四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第7部分

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　some　disaster；　for　this　period　of　sacred　calm。　For　a　week　or　so　I　have　been　one　of　a　small　number；　chosen　out　of　the　whole　human　race　by　fate's　supreme　benediction。　It　may　be　that　this　es　to　every　one　in　turn；　to　most；　it　can　only　be　once　in　a　lifetime；　and　so　briefly。　That　my　own　lot　seems　so　much　better　than　that　of　ordinary　men；　sometimes　makes　me　fearful。
XXV
Walking　in　a　favourite　lane　to…day；　I　found　it　covered　with　shed　blossoms　of　the　hawthorn。　Creamy　white；　fragrant　even　in　ruin；　lay　scattered　the　glory　of　the　May。　It　told　me　that　spring　is　over。
Have　I　enjoyed　it　as　I　should？　Since　the　day　that　brought　me　freedom；　four　times　have　I　seen　the　year's　new　birth；　and　always；　as　the　violet　yielded　to　the　rose；　I　have　known　a　fear　that　I　had　not　sufficiently　prized　this　boon　of　heaven　whilst　it　was　with　me。　Many　hours　I　have　spent　shut　up　among　my　books；　when　I　might　have　been　in　the　meadows。　Was　the　gain　equivalent？　Doubtfully；　diffidently；　I　hearken　what　the　mind　can　plead。
I　recall　my　moments　of　delight；　the　recognition　of　each　flower　that　unfolded；　the　surprise　of　budding　branches　clothed　in　a　night　with　green。　The　first　snowy　gleam　upon　the　blackthorn　did　not　escape　me。　By　its　familiar　bank；　I　watched　for　the　earliest　primrose；　and　in　its　copse　I　found　the　anemone。　Meadows　shining　with　buttercups；　hollows　sunned　with　the　marsh　marigold　held　me　long　at　gaze。　I　saw　the　sallow　glistening　with　its　cones　of　silvery　fur；　and　splendid　with　dust　of　gold。　These　mon　things　touch　me　with　more　of　admiration　and　of　wonder　each　time　I　behold　them。　They　are　once　more　gone。　As　I　turn　to　summer；　a　misgiving　mingles　with　my　joy。

SUMMER　

I　
To…day；　as　I　was　reading　in　the　garden；　a　waft　of　summer　perfume……　some　hidden　link　of　association　in　what　I　read……I　know　not　what　it　may　have　been……took　me　back　to　schoolboy　holidays；　I　recovered　with　strange　intensity　that　lightsome　mood　of　long　release　from　tasks；　of　going　away　to　the　seaside；　which　is　one　of　childhood's　blessings。　I　was　in　the　train；　no　rushing　express；　such　as　bears　you　great　distances；　the　sober　train　which　goes　to　no　place　of　importance；　which　lets　you　see　the　white　steam　of　the　engine　float　and　fall　upon　a　meadow　ere　you　pass。　Thanks　to　a　good　and　wise　father；　we　youngsters　saw　nothing　of　seaside　places　where　crowds　assemble；　I　am　speaking；　too；　of　a　time　more　than　forty　years　ago；　when　it　was　still　possible　to　find　on　the　coasts　of　northern　England；　east　or　west；　spots　known　only　to　those　who　loved　the　shore　for　its　beauty　and　its　solitude。　At　every　station　the　train　stopped；　little　stations；　decked　with　beds　of　flowers；　smelling　warm　in　the　sunshine　where　country…folk　got　in　with　baskets；　and　talked　in　an　unfamiliar　dialect；　an　English　which　to　us　sounded　almost　like　a　foreign　tongue。　Then　the　first　glimpse　of　the　sea；　the　excitement　of　noting　whether　tide　was　high　or　low……stretches　of　sand　and　weedy　pools；　or　halcyon　wavelets　frothing　at　their　furthest　reach；　under　the　sea…　banks　starred　with　convolvulus。　Of　a　sudden；　OUR　station！
