to　them；　cotto　al　sole。　There　was　not　a　cloud　in　the　sky；　till　evening；　the　wind　whistled　above　our　heads；　but　the　sea　about　us　was　blue　and　smooth。　I　sat　in　hot　sunshine；　feasting　my　eyes　on　the　beautiful　cliffs　and　valleys　of　the　thickly…wooded　shore。　Then　came　a　noble　sunset；　then　night　crept　gently　into　the　hollows　of　the　hills；　which　now　were　coloured　the　deepest；　richest　green。　A　little　lighthouse　began　to　shine。　In　the　perfect　calm　that　had　fallen；　I　heard　breakers　murmuring　softly　upon　the　beach。

At　sunrise　we　entered　the　port　of　Brindisi。

IV

The　characteristic　motive　of　English　poetry　is　love　of　nature；　especially　of　nature　as　seen　in　the　English　rural　landscape。　From　the　〃Cuckoo　Song〃　of　our　language　in　its　beginnings　to　the　perfect　loveliness　of　Tennysons　best　verse；　this　note　is　ever　sounding。　It　is　persistent　even　amid　the　triumph　of　the　drama。　Take　away　from　Shakespeare　all　his　bits　of　natural　description；　all　his　casual　allusions　to　the　life　and　aspects　of　the　country；　and　what　a　loss　were　there！　The　reign　of　the　iambic　couplet　confined；　but　could　not　suppress；　this　native　music；　Pope　notwithstanding；　there　came　the　〃Ode　to　Evening〃　and　that　〃Elegy〃　which；　unsurpassed　for　beauty　of　thought　and　nobility　of　utterance　in　all　the　treasury　of　our　lyrics；　remains　perhaps　the　most　essentially　English　poem　ever　written。

This　attribute　of　our　national　mind　availed　even　to　give　rise　to　an　English　school　of　painting。　It　came　late；　that　it　ever　came　at　all　is　remarkable　enough。　A　people　apparently　less　apt　for　that　kind　of　achievement　never　existed。　So　profound　is　the　English　joy　in　meadow　and　stream　and　hill；　that；　unsatisfied　at　last　with　vocal　expression；　it　took　up　the　brush；　the　pencil；　the　etching　tool；　and　created　a　new　form　of　art。　The　National　Gallery　represents　only　in　a　very　imperfect　way　the　richness　and　variety　of　our　landscape　work。　Were　it　possible　to　collect；　and　suitably　to　display；　the　very　best　of　such　work　in　every　vehicle；　I　know　not　which　would　be　the　stronger　emotion　in　an　English　heart；　pride　or　rapture。

One　obvious　reason　for　the　long　neglect　of　Turner　lies　in　the　fact　that　his　genius　does　not　seem　to　be　truly　English。　Turners　landscape；　even　when　it　presents　familiar　scenes；　does　not　show　them　in　the　familiar　light。　Neither　the　artist　nor　the　intelligent　layman　is　satisfied。　He　gives　us　glorious　visions；　we　admit　the　glory……but　we　miss　something　which　we　deem　essential。　I　doubt　whether　Turner　tasted　rural　England；　I　doubt　whether　the　spirit　of　English　poetry　was　in　him；　I　doubt　whether　the　essential　significance　of　the　mon　things　which　we　call　beautiful　was　revealed　to　his　soul。　Such　doubt　does　not　affect　his　greatness　as　a　poet　in　colour　and　in　form；　but　I　suspect　that　it　has　always　been　the　cause　why　England　could　not　love　him。　If　any　man　whom　I　knew　to　be　a　man　of　brains　confessed　to　me　that　he　preferred　Birket　Foster；　I　should　smile……but　I　should　understand。

V

A　long　time　since　I　wrote　in　this　book。　In　September　I　caught　a　cold；　which　meant　three　weeks　illness。

I　have　not　been　suffering；　merely　feverish　and　weak　and　unable　to　use　my　mind　for　anything　but　a　daily　hour　or　two　of　the　lightest　reading。　The　weather　has　not　favoured　my　recovery；　wet　winds　often　blowing；　and　not　much　sun。　Lying　in　bed；　I　have　watched　the　sky；　studied　the　clouds；　which……so　long　as　they　are　clouds　indeed；　and　not　a　mere　waste　of　grey　vapour……always　have　their　beauty。　Inability　to　read　has　always　been　my　horror；　once；　a　trouble　of　the　eyes　all　but　drove　me　mad　with　fear　of　blindness；　but　I　find　that　in　my　present　circumstances；　in　my　own　still　house；　with　no　intrusion　to　be　dreaded；　with　no　task　or　care　to　worry　me；　I　can　fleet　the　time　not　unpleasantly　even　without　help　of　books。　Reverie；　unknown　to　me　in　the　days　of　bondage；　has　brought　me　solace；　I　hope　it　has　a　little　advanced　me　in　wisdom。

For　not；　surely；　by　deliberate　effort　of　thought　does　a　man　grow　wise。　The　truths　of　life　are　not　discovered　by　us。　At　moments　unforeseen；　some　gracious　influence　descends　upon　the　soul；　touching　it　to　an　emotion　which；　we　know　not　how；　the　mind　transmutes　into　thought。　This　can　happen　only　in　a　calm　of　the　senses；　a　surrender　of　the　whole　being　to　passionless　contemplation。　I　understand；　now；　the　intellectual　mood　of　the　quietist。

Of　course　m