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and there is so much importunate service going forward； that a woman
is hardly alone long enough to become aware； in recollection； how
her own blood moves separately； beside her； with another rhythm and
different pulses。 All is commonplace until the doors are closed
upon the two。 This unique intimacy is a profound retreat； an
absolute seclusion。 It is more than single solitude； it is a
redoubled isolation more remote than mountains； safer than valleys；
deeper than forests； and further than mid…sea。
That solitude partakenthe only partaken solitude in the worldis
the Point of Honour of ethics。 Treachery to that obligation and a
betrayal of that confidence might well be held to be the least
pardonable of all crimes。 There is no innocent sleep so innocent as
sleep shared between a woman and a child； the little breath hurrying
beside the longer； as a child's foot runs。 But the favourite crime
of the sentimentalist is that of a woman against her child。 Her
power； her intimacy； her opportunity； that should be her accusers；
are held to excuse her。 She gains the most slovenly of indulgences
and the grossest compassion； on the vulgar grounds that her crime
was easy。
Lawless and vain art of a certain kind is apt to claim to…day； by
the way； some such fondling as a heroine of the dock receives from
common opinion。 The vain artist had all the opportunities of the
situation。 He was master of his own purpose； such as it was； it was
his secret； and the public was not privy to his artistic conscience。
He does violence to the obligations of which he is aware； and which
the world does not know very explicitly。 Nothing is easier。 Or he
is lawless in a more literal sense； but only hopes the world will
believe that he has a whole code of his own making。 It would；
nevertheless； be less unworthy to break obvious rules obviously in
the obvious face of the public； and to abide the common rebuke。
It has just been said that a park is by no means necessary for the
preparation of a country solitude。 Indeed； to make those far and
wide and long approaches and avenues to peace seems to be a denial
of the accessibility of what should be so simple。 A step； a pace or
so aside； is enough to lead thither。
A park insists too much； and； besides； does not insist very
sincerely。 In order to fulfil the apparent professions and to keep
the published promise of a park； the owner thereof should be a lover
of long seclusion or of a very life of loneliness。 He should have
gained the state of solitariness which is a condition of life quite
unlike any other。 The traveller who may have gone astray in
countries where an almost life…long solitude is possible knows how
invincibly apart are the lonely figures he has seen in desert places
there。 Their loneliness is broken by his passage； it is true； but
hardly so to them。 They look at him； but they are not aware that he
looks at them。 Nay； they look at him as though they were invisible。
Their un…self…consciousness is absolute； it is in the wild degree。
They are solitaries； body and soul； even when they are curious； and
turn to watch the passer…by； they are essentially alone。 Now； no
one ever found that attitude in a squire's figure； or that look in
any country gentleman's eyes。 The squire is not a life…long
solitary。 He never bore himself as though he were invisible。 He
never had the impersonal ways of a herdsman in the remoter
Apennines； with a blind； blank hut in the rocks for his dwelling。
Millet would not even have taken him as a model for a solitary in
the briefer and milder sylvan solitudes of France。 And yet nothing
but a life…long； habitual； and wild solitariness would be quite
proportionate to a park of any magnitude。
If there is a look of human eyes that tells of perpetual loneliness；
so there is also the familiar look that is the sign of perpetual
crowds。 It is the London expression； and； in its way； the Paris
expression。 It is the quickly caught； though not interested； look；
the dull but ready glance of those who do not know of their
forfeited place apart； who have neither the open secret nor the
close； no reserve； no need of refuge； no flight nor impulse of
flight； no moods but what they may brave out in the street； no hope
of news from solitary counsels。
THE LADY OF THE LYRICS
She is eclipsed； or gone； or in hiding。 But the sixteenth century
took her for granted as the object of song； she was a class； a
state； a sex。 It was scarcely necessary to waste the lyrist's time…
…time that went so gaily to metre as not to brook delaysin making
her out too clearly。 She had no more of what later times call
individuality than has the rose； her rival； her foil when she was
kinder； her superior when she was cruel； her ever fresh and ever
conventional paragon。 She needed not to be devised or divined； she
was ready。 A merry heart goes all the day； the lyrist's never grew
weary。 Honest men never grow tired of bread or of any other daily
things whereof the sweetness is in their own simplicity。
The lady of the lyrics was not loved in mortal earnest； and her
punishment now and then for her ingratitude was to be told that she
was loved in jest。 She did not love； her fancy was fickle； she was
not moved by long service； which； by the way； was evidently to be
taken for granted precisely like the whole long past of a dream。
She had not a good temper。 When the poet groans it seems that she
has laughed at him； when he flouts her； we may understand that she
has chidden her lyrist in no temperate terms。 In doing this she has
sinned not so much against him as against Love。 With that she is
perpetually reproved。 The lyrist complains to Love； pities Love for
her scorning； and threatens to go away with Love； who is on his
side。 The sweetest verse is tuned to love when the loved one proves
worthy。
There is no record of success for this policy。 She goes on dancing
or scolding； as the case may be； and the lyrist goes on boasting of
his constancy； or suddenly renounces it for a day。 The situation
has variants； but no surprise or ending。 The lover's convention is
explicit enough； but it might puzzle a reader to account for the
lady's。 Pride in her beauty； at any rate； is herspride so great
that she cannot bring herself to perceive the shortness of her day。
She is so unobservant as to need to be told that life is brief； and
youth briefer than life； that the rose fades； and so forth。
Now we need not assume that the lady of the lyrics ever lived。 But
taking her as the perfectly unanimous conception of the lyrists； how
is it she did not discover these things unaided？ Why does the lover
invariably imagine her with a mind intensely irritable under his own
praise and poetry？ Obviously we cannot have her explanation of any
of these matters。 Why do the poets so much lament the absence of
truth in one whose truth would be of little moment？ And why w