四季随笔-the private papers of henry ryecroft(英文版)-第18章

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That　my　own　aim　indicated　an　ideal　which　is　the　best　for　all　to　pursue；　I　am　far　from　maintaining。　It　may　be　so；　or　not；　I　have　long　known　the　idleness　of　advocating　reform　on　a　basis　of　personal　predilection。　Enough　to　set　my　own　thoughts　in　order；　without　seeking　to　devise　a　new　economy　for　the　world。　But　it　is　much　to　see　clearly　from　one's　point　of　view；　and　therein　the　evil　days　I　have　treasured　are　of　no　little　help　to　me。　If　my　knowledge　be　only　subjective；　why；　it　only　concerns　myself；　I　preach　to　no　one。　Upon　another　man；　of　origin　and　education　like　to　mine；　a　like　experience　of　hardship　might　have　a　totally　different　effect；　he　might　identify　himself　with　the　poor；　burn　to　the　end　of　his　life　with　the　noblest　humanitarianism。　I　should　no　further　criticize　him　than　to　say　that　he　saw　with　other　eyes　than　mine。　A　vision；　perhaps；　larger　and　more　just。　But　in　one　respect　he　resembles　me。　If　ever　such　a　man　arises；　let　him　be　questioned；　it　will　be　found　that　he　once　made　a　meal　of　blackberries……and　mused　upon　it。
XVI
I　stood　to…day　watching　harvesters　at　work；　and　a　foolish　envy　took　hold　upon　me。　To　be　one　of　those　brawny；　brown…necked　men；　who　can　string　their　muscles　from　dawn　to　sundown；　and　go　home　without　an　ache　to　the　sound　slumber　which　will　make　them　fresh　again　for　to…　morrow's　toil！　I　am　a　man　in　the　middle　years；　with　limbs　shaped　as　those　of　another；　and　subject　to　no　prostrating　malady；　yet　I　doubt　whether　I　could　endure　the　lightest　part　of　this　field　labour　even　for　half　an　hour。　Is　that　indeed　to　be　a　man？　Could　I　feel　surprised　if　one　of　these　stalwart　fellows　turned　upon　me　a　look　of　good…natured　contempt？　Yet　he　would　never　dream　that　I　envied　him；　he　would　think　it　as　probable；　no　doubt；　that　I　should　pare　myself　unfavourably　with　one　of　the　farm　horses。
There　es　the　old　idle　dream：　balance　of　mind　and　body；　perfect　physical　health　bined　with　the　fulness　of　intellectual　vigour。　Why　should　I　not　be　there　in　the　harvest　field；　if　so　it　pleased　me；　yet　none　the　less　live　for　thought？　Many　a　theorist　holds　the　thing　possible；　and　looks　to　its　ing　in　a　better　time。　If　so；　two　changes　must　needs　e　before　it；　there　will　no　longer　exist　a　profession　of　literature；　and　all　but　the　whole　of　every　library　will　be　destroyed；　leaving　only　the　few　books　which　are　universally　recognized　as　national　treasures。　Thus；　and　thus　only；　can　mental　and　physical　equilibrium　ever　be　brought　about。
It　is　idle　to　talk　to　us　of　〃the　Greeks。〃　The　people　we　mean　when　so　naming　them　were　a　few　little　munities；　living　under　very　peculiar　conditions；　and　endowed　by　Nature　with　most　exceptional　characteristics。　The　sporadic　civilization　which　we　are　too　much　in　the　habit　of　regarding　as　if　it　had　been　no　less　stable　than　brilliant；　was　a　succession　of　the　briefest　splendours；　gleaming　here　and　there　from　the　coasts　of　the　Aegean　to　those　of　the　western　Mediterranean。　Our　heritage　of　Greek　literature　and　art　is　priceless；　the　example　of　Greek　life　possesses　for　us　not　the　slightest　value。　The　Greeks　had　nothing　alien　to　study……not　even　a　foreign　or　a　dead　language。　They　read　hardly　at　all；　preferring　to　listen。　They　were　a　slave…holding　people；　much　given　to　social　amusement；　and　hardly　knowing　what　we　call　industry。　