Ah；　that　taste　of　the　brine　on　a　child's　lips！　Nowadays；　I　can　take　holiday　when　I　will；　and　go　whithersoever　it　pleases　me；　but　that　salt　kiss　of　the　sea　air　I　shall　never　know　again。　My　senses　are　dulled；　I　cannot　get　so　near　to　Nature；　I　have　a　sorry　dread　of　her　clouds；　her　winds；　and　must　walk　with　tedious　circumspection　where　once　I　ran　and　leapt　exultingly。　Were　it　possible；　but　for　one　half…hour；　to　plunge　and　bask　in　the　sunny　surf；　to　roll　on　the　silvery　sand…hills；　to　leap　from　rock　to　rock　on　shining　sea…ferns；　laughing　if　I　slipped　into　the　shallows　among　starfish　and　anemones！　I　am　much　older　in　body　than　in　mind；　I　can　but　look　at　what　I　once　enjoyed。
II
I　have　been　spending　a　week　in　Somerset。　The　right　June　weather　put　me　in　the　mind　for　rambling；　and　my　thoughts　turned　to　the　Severn　Sea。　I　went　to　Glastonbury　and　Wells；　and　on　to　Cheddar；　and　so　to　the　shore　of　the　Channel　at　Clevedon；　remembering　my　holiday　of　fifteen　years　ago；　and　too　often　losing　myself　in　a　contrast　of　the　man　I　was　then　and　what　I　am　now。　Beautiful　beyond　all　words　of　description　that　nook　of　oldest　England；　but　that　I　feared　the　moist　and　misty　winter　climate；　I　should　have　chosen　some　spot　below　the　Mendips　for　my　home　and　resting…place。　Unspeakable　the　charm　to　my　ear　of　those　old　names；　exquisite　the　quiet　of　those　little　towns；　lost　amid　tilth　and　pasture；　untouched　as　yet　by　the　fury　of　modern　life；　their　ancient　sanctuaries　guarded；　as　it　were；　by　noble　trees　and　hedges　overrun　with　flowers。　In　all　England　there　is　no　sweeter　and　more　varied　prospect　than　that　from　the　hill　of　the　Holy　Thorn　at　Glastonbury；　in　all　England　there　is　no　lovelier　musing　place　than　the　leafy　walk　beside　the　Palace　Moat　at　Wells。　As　I　think　of　the　golden　hours　I　spent　there；　a　passion　to　which　I　can　give　no　name　takes　hold　upon　me；　my　heart　trembles　with　an　indefinable　ecstasy。
There　was　a　time　of　my　life　when　I　was　consumed　with　a　desire　for　foreign　travel；　an　impatience　of　everything　familiar　fretted　me　through　all　the　changing　year。　If　I　had　not　at　length　found　the　opportunity　to　escape；　if　I　had　not　seen　the　landscapes　for　which　my　soul　longed；　I　think　I　must　have　moped　to　death。　Few　men；　assuredly；　have　enjoyed　such　wanderings　more　than　I；　and　few　men　revive　them　in　memory　with　a　richer　delight　or　deeper　longing。　But…　…whatever　temptation　es　to　me　in　mellow　autumn；　when　I　think　of　the　grape　and　of　the　olive……I　do　not　believe　I　shall　ever　again　cross　the　sea。　What　remains　to　me　of　life　and　of　energy　is　far　too　little　for　the　enjoyment　of　all　I　know；　and　all　I　wish　to　know；　of　this　dear　island。
