四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第36节

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orm；　later；　there　had　to　e　the　〃exodus　from　Houndsditch；〃　with　how　much　conflict　and　misery！　Such；　however；　was　the　price　of　the　soul's　health；　we　must　accept　the　fact；　and　be　content　to　see　its　better　meaning。　Health；　of　course；　in　speaking　of　mankind；　is　always　a　relative　term。　From　the　point　of　view　of　a　conceivable　civilization；　Puritan　England　was　lamentably　ailing；　but　we　must　always　ask；　not　how　much　better　off　a　people　might　be；　but　how　much　worse。　Of　all　theological　systems；　the　most　convincing　is　Manicheism；　which；　of　course；　under　another　name；　was　held　by　the　Puritans　themselves。　What　we　call　Restoration　morality……the　morality；　that　is　to　say；　of　a　king　and　court……might　well　have　bee　that　of　the　nation　at　large　under　a　Stuart　dynasty　safe　from　religious　revolution。
The　political　services　of　Puritanism　were　inestimable；　they　will　be　more　feelingly　remembered　when　England　has　once　more　to　face　the　danger　of　political　tyranny。　I　am　thinking　now　of　its　effects　upon　social　life。　To　it　we　owe　the　characteristic　which；　in　some　other　countries；　is　expressed　by　the　term　English　prudery；　the　accusation　implied　being　part　of　the　general　charge　of　hypocrisy。　It　is　said　by　observers　among　ourselves　that　the　prudish　habit　of　mind　is　dying　out；　and　this　is　looked　upon　as　a　satisfactory　thing；　as　a　sign　of　healthy　emancipation。　If　by　prude　be　meant　a　secretly　vicious　person　who　affects　an　excessive　decorum；　by　all　means　let　the　prude　disappear；　even　at　the　cost　of　some　shamelessness。　If；　on　the　other　hand；　a　prude　is　one　who；　living　a　decent　life；　cultivates；　either　by　bent　or　principle；　a　somewhat　extreme　delicacy　of　thought　and　speech　with　regard　to　elementary　facts　of　human　nature；　then　I　say　that　this　is　most　emphatically　a　fault　in　the　right　direction；　and　I　have　no　desire　to　see　its　prevalence　diminish。　On　the　whole；　it　is　the　latter　meaning　which　certain　foreigners　have　in　mind　when　they　speak　of　English　prudery……at　all　events；　as　exhibited　by　women；　it　being；　not　so　much　an　imputation　on　chastity；　as　a　charge　of　conceited　foolishness。　An　English　woman　who　typifies　the　begueule　may　be　spotless　as　snow；　but　she　is　presumed　to　have　snow's　other　quality；　and　at　the　same　time　to　be　a　thoroughly　absurd　and　intolerable　creature。　Well；　here　is　the　point　of　difference。　Fastidiousness　of　speech　is　not　a　direct　oute　of　Puritanism；　as　our　literature　sufficiently　proves；　it　is　a　refinement　of　civilization　following　upon　absorption　into　the　national　life　of　all　the　best　things　which　Puritanism　had　to　teach。　We　who　know　English　women　by　the　experience　of　a　lifetime　are　well　aware　that　their　careful　choice　of　language　betokens；　far　more　often　than　not；　a　corresponding　delicacy　of　mind。　Landor　saw　it　as　a　ridiculous　trait　that　English　people　were　so　mealy…mouthed　in　speaking　of　their　bodies；　De　Quincey；　taking　him　to　task　for　this　remark；　declared　it　a　proof　of　blunted　sensibility　due　to　long　residence　in　Italy；　and；　whether　the　particular　explanation　held　good　or　not；　as　regards　the　question　at　issue；　De　Quincey　was　perfectly　right。　It　is　very　good　to　be　mealy…mouthed　with　respect　to　everything　that　reminds　us　of　the　animal　in　man。　Verbal　delicacy　in　itself　will　not　prove　an　advanced　civilization；　but　civilization；　as　it　advances；　assuredly　tends　that　way。