Their　ignorance　was　vast；　their　wisdom　a　grace　of　the　gods。　Together　with　their　fair　intelligence；　they　had　grave　moral　weaknesses。　If　we　could　see　and　speak　with　an　average　Athenian　of　the　Periclean　age；　he　would　cause　no　little　disappointment……there　would　be　so　much　more　of　the　barbarian　in　him；　and　at　the　same　time　of　the　decadent；　than　we　had　anticipated。　More　than　possibly；　even　his　physique　would　be　a　disillusion。　Leave　him　in　that　old　world；　which　is　precious　to　the　imagination　of　a　few；　but　to　the　business　and　bosoms　of　the　modern　multitude　irrelevant　as　Memphis　or　Babylon。
The　man　of　thought；　as　we　understand　him；　is　all　but　necessarily　the　man　of　impaired　health。　The　rare　exception　will　be　found　to　e　of　a　stock　which　may；　indeed；　have　been　distinguished　by　intelligence；　but　represented　in　all　its　members　the　active　rather　than　the　studious　or　contemplative　life；　whilst　the　children　of　such　fortunate　thinkers　are　sure　either　to　revert　to　the　active　type　or　to　exhibit　the　familiar　sacrifice　of　body　to　mind。　I　am　not　denying　the　possibility　of　mens　sana　in　corpore　sano；　that　is　another　thing。　Nor　do　I　speak　of　the　healthy　people　（happily　still　numerous）　who　are　at　the　same　time　bright…witted　and　fond　of　books。　The　man　I　have　in　view　is　he　who　pursues　the　things　of　the　mind　with　passion；　who　turns　impatiently　from　all　mon　interests　or　cares　which　encroach　upon　his　sacred　time；　who　is　haunted　by　a　sense　of　the　infinity　of　thought　and　learning；　who；　sadly　aware　of　the　conditions　on　which　he　holds　his　mental　vitality；　cannot　resist　the　hourly　temptation　to　ignore　them。　Add　to　these　native　characteristics　the　frequent　fact　that　such　a　man　must　make　merchandise　of　his　attainments；　must　toil　under　the　perpetual　menace　of　destitution；　and　what　hope　remains　that　his　blood　will　keep　the　true　rhythm；　that　his　nerves　will　play　as　Nature　bade　them；　that　his　sinews　will　bide　the　strain　of　exceptional　task？　Such　a　man　may　gaze　with　envy　at　those　who　〃sweat　in　the　eye　of　Phoebus；〃　but　he　knows　that　no　choice　was　offered　him。　And　if　life　has　so　far　been　benignant　as　to　grant　him　frequent　tranquillity　of　studious　hours；　let　him　look　from　the　reapers　to　the　golden　harvest；　and　fare　on　in　thankfulness。
XVII
That　a　labourer　in　the　fields　should　stand　very　much　on　the　level　of　the　beast　that　toils　with　him；　can　be　neither　desirable　nor　necessary。　He　does　so；　as　a　matter　of　fact；　and　one　hears　that　only　the　dullest…witted　peasant　will　nowadays　consent　to　the　peasant　life；　his　children；　taught　to　read　the　newspaper；　make　what　haste　they　can　to　the　land　of　promise……where　newspapers　are　printed。　That　here　is　something　altogether　wrong　it　needs　no　evangelist　to　tell　us；　the　remedy　no　prophet　has　as　yet　even　indicated。　Husbandry　has　in　our　time　been　glorified　in　eloquence　which　for　the　most　part　is　vain；　endeavouring；　as　it　does；　to　prove　a　falsity……that　the　agricultural　life　is；　in　itself；　favourable　to　gentle　emotions；　to　sweet　thoughtfulness；　and　to　all　the　human　virtues。　Agriculture　is　one　of　the　most　exhausting　forms　of　toil；　and；　in　itself；　by　no　means　conducive　to　spiritual　development；　that　it　played　a　civilizing　part　in　the　history　of　the　world　is　merely　due　to　the　fact　that；　by　creating　wealth；　it　freed　a　portion　of　mankind　from　the　labour　of　the　plough。　Enthusiasts　have　tried　the　experiment　of　turning　husbandman；　one　of　them　writes　of　his　experience　in　notable　phrase。