As　a　child　I　used　to　sleep　in　a　room　hung　round　with　prints　after　English　landscape　painters……those　steel　engravings　so　mon　half　a　century　ago；　which　bore　the　legend；　〃From　the　picture　in　the　Vernon　Gallery。〃　Far　more　than　I　knew　at　the　time；　these　pictures　impressed　me；　I　gazed　and　gazed　at　them；　with　that　fixed　attention　of　a　child　which　is　half　curiosity；　half　reverie；　till　every　line　of　them　was　fixed　in　my　mind；　at　this　moment　I　see　the　black…and…white　landscapes　as　if　they　were　hanging　on　the　wall　before　me；　and　I　have　often　thought　that　this　early　training　of　the　imagination……for　such　it　was……has　much　to　do　with　the　passionate　love　of　rural　scenery　which　lurked　within　me　even　when　I　did　not　recognize　it；　and　which　now　for　many　a　year　has　been　one　of　the　emotions　directing　my　life。　Perhaps；　too；　that　early　memory　explains　why　I　love　a　good　black…　and…white　print　even　more　than　a　good　painting。　And……to　draw　yet　another　inference……here　may　be　a　reason　for　the　fact　that；　through　my　youth　and　early　manhood；　I　found　more　pleasure　in　Nature　as　represented　by　art　than　in　Nature　herself。　Even　during　that　strange　time　when　hardships　and　passions　held　me　captive　far　from　any　glimpse　of　the　flowering　earth；　I　could　be　moved；　and　moved　deeply；　by　a　picture　of　the　simplest　rustic　scene。　At　rare　moments；　when　a　happy　chance　led　me　into　the　National　Gallery；　I　used　to　stand　long　before　such　pictures　as　〃The　Valley　Farm；〃　〃The　Cornfield；〃　〃Mousehold　Heath。〃　In　the　murk　confusion　of　my　heart　these　visions　of　the　world　of　peace　and　beauty　from　which　I　was　excluded……to　which；　indeed；　I　hardly　ever　gave　a　thought……touched　me　to　deep　emotion。　But　it　did　not　need……nor　does　it　now……the　magic　of　a　master　to　awake　that　mood　in　me。　Let　me　but　e　upon　the　poorest　little　woodcut；　the　cheapest　〃process〃　illustration；　representing　a　thatched　cottage；　a　lane；　a　field；　and　I　hear　that　music　begin　to　murmur。　It　is　a　passion……Heaven　be　thanked……that　grows　with　my　advancing　years。　The　last　thought　of　my　brain　as　I　lie　dying　will　be　that　of　sunshine　upon　an　English　meadow。
III
Sitting　in　my　garden　amid　the　evening　scent　of　roses；　I　have　read　through　Walton's　Life　of　Hooker；　could　any　place　and　time　have　been　more　appropriate？　Almost　within　sight　is　the　tower　of　Heavitree　church……Heavitree；　which　was　Hooker's　birthplace。　In　other　parts　of　England　he　must　often　have　thought　of　these　meadows　falling　to　the　green　valley　of　the　Exe；　and　of　the　sun　setting　behind　the　pines　of　Haldon。　Hooker　loved　the　country。　Delightful　to　me；　and　infinitely　touching；　is　that　request　of　his　to　be　transferred　from　London　to　a　rural　living……〃where　I　can　see　God's　blessing　spring　out　of　the　earth。〃　And　that　glimpse　of　him　where　he　was　found　tending　sheep；　with　a　Horace　in　his　hand。　It　was　in　rural　solitudes　that　he　conceived　the　rhythm　of　mighty　prose。　What　music　of　the　spheres　sang　to　that　poor；　vixen…haunted；　pimply…faced　man！
The　last　few　pages　I　read　by　the　light　of　the　full　moon；　that　of　afterglow　having　till　then　sufficed　me。　Oh；　why　has　it　not　been　granted　me　in　all　my　long　years　of　pen…labour　to　write　something　small　and　perfect；　even　as　one　of　these　lives　of　honest　Izaak！　Here　is　literature；　look　you……not　〃literary　work。〃　Let　me　be　thankful　that　I　have　the　mind　to　enjoy　it；　not　only　to　understand；　but　to　savour；　its　great　goodness。
IV
