majestic effect than when it moves in honour of this Lady of the lyrics.  Sir Walter Raleigh is but a jerky writer when he is rhyming other things, however bitter or however solemn; but his lines on death, which are also lines on immortality, are infinitely noble.  These are, needless to say, meditations upon death by law and violence; and so are the ingenious rhymes of Chidiock Tichborne, written after his last prose in his farewell letter to his wife—“Now, Sweet-cheek, what is left to bestow on thee, a small recompense for thy deservings”—and singularly beautiful prose is this.  So also are Southwell’s words.  But these are exceptional deaths, and more dramatic than was needed to awake the poetry of the meditative age.

It was death as the end of the visible world and of the idle business of life—not death as a passage nor death as a fear or a darkness—that was the Lady of the lyrists.  Nor was their song of the act of dying.  With this a much later and much more trivial literature busied itself.  Those two centuries felt with a shock that death would bring an end, and that its equalities would make vain the differences of wit and wealth which they took apparently more seriously than to us seems probable.  They never wearied of the wonder.  The poetry of our day has an entirely different emotion for death as parting.  It was not parting that the lyrists sang of; it was the mere simplicity of death.  None of our contemporaries will take such a subject; they have no more than the ordinary conviction of the matter.  For the great treatment of obvious things there must evidently be an extraordinary conviction.

But whether the chief Lady of the lyrics be this, or whether she be the implacable Elizabethan feigned by the love-songs, she has equally passed from before the eyes of poets.

JULY

One has the leisure of July for perceiving all the differences of the green of leaves.  It is no longer a difference in degrees of maturity, for all the trees have darkened to their final tone, and stand in their differences of character and not of mere date.  Almost all the green is grave, not sad and not dull.  It has a darkened and a daily colour, in majestic but not obvious harmony with dark grey skies, and might look, to inconstant eyes, as prosaic after spring as eleven o’clock looks after the dawn.

Gravity is the word—not solemnity as towards evening, nor menace as at night.  The daylight trees of July are signs of common beauty, common freshness, and a mystery familiar and abiding as night and day.  In childhood we all have a more exalted sense of dawn and summer sunrise than we ever fully retain or quite recover; and also a far higher sensibility for April and April evenings—a heartache for them, which in riper years is gradually and irretrievably consoled.

But, on the other hand, childhood has so quickly learned to find daily things tedious, and familiar things importunate, that it has no great delight in the mere middle of the day, and feels weariness of the summer that has ceased to change visibly.  The poetry of mere day and of late summer becomes perceptible to mature eyes that have long ceased to be sated, have taken leave of weariness, and cannot now find anything in nature too familiar; eyes which have, indeed, lost sight of the further awe of midsummer daybreak, and no longer see so much of the past in April twilight as they saw when they had no past; but which look freshly at the dailiness of green summer, of early afternoon, of every sky of any form that comes to pass, and of the darkened elms.

Not unbeloved is this serious tree, the elm, with its leaf sitting close, unthrilled.  Its stature gives it a dark gold head when it looks alone to a late sun.  But if one could go by all the woods, across all the old forests that are now meadowlands set with trees, and could walk a county gathering trees of a single kind in the mind, as one walks a garden collecting flowers of a single kind in the hand, would not the harvest be a harvest of poplars?  A veritable passion for poplars is a most intelligible passion.  The eyes do gather them, far and near, on a whole day’s journey.  Not one is unperceived, even though great timber should be passed, and hill-sides dense and deep with trees.  The fancy makes a poplar day of it.  Immediately the country looks alive with signals; for the poplars everywhere reply to the glance.  The woods may be all various, but the poplars are separate.

All their many kinds (and aspens, their kin, must be counted with them) shake themselves perpetually free of the motionless forest.  It is easy to gather them.  Glances sent into the far distance pay them a flash of recognition of their gentle flashes; and as you journey you are suddenly aware of them close by.  Light and the breezes are as quick as the eyes of a poplar-lover to find the willing tree that dances to be seen.

No lurking for them, no reluctance.  One could never make for oneself an oak day so well.  The oaks would wait to be found, and many would be missed from the gathering.  But the poplars are alert enough for a traveller by express; they have an alarum aloft, and do not sleep.  From within some little grove of other trees a single poplar makes a slight sign; or a long row of poplars suddenly sweep the wind.  They are salient everywhere, and full of replies.  They are as fresh as streams.

It is difficult to realize a drought where there are many poplars.  And yet their green is not rich; the coolest have a colour much mingled with a cloud-grey.  It does but need fresh and simple eyes to recognize their unfaded life.  When the other trees grow dark and keep still, the poplar and the aspen do not darken—or hardly—and the deepest summer will not find a day in which they do not keep awake.  No waters are so vigilant, even where a lake is bare to the wind.

When Keats said of his Dian that she fastened up her hair “with fingers cool as aspen leaves,” he knew the coolest thing in the world.  It is a coolness of colour, as well as of a leaf which the breeze takes on both sides—the greenish and the greyish.  The poplar green has no glows, no gold; it is an austere colour, as little rich as the colour of willows, and less silvery than theirs.  The sun can hardly gild it; but he can shine between.  Poplars and aspens let the sun through with the wind.  You may have the sky sprinkled through them in high midsummer, when all the woods are close.

Sending your fancy poplar-gathering, then, you ensnare wild trees, beating with life.  No fisher’s net ever took such glancing fishes, nor did the net of a constellation’s shape ever enclose more vibrating Pleiades.

WELLS

The world at present is inclined to make sorry mysteries or unattractive secrets of the methods and supplies of the fresh and perennial means of life.  A very dull secret is made of water, for example, and the plumber sets his seal upon the floods whereby we live.  They are covered, they are carried, they are hushed, from the spring to the tap; and when their voices are released at last in the London scullery, why, it can hardly be said that the song is eloquent of the natural source of waters, whether earthly or heavenly.  There is not one of the circumstances of this capture of streams—the company, the water-rate, and the rest—that is not a sign of the ill-luck of modern devices in regard to style.  For style implies a candour and simplicity of means, an action, a gesture, as it were, in the doing of small things; it is the ignorance of secret ways; whereas the finish of modern life and its neatness seem to be secured by a system of little shufflings and surprises.

Dress, among other things, is furnished throughout with such fittings; they form its very construction.  Style does not exist in modern arrayings, for all their prettiness and precision, and for all the successes—which are not to be denied—of their outer part; the happy little swagger that simulates style is