XXIII
All　through　the　morning；　the　air　was　held　in　an　ominous　stillness。　Sitting　over　my　books；　I　seemed　to　feel　the　silence；　when　I　turned　my　look　to　the　window；　I　saw　nothing　but　the　broad；　grey　sky；　a　featureless　expanse；　cold；　melancholy。　Later；　just　as　I　was　bestirring　myself　to　go　out　for　an　afternoon　walk；　something　white　fell　softly　across　my　vision。　A　few　minutes　more；　and　all　was　hidden　with　a　descending　veil　of　silent　snow。
It　is　a　disappointment。　Yesterday　I　half　believed　that　the　winter　drew　to　its　end；　the　breath　of　the　hills　was　soft；　spaces　of　limpid　azure　shone　amid　slow…drifting　clouds；　and　seemed　the　promise　of　spring。　Idle　by　the　fireside；　in　the　gathering　dusk；　I　began　to　long　for　the　days　of　light　and　warmth。　My　fancy　wandered；　leading　me　far　and　wide　in　a　dream　of　summer　England。　。　。　。
This　is　the　valley　of　the　Blythe。　The　stream　ripples　and　glances　over　its　brown　bed　warmed　with　sunbeams；　by　its　bank　the　green　flags　wave　and　rustle；　and；　all　about；　the　meadows　shine　in　pure　gold　of　buttercups。　The　hawthorn　hedges　are　a　mass　of　gleaming　blossom；　which　scents　the　breeze。　There　above　rises　the　heath；　yellow…　mantled　with　gorse；　and　beyond；　if　I　walk　for　an　hour　or　two；　I　shall　e　out　upon　the　sandy　cliffs　of　Suffolk；　and　look　over　the　northern　sea。　。　。　。
I　am　in　Wensleydale；　climbing　from　the　rocky　river　that　leaps　amid　broad　pastures　up　to　the　rolling　moor。　Up　and　up；　till　my　feet　brush　through　heather；　and　the　grouse　whirrs　away　before　me。　Under　a　glowing　sky　of　summer；　this　air　of　the　uplands　has　still　a　life　which　spurs　to　movement；　which　makes　the　heart　bound。　The　dale　is　hidden；　I　see　only　the　brown　and　purple　wilderness；　cutting　against　the　blue　with　great　round　shoulders；　and；　far　away　to　the　west；　an　horizon　of　sombre　heights。　。　。　。
I　ramble　through　a　village　in　Gloucestershire；　a　village　which　seems　forsaken　in　this　drowsy　warmth　of　the　afternoon。　The　houses　of　grey　stone　are　old　and　beautiful；　telling　of　a　time　when　Englishmen　knew　how　to　build　whether　for　rich　or　poor；　the　gardens　glow　with　flowers；　and　the　air　is　delicately　sweet。　At　the　village　end；　I　e　into　a　lane；　which　winds　upwards　between　grassy　slopes；　to　turf　and　bracken　and　woods　of　noble　beech。　Here　I　am　upon　a　spur　of　the　Cotswolds；　and　before　me　spreads　the　wide　vale　of　Evesham；　with　its　ripening　crops；　its　fruiting　orchards；　watered　by　sacred　Avon。　Beyond；　softly　blue；　the　hills　of　Malvern。　On　the　branch　hard　by　warbles　a　little　bird；　glad　in　his　leafy　solitude。　A　rabbit　jumps　through　the　fern。　There　sounds　the　laugh　of　a　woodpecker　from　the　copse　in　yonder　hollow。　。　。　。