It　is　Sunday　morning；　and　above　earth's　beauty　shines　the　purest；　softest　sky　this　summer　has　yet　gladdened　us　withal。　My　window　is　thrown　open；　I　see　the　sunny　gleam　upon　garden　leaves　and　flowers；　I　hear　the　birds　whose　wont　it　is　to　sing　to　me；　ever　and　anon　the　martins　that　have　their　home　beneath　my　eaves　sweep　past　in　silence。　Church　bells　have　begun　to　chime；　I　know　the　music　of　their　voices；　near　and　far。
There　was　a　time　when　it　delighted　me　to　flash　my　satire　on　the　English　Sunday；　I　could　see　nothing　but　antiquated　foolishness　and　modern　hypocrisy　in　this　weekly　pause　from　labour　and　from　bustle。　Now　I　prize　it　as　an　inestimable　boon；　and　dread　every　encroachment　upon　its　restful　stillness。　Scoff　as　I　might　at　〃Sabbatarianism；〃　was　I　not　always　glad　when　Sunday　came？　The　bells　of　London　churches　and　chapels　are　not　soothing　to　the　ear；　but　when　I　remember　their　sound……even　that　of　the　most　aggressively　pharisaic　conventicle；　with　its　one　dire　clapper……I　find　it　associated　with　a　sense　of　repose；　of　liberty。　This　day　of　the　seven　I　granted　to　my　better　genius；　work　was　put　aside；　and；　when　Heaven　permitted；　trouble　forgotten。
When　out　of　England　I　have　always　missed　this　Sunday　quietude；　this　difference　from　ordinary　days　which　seems　to　affect　the　very　atmosphere。　It　is　not　enough　that　people　should　go　to　church；　that　shops　should　be　closed　and　workyards　silent；　these　holiday　notes　do　not　make　a　Sunday。　Think　as　one　may　of　its　significance；　our　Day　of　Rest　has　a　peculiar　sanctity；　felt；　I　imagine；　in　a　more　or　less　vague　way；　even　by　those　who　wish　to　see　the　village　lads　at　cricket　and　theatres　open　in　the　town。　The　idea　is　surely　as　good　a　one　as　ever　came　to　heavy…laden　mortals；　let　one　whole　day　in　every　week　be　removed　from　the　mon　life　of　the　world；　lifted　above　mon　pleasures　as　above　mon　cares。　With　all　the　abuses　of　fanaticism；　this　thought　remained　rich　in　blessings；　Sunday　has　always　brought　large　good　to　the　generality；　and　to　a　chosen　number　has　been　the　very　life　of　the　soul；　however　heretically　some　of　them　understood　the　words。　If　its　ancient　use　perish　from　among　us；　so　much　the　worse　for　our　country。　And　perish　no　doubt　it　will；　only　here　in　rustic　solitude　can　one　forget　the　changes　that　have　already　made　the　day　less　sacred　to　multitudes。　With　it　will　vanish　that　habit　of　periodic　calm；　which；　even　when　it　has　bee　so　largely　void　of　conscious　meaning；　is；　one　may　safely　say；　the　best　spiritual　boon　ever　bestowed　upon　a　people。　The　most　difficult　of　all　things　to　attain；　the　most　difficult　of　all　to　preserve；　the　supreme　benediction　of　the　noblest　mind；　this　calm　was　once　breathed　over　the　whole　land　as　often　as　sounded　the　last　stroke　of　weekly　toil；　on　Saturday　at　even　began　the　quiet　and　the　solace。　With　the　decline　of　old　faith；　Sunday　cannot　but　lose　its　sanction；　and　no　loss　among　the　innumerable　that　we　are　suffering　will　work　so　effectually　for　popular　vulgarization。　What　hope　is　there　of　guarding　the　moral　beauty　of　the　day　when　the　authority　which　set　it　apart　is　no　longer　recognized？……Imagine　a　bank…holiday　once　a　week！
V
On　Sunday　I　e　down　later　than　usual；　I　make　a　change　of　dress；　for　it　is　fitting　that　the　day　of　spiritual　rest　should　lay　aside　the　livery　of　the　laborious　week。　For　me；　indeed；　there　is　no　labour　at　any　time；　but　nevertheless　does　Sunday　bring　me　repose。　I　share　in　the　mon　tranquillity；　my　thought　escapes　the　workaday　world　more　pletely　than　on　other　days。