〃Oh；　labour　is　the　curse　of　the　world；　and　nobody　can　meddle　with　it　without　being　proportionately　brutified。　Is　it　a　praiseworthy　matter　that　I　have　spent　five　golden　months　in　providing　food　for　cows　and　horses？　It　is　not　so。〃
Thus　Nathaniel　Hawthorne；　at　Brook　Farm。　In　the　bitterness　of　his　disillusion　he　went　too　far。　Labour　may　be；　and　very　often　is；　an　accursed　and　a　brutalizing　thing；　but　assuredly；　it　is　not　the　curse　of　the　world；　nay；　it　is　the　world's　supreme　blessing。　Hawthorne　had　mitted　a　folly；　and　he　paid　for　it　in　loss　of　mental　balance。　For　him；　plainly；　it　was　no　suitable　task　to　feed　cows　and　horses；　yet　many　a　man　would　perceive　the　nobler　side　of　such　occupation；　for　it　signifies；　of　course；　providing　food　for　mankind。　The　interest　of　this　quotation　lies　in　the　fact　that；　all　unconsciously；　so　intelligent　a　man　as　Hawthorne　had　been　reduced　to　the　mental　state　of　our　agricultural　labourers　in　revolt　against　the　country　life。　Not　only　is　his　intellect　in　abeyance；　but　his　emotions　have　ceased　to　be　a　true　guide。　The　worst　feature　of　the　rustic　mind　in　our　day；　is　not　its　ignorance　or　grossness；　but　its　rebellious　discontent。　Like　all　other　evils；　this　is　seen　to　be　an　inevitable　oute　of　the　condition　of　things；　one　understands　it　only　too　well。　The　bucolic　wants　to　〃better〃　himself。　He　is　sick　of　feeding　cows　and　horses；　he　imagines　that；　on　the　pavement　of　London；　he　would　walk　with　a　manlier　tread。
There　is　no　help　in　visions　of　Arcadia；　yet　it　is　plain　fact　that　in　days　gone　by　the　peasantry　found　life　more　than　endurable；　and　yet　were　more　intelligent　than　our　clod…hoppers　who　still　hold　by　the　plough。　They　had　their　folk…songs；　now　utterly　forgotten。　They　had　romances　and　fairy　lore；　which　their　descendants　could　no　more　appreciate　than　an　idyll　of　Theocritus。　Ah；　but　let　it　be　remembered　that　they　had　also　a　HOME；　and　this　is　the　illumining　word。　If　your　peasant　love　the　fields　which　give　him　bread；　he　will　not　think　it　hard　to　labour　in　them；　his　toil　will　no　longer　be　as　that　of　the　beast；　but　upward…looking　and　touched　with　a　light　from　other　than　the　visible　heavens。　No　use　to　blink　the　hard　and　dull　features　of　rustic　existence；　let　them　rather　be　insisted　upon；　that　those　who　own　and　derive　profit　from　the　land　may　be　constant　in　human　care　for　the　lives　which　make　it　fruitful。　Such　care　may　perchance　avail；　in　some　degree；　to　counteract　the　restless　tendency　of　the　time；　the　dweller　in　a　pleasant　cottage　is　not　so　likely　to　wish　to　wander　from　it　as　he　who　shelters　himself　in　a　hovel。　Well…　meaning　folk　talk　about　reawakening　love　of　the　country　by　means　of　deliberate　instruction。　Lies　any　hope　that　way？　Does　it　seem　to　promise　a　return　of　the　time　when　the　old　English　names　of　all　our　flowers　were　mon　on　rustic　lips……by　which；　indeed；　they　were　first　uttered？　The　fact　that　flowers　and　birds　are　well…nigh　forgotten；　together　with　the　songs　and　the　elves；　shows　how　advanced　is　the　process　of　rural　degeneration。　Most　likely　it　is　foolishness　to　hope　for　the　revival　of　any　bygone　social　virtue。　The　husbandman　of　the　future　will　be；　I　daresay；　a　well…paid　mechanic；　of　the　engine…driver　species；　as　he　goes　about　his　work　he　will　sing　the　last　refrain　of　the　music…hall；　and　his　oft…recurring　holidays　will　be　spent　in　the　nearest　great　town。　For　him；　I　fancy；　there　will　be　little　attraction　in　ever　such　melodious　talk　about　〃mon　objects　of　the　country。〃　Flowers；　perhaps；　at　all　events　those　of　tilth　and　pasture；　will　have　been　all　but　improved　away。　And；　as　likely　as　not；　the　word　Home　will　have　only　a　special　significance；　indicating　the　mon　abode　of　retired　labourers　who　are　drawing　old…age　pensions。
