the rhythm of life and other essays(生命的旋律)-第11章
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ornament the fat land is devoted to idleness。 Not a tree that is not
impenetrable； inarticulate。 Thick soil below and thick growth above
cover up all the bones of the land； which in more delicate countries show
brows and hollows resembling those of a fine face after mental experience。
By a very intelligible paradox； it is only in a landscape made up for beauty
that beauty is so ill achieved。 Much beauty there must needs be where
there are vegetation and the seasons。 But even the seasons； in park
scenery； are marred by the LITTLE TOO MUCH； too complete a winter；
too emphatic a spring； an ostentatious summer； an autumn too
demonstrative。
'Seek to have less rather than more。' It is a counsel of perfection in
The Imitation of Christ。 And here； undoubtedly； is the secret of all that is
virile and classic in the art of man； and of all in nature that is most
harmonious with that art。 Moreover； this is the secret of Italy。 How
little do the tourists and the poets grasp this latter truth； by the wayand
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the artists！ The legend of Italy is to be gorgeous； and they have her
legend by rote。 But Italy is slim and all articulate； her most characteristic
trees are those that are distinct and distinguished； with lines that suggest
the etching…point rather than a brush loaded with paint。 Cypresses
shaped like flames； tall pines with the abrupt flatness of their tops； thin
canes in the brakes； sharp aloes by the road…side； and olives with the
delicate acuteness of the leafthese make keen lines of slender vegetation。
And they own the seasons by a gentle confession。 Rather than be
overpowered by the clamorous proclamation of summer in the English
woods； we would follow June to this subtler South： even to the
Campagna； where the cycle of the seasons passes within such narrow
limitations that insensitive eyes scarcely recognise it。 In early spring
there is a fresher touch of green on all the spaces of grass； the distance
grows less mellow and more radiant； by the coming of May the green has
been imperceptibly dimmed again； it blushes with the mingled colours of
minute and numberless flowersa dust of flowers； in lines longer than
those of ocean billows。 This is the desert blossoming like a rose： not
the obvious rose of gardens； but the multitudinous and various flower that
gathers once in the year in every hand's…breadth of the wilderness。 When
June comes the sun has burnt all to leagues of harmonious seed； coloured
with a hint of the colour of harvest； which is gradually changed to the
lighter harmonies of winter。 All this fine chromatic scale passes within
such modest boundaries that it is accused as a monotony。 But those who
find its modesty delightful may have a still more delicate pleasure in the
blooming and blossoming of the sea。 The passing from the winter blue to
the summer blue； from the cold colour to the colour that has in it the fire
of the sun； the kindling of the sapphire of the Mediterranean the
significance of these sea…seasons； so far from the pasture and the harvest；
is imperceptible to ordinary senses； as appears from the fact that so few
stay to see it all fulfilled。 And if the tourist stayed； he would no doubt
violate all that is lovely and moderate by the insistence of his descriptions。
He would find adjectives for the blue sea； but probably he would refuse to
search for words for the white。 A white Mediterranean is not in the
legend。 Nevertheless it blooms； now and then； pale as an opal； the white
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sea is the flower of the breathless midsummer。 And in its clear； silent
waters； a few days； in the culmination of the heat； bring forth translucent
living creatures； many…shaped jelly…fish； coloured like mother…of…pearl。
But without going so far from the landscape of daily life； it is in
agricultural Italy that the LITTLE LESS makes so undesignedly； and as it
were so inevitably； for beauty。 The country that is formed for use and
purpose only is immeasurably the loveliest。 What a lesson in literature！
How feelingly it persuades us that all except a very little of the ornament
of letters and of life makes the dulness of the world。 The tenderness of
colour； the beauty of series and perspective； and the variety of surface；
produced by the small culture of vegetables； are among the charms that
come unsought； and that are not to be found by seekingare never to be
achieved if they are sought for their own sake。 And another of the
delights of the useful laborious land is its vitality。 The soil may be thin
and dry； but man's life is added to its own。 He has embanked the hill to
make little platforms for the growth of wheat in the light shadows of olive
leaves。 Thanks to the metayer land… tenure； man's heart； as well as his
strength； is given to the ground； with his hope and his honour。 Louis
Blanc's 'point of honour of industry' is a conscious impulseit is not too
much to saywith most of the Tuscan contadini； but as each effort they
make for their master they make also for the bread of their children； it is
no wonder that the land they cultivate has a look of life。 But in all colour；
in all luxury； and in all that gives material for picturesque English； this
lovely scenery for food and wine and raiment has that LITTLE LESS to
which we desire to recall a rhetorical world。
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MR。 COVENTRY PATMORE'S
ODES
To most of the great poets no greater praise can be given than praise of
their imagery。 Imagery is the natural language of their poetry。 Without
a parable she hardly speaks。 But undoubtedly there is now and then a
poet who touches the thing； not its likeness； too vitally； too sensitively； for
even such a pause as the verse makes for love of the beautiful image。
Those rare moments are simple； and their simplicity makes one of the
reader's keenest experiences。 Other simplicities may be achieved by lesser
art； but this is transcendent simplicity。 There is nothing in the world
more costly。 It vouches for the beauty which it transcends； it answer for
the riches it forbears； it implies the art which it fulfils。 All abundance
ministers to it； though it is so single。 And here we get the sacrificial
quality which is the well…kept secret of art at this perfection。 All the
faculties of the poet are used for preparing this naked greatnessare used
and fruitfully spent and shed。 The loveliness that stands and waits on the
simplicity of certain of Mr。 Coventry Patmore's Odes； the fervours and
splendours that are there； only to be put to silenceto silence of a kind that
would be impossible were they less gloriousare testimonies to the
difference between sacrifice and waste。
But does it seem less than reasonable to begin a review of a poet's
work with praise of an infrequent mood？ Infrequent such a mood must
needs be； yet it is in a profound sense characteristic。 To have attained it
once or twice is to have proved such gift and grace as a true history of
literature would show to be above price； even gauged by the rude measure
of rarity。 Transcendent simplicity could not possibly be habitual。 Man
lives within garments and veils； and art is chiefly concerned with making
mysteries of these for the loveliness of his life； when they are rent asunder
it is impossible not to be aware that an overwhelming human emotion has
been in action。 Thus DEPARTURE； IF I WERE DEAD； A FAREWELL；
EURYDICE； THE TOYS； ST。 VALENTINE'S DAY though here there is
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in the exquisite imaginative play a mitigation of the bare vitality of
feelinggroup themselves apart as the innermost of the poet's
achievements。
Second to these come the Odes that have splendid thought in great
images； and displayrather than； as do the poems first glanced at； betray
the beauties of poetic art。 Emotion is here； too； and in shocks and throes；
never frantic when almost intolerable。 It is mortal pathos。 If any other
poet has filled a cup with a draught so unalloyed； we do not know it。
Love and sorrow are pure in The Unknown Eros； and its author has not
refused even the cup of terror。 Against love often； against sorrow nearly
always； against fear always； men of sensibility instantaneously guard the
quick of their hearts。 It is only the approach of the pang that they will
endure； from the pang itself； dividing soul and spirit； a man who is
conscious of a profound capacity for passion defends himself in the
twinkling of an eye。 But through nearly the whole of Coventry Patmore's
poetry there is an endurance of the mortal touch。 Nay； more； he has the
endurance of the immortal touch。 That is； his capacity for all the things
that men elude for their greatness is more than the capacity of other men。
He endures therefore what they could but will not endure and； besides this；
deg