It　is　not　easy　to　see　how　this　house　of　mine　can　make　to　itself　a　Sunday　quiet；　for　at　all　times　it　is　well…nigh　soundless；　yet　I　find　a　difference。　My　housekeeper　es　into　the　room　with　her　Sunday　smile；　she　is　happier　for　the　day；　and　the　sight　of　her　happiness　gives　me　pleasure。　She　speaks；　if　possible；　in　a　softer　voice；　she　wears　a　garment　which　reminds　me　that　there　is　only　the　lightest　and　cleanest　housework　to　be　done。　She　will　go　to　church；　morning　and　evening；　and　I　know　that　she　is　better　for　it。　During　her　absence　I　sometimes　look　into　rooms　which　on　other　days　I　never　enter；　it　is　merely　to　gladden　my　eyes　with　the　shining　cleanliness；　the　perfect　order；　I　am　sure　to　find　in　the　good　woman's　domain。　But　for　that　spotless　and　sweet…smelling　kitchen；　what　would　it　avail　me　to　range　my　books　and　hang　my　pictures？　All　the　tranquillity　of　my　life　depends　upon　the　honest　care　of　this　woman　who　lives　and　works　unseen。　And　I　am　sure　that　the　money　I　pay　her　is　the　least　part　of　her　reward。　She　is　such　an　old…fashioned　person　that　the　mere　discharge　of　what　she　deems　a　duty　is　in　itself　an　end　to　her；　and　the　work　of　her　hands　in　itself　a　satisfaction；　a　pride。
When　a　child；　I　was　permitted　to　handle　on　Sunday　certain　books　which　could　not　be　exposed　to　the　more　careless　usage　of　mon　days；　volumes　finely　illustrated；　or　the　more　handsome　editions　of　familiar　authors；　or　works　which；　merely　by　their　bulk；　demanded　special　care。　Happily；　these　books　were　all　of　the　higher　rank　in　literature；　and　so　there　came　to　be　established　in　my　mind　an　association　between　the　day　of　rest　and　names　which　are　the　greatest　in　verse　and　prose。　Through　my　life　this　habit　has　remained　with　me；　I　have　always　wished　to　spend　some　part　of　the　Sunday　quiet　with　books　which；　at　most　times；　it　is　fatally　easy　to　leave　aside；　one's　very　knowledge　and　love　of　them　serving　as　an　excuse　for　their　neglect　in　favour　of　print　which　has　the　attraction　of　newness。　Homer　and　Virgil；　Milton　and　Shakespeare；　not　many　Sundays　have　gone　by　without　my　opening　one　or　other　of　these。　Not　many　Sundays？　Nay；　that　is　to　exaggerate；　as　one　has　the　habit　of　doing。　Let　me　say　rather　that；　on　many　a　rest…day　I　have　found　mind　and　opportunity　for　such　reading。　Nowadays　mind　and　opportunity　fail　me　never。　I　may　take　down　my　Homer　or　my　Shakespeare　when　I　choose；　but　it　is　still　on　Sunday　that　I　feel　it　most　being　to　seek　the　privilege　of　their　panionship。　For　these　great　ones；　crowned　with　immortality；　do　not　respond　to　him　who　approaches　them　as　though　hurried　by　temporal　care。　There　befits　the　garment　of　solemn　leisure；　the　thought　attuned　to　peace。　I　open　the　volume　somewhat　formally；　is　it　not　sacred；　if　the　word　have　any　meaning　at　all？　And；　as　I　read；　no　interruption　can　befall　me。　The　note　of　a　lin；　the　humming　of　a　bee；　these　are　the　sounds　about　my　sanctuary。　The　page　scarce　rustles　as　it　turns。
VI
Of　how　many　dwellings　can　it　be　s