In　the　falling　of　a　summer　night；　I　walk　by　Ullswater。　The　sky　is　still　warm　with　the　afterglow　of　sunset；　a　dusky　crimson　smouldering　above　the　dark　mountain　line。　Below　me　spreads　a　long　reach　of　the　lake；　steel…grey　between　its　dim　colourless　shores。　In　the　profound　stillness；　the　trotting　of　a　horse　beyond　the　water　sounds　strangely　near；　it　serves　only　to　make　more　sensible　the　repose　of　Nature　in　this　her　sanctuary。　I　feel　a　solitude　unutterable；　yet　nothing　akin　to　desolation；　the　heart　of　the　land　I　love　seems　to　beat　in　the　silent　night　gathering　around　me；　amid　things　eternal；　I　touch　the　familiar　and　the　kindly　earth。　Moving；　I　step　softly；　as　though　my　footfall　were　an　irreverence。　A　turn　in　the　road；　and　there　is　wafted　to　me　a　faint　perfume；　that　of　meadow…sweet。　Then　I　see　a　light　glimmering　in　the　farmhouse　window……a　little　ray　against　the　blackness　of　the　great　hillside；　below　which　the　water　sleeps。　。　。　。
A　pathway　leads　me　by　the　winding　of　the　river　Ouse。　Far　on　every　side　stretches　a　homely　landscape；　tilth　and　pasture；　hedgerow　and　clustered　trees；　to　where　the　sky　rests　upon　the　gentle　hills。　Slow；　silent；　the　river　lapses　between　its　daisied　banks；　its　grey…　green　osier　beds。　Yonder　is　the　little　town　of　St。　Neots。　In　all　England　no　simpler　bit　of　rural　scenery；　in　all　the　world　nothing　of　its　kind　more　beautiful。　Cattle　are　lowing　amid　the　rich　meadows。　Here　one　may　loiter　and　dream　in　utter　restfulness；　whilst　the　great　white　clouds　mirror　themselves　in　the　water　as　they　pass　above。　。　。　。
I　am　walking　upon　the　South　Downs。　In　the　valleys；　the　sun　lies　hot；　but　here　sings　a　breeze　which　freshens　the　forehead　and　fills　the　heart　with　gladness。　My　foot　upon　the　short；　soft　turf　has　an　unwearied　lightness；　I　feel　capable　of　walking　on　and　on；　even　to　that　farthest　horizon　where　the　white　cloud　casts　its　floating　shadow。　Below　me；　but　far　off；　is　the　summer　sea；　still；　silent；　its　ever…changing　blue　and　green　dimmed　at　the　long　limit　with　luminous　noontide　mist。　Inland　spreads　the　undulant　vastness　of　the　sheep…spotted　downs；　beyond　them　the　tillage　and　the　woods　of　Sussex　weald；　coloured　like　to　the　pure　sky　above　them；　but　in　deeper　tint。　Near　by；　all　but　hidden　among　trees　in　yon　lovely　hollow；　lies　an　old；　old　hamlet；　its　brown　roofs　decked　with　golden　lichen；　I　see　the　low　church…tower；　and　the　little　graveyard　about　it。　Meanwhile；　high　in　the　heaven；　a　lark　is　singing。　It　descends；　it　drops　to　its　nest；　and　I　could　dream　that　half　the　happiness　of　its　exultant　song　was　love　of　England。　。　。　。
It　is　all　but　dark。　For　a　quarter　of　an　hour　I　must　have　been　writing　by　a　glow　of　firelight　reflected　on　to　my　desk；　it　seemed　to　me　the　sun　of　summer。　Snow　is　still　falling。　I　see　its　ghostly　glimmer　against　the　vanishing　sky。　To…morrow　it　will　be　thick　upon　my　garden；　and　perchance　for　several　days。　But　when　it　melts；　when　it　melts；　it　will　leave　the　snowdrop。　The　crocus；　too；　is　waiting；　down　there　under　the　white　mantle　which　warms　the　earth。
XXIV
Time　is　money……says　the　vulgarest　saw　known　to　any　age　or　people。　Turn　it　round　about；　and　you　get　a　precious　truth……money　is　time。　I　think　of　it　on　these　dark；　mist…blinded　mornings；　as　I　e　down　to　find　a　glorious　fire　crackling　and　leaping　in　my　study。　Suppose　I　were　so　poor　that　I　could　not　afford　that　heartsome　blaze；　how　different　the　whole　day　would　be！　Ha