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has a sky and a horizon they know not how to wish。
It lies in a perpetual distance。 England has leagues thereof；
landscapes； verge beyond verge； a thousand thousand places in the
woods； and on uplifted hills。 Or rather； solitudes are not to be
measured by miles； they are to be numbered by days。 They are
freshly and freely the dominion of every man for the day of his
possession。 There is loneliness for innumerable solitaries。 As
many days as there are in all the ages； so many solitudes are there
for men。 This is the open house of the earth； no one is refused。
Nor is the space shortened or the silence marred because； one by
one； men in multitudes have been alone there before。 Solitude is
separate experience。 Nay； solitudes are not to be numbered by days；
but by men themselves。 Every man of the living and every man of the
dead might have had his 〃privacy of light。〃
It needs no park。 It is to be found in the merest working country；
and a thicket may be as secret as a forest。 It is not so difficult
to get for a time out of sight and earshot。 Even if your solitude
be enclosed； it is still an open solitude； so there be 〃no cloister
for the eyes；〃 and a space of far country or a cloud in the sky be
privy to your hiding…place。 But the best solitude does not hide at
all。
This the people who have drifted together into the streets live
whole lives and never know。 Do they suffer from their deprivation
of even the solitude of the hiding…place？ There are many who never
have a whole hour alone。 They live in reluctant or indifferent
companionship； as people may in a boarding…house； by paradoxical
choice； familiar with one another and not intimate。 They live under
careless observation and subject to a vagabond curiosity。 Theirs is
the involuntary and perhaps the unconscious loss which is futile and
barren。
One knows the men； and the many women； who have sacrificed all their
solitude to the perpetual society of the school； the cloister； or
the hospital ward。 They walk without secrecy； candid； simple；
visible； without moods； unchangeable； in a constant communication
and practice of action and speech。 Theirs assuredly is no barren or
futile loss； and they have a conviction； and they bestow the
conviction； of solitude deferred。
Who has painted solitude so that the solitary seemed to stand alone
and inaccessible？ There is the loneliness of the shepherdess in
many a drawing of J。F。 Millet。 The little figure is away； aloof。
The girl stands so when the painter is gone。 She waits so on the
sun for the closing of the hours of pasture。 Millet has her as she
looks； out of sight。
Now； although solitude is a prepared； secured； defended； elaborate
possession of the rich； they too deny themselves the natural
solitude of a woman with a child。 A newly…born child is so nursed
and talked about； handled and jolted and carried about by aliens；
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