XVIII
I　cannot　close　my　eyes　upon　this　day　without　setting　down　some　record　of　it；　yet　the　foolish　insufficiency　of　words！　At　sunrise　I　looked　forth；　nowhere　could　I　discern　a　cloud　the　size　of　a　man's　hand；　the　leaves　quivered　gently；　as　if　with　joy　in　the　divine　morning　which　glistened　upon　their　dew。　At　sunset　I　stood　in　the　meadow　above　my　house；　and　watched　the　red　orb　sink　into　purple　mist；　whilst　in　the　violet　heaven　behind　me　rose　the　perfect　moon。　All　between；　through　the　soft　circling　of　the　dial's　shadow；　was　loveliness　and　quiet　unutterable。　Never；　I　could　fancy；　did　autumn　clothe　in　such　magnificence　the　elms　and　beeches；　never；　I　should　think；　did　the　leafage　on　my　walls　blaze　in　such　royal　crimson。　It　was　no　day　for　wandering；　under　a　canopy　of　blue　or　gold；　where　the　eye　could　fall　on　nothing　that　was　not　beautiful；　enough　to　be　at　one　with　Nature　in　dreamy　rest。　From　stubble　fields　sounded　the　long　caw　of　rooks；　a　sleepy　crowing　ever　and　anon　told　of　the　neighbour　farm；　my　doves　cooed　above　their　cot。　Was　it　for　five　minutes；　or　was　it　for　an　hour；　that　I　watched　the　yellow　butterfly　wafted　as　by　an　insensible　tremor　of　the　air　amid　the　garden　glintings？　In　every　autumn　there　es　one　such　flawless　day。　None　that　I　have　known　brought　me　a　mind　so　touched　to　the　fitting　mood　of　wele；　and　so　fulfilled　the　promise　of　its　peace。
XIX
I　was　at　ramble　in　the　lanes；　when；　from　somewhere　at　a　distance；　there　sounded　the　voice　of　a　countryman……strange　to　say……singing。　The　notes　were　indistinct；　but　they　rose；　to　my　ear；　with　a　moment's　musical　sadness；　and　of　a　sudden　my　heart　was　stricken　with　a　memory　so　keen　that　I　knew　not　whether　it　was　pain　or　delight。　For　the　sound　seemed　to　me　that　of　a　peasant's　song　which　I　once　heard　whilst　sitting　among　the　ruins　of　Paestum。　The　English　landscape　faded　before　my　eyes。　I　saw　great　Doric　columns　of　honey…golden　travertine；　between　them；　as　I　looked　one　way；　a　deep　strip　of　sea；　when　I　turned；　the　purple　gorges　of　the　Apennine；　and　all　about　the　temple；　where　I　sat　in　solitude；　a　wilderness　dead　and　still　but　for　that　long　note　of　wailing　melody。　I　had　not　thought　it　possible　that　here；　in　my　beloved　home；　where　regret　and　desire　are　all　but　unknown　to　me；　I　could　have　been　so　deeply　troubled　by　a　thought　of　things　far　off。　I　returned　with　head　bent；　that　voice　singing　in　my　memory。　All　the　delight　I　have　known　in　Italian　travel　burned　again　within　my　heart。　The　old　spell　has　not　lost　its　power。　Never；　I　know；　will　it　again　draw　me　away　from　England；　but　the　Southern　sunlight　cannot　fade　from　my　imagination；　and　to　dream　of　its　glow　upon　the　ruins　of　old　time　wakes　in　me　the　voiceless　desire　which　once　was　anguish。
In　his　Italienische　Reise；　Goethe　tells　that　at　one　moment　of　his　life　the　desire　for　Italy　became　to　him　a　scarce　endurable　suffering；　at　length　he　could　not　bear　to　hear　or　to　read　of　things　Italian；　even　the　sight　of　a　Latin　book　so　tortured　him　that　he　turned　away　from　it；　and　the　day　arrive