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uncaught by a hawk and unpierced。 But if their killing is done so
modestly； so then is their dying also。 Short lives have all these
wild things； but there are innumerable flocks of them always alive；
they must die； then； in innumerable flocks。 And yet they keep the
millions of the dead out of sight。
Now and then； indeed； they may be betrayed。 It happened in a cold
winter。 The late frosts were so sudden； and the famine was so
complete； that the birds were taken unawares。 The sky and the earth
conspired that February to make known all the secrets； everything
was published。 Death was manifest。 Editors； when a great man dies；
are not more resolute than was the frost of ‘95。
The birds were obliged to die in public。 They were surprised and
forced to do thus。 They became like Shelley in the monument which
the art and imagination of England combined to raise to his memory
at Oxford。
Frost was surely at work in both cases； and in both it wrought
wrong。 There is a similarity of unreason in betraying the death of
a bird and in exhibiting the death of Shelley。 The death of a
soldier … passe encore。 But the death of Shelley was not his goal。
And the death of the birds is so little characteristic of them that；
as has just been said； no one in the world is aware of their dying；
except only in the case of birds in cages； who； again； are compelled
to die with observation。 The woodland is guarded and kept by a
rule。 There is no display of the battlefield in the fields。 There
is no tale of the game…bag； no boast。 The hunting goes on； but with
strange decorum。 You may pass a fine season under the trees； and
see nothing dead except here and there where a boy has been by； or a
man with a trap； or a man with a gun。 There is nothing like a
butcher's shop in the woods。
But the biographers have always had other ways than those of the
wild world。 They will not have a man to die out of sight。 I have
turned over scores of 〃Lives；〃 not to read them； but to see whether
now and again there might be a 〃Life〃 which was not more
emphatically a death。 But there never is a modern biography that
has taken the hint of Nature。 One and all； these books have the
disproportionate illness； the death out of all scale。
Even more wanton than the disclosure of a death is that of a mortal
illness。 If the man had recovered； his illness would have been
rightly his own secret。 But because he did not recover； it is
assumed to be news for the first comer。 Which of us would suffer
the details of any physical suffering； over and done in our own
lives； to be displayed and described？ This is not a confidence we
have a mind to make； and no one is authorised to ask for attention
or pity on our behalf。 The story of pain ought not to be told of
us； seeing that by us it would assuredly not be told。
There is only one other thing that concerns a man still more
exclusively； and that is his own mental illness； or the dreams and
illusions of a long delirium。 When he is in common language not
himself； amends should be made for so bitter a paradox； he should be
allowed such solitude as is possible to the alienated spirit； he
should be left to the 〃not himself；〃 and spared the intrusion
against which he can so ill guard that he could hardly have even
resented it。
The double helplessness of delusion and death should keep the door
of Rossetti's house； for example； and refuse him to the reader。 His
mortal illness had nothing to do with his poetry。 Some rather
affected objection is taken every now and then to the publication of
some facts （others being already well known） in the life of Shelley。
Nevertheless； these are all； properly speaking； biography。 What is
not biography is the detail of the accident of the manner of his
death； the detail of his cremation。 Or if it was to be told … told
briefly … it was certainly not for marble。 Shelley's death had no
significance； except inasmuch as he died young。 It was a detachable
and disconnected incident。 Ah； that was a frost of fancy and of the
heart that used it so； dealing with an insignificant fact； and
conferring a futile immortality。 Those are ill…named biographers
who seem to think that a betrayal of the ways of death is a part of
their ordinary duty； and that if material enough for a last chapter
does not lie to their hand they are to search it out。 They； of all
survivors； are called upon； in honour and reason； to look upon a
death with more composure。 To those who loved the dead closely；
this is； for a time； impossible。 To them death becomes； for a year；
disproportionate。 Their dreams are fixed upon it night by night。
They have； in those dreams； to find the dead in some labyrinth； they
have to mourn his dying and to welcome his recovery in such a
mingling of distress and of always incredulous happiness as is not
known even to dreams save in that first year of separation。 But
they are not biographers。
If death is the privacy of the woods； it is the more conspicuously
secret because it is their only privacy。 You may watch or may
surprise everything else。 The nest is retired； not hidden。 The
chase goes on everywhere。 It is wonderful how the perpetual chase
seems to cause no perpetual fear。 The songs are all audible。 Life
is undefended； careless； nimble and noisy。
It is a happy thing that minor artists have ceased； or almost
ceased； to paint dead birds。 Time was when they did it continually
in that British School of water…colour art； stippled； of which
surrounding nations； it was agreed； were envious。 They must have
killed their bird to paint him； for he is not to be caught dead。 A
bird is more easily caught alive than dead。
A poet； on the contrary； is easily … too easily … caught dead。
Minor artists now seldom stipple the bird on its back； but a good
sculptor and a University together modelled their Shelley on his
back； unessentially drowned； and everybody may read about the sick
mind of Dante Rossetti。
CLOUD
During a part of the year London does not see the clouds。 Not to
see the clear sky might seem her chief loss； but that is shared by
the rest of England； and is； besides； but a slight privation。 Not
to see the clear sky is； elsewhere； to see the cloud。 But not so in
London。 You may go for a week or two at a time； even though you
hold your head up as you walk； and even though you have windows that
really open； and yet you shall see no cloud； or but a single edge；
the fragment of a form。
Guillotine windows never wholly open； but are filled with a doubled
glass towards the sky when you open them towards the street。 They
are； therefore； a sure sign that for all the years when no other
windows were used in London； nobody there cared much for the sky； or
even knew so much as whether there were a sky。
But the privation of cloud is indeed a graver loss than the world
knows。 Terrestrial scenery is much； but it is not all。 Men go in
search of it； but the celestial scenery journeys to them。 It goes
its way round the world。 It has no nation； it costs no weariness；
it knows no bonds。 The terrestrial scenery … the tourist's … is a
prisoner compared with this。 The tourist's scenery moves indeed；
but only like Wordsworth's maiden； with earth's diurnal course； it
is made as fast as its own graves。 And for its changes it depends
upon the mobility of the skies。 The mere green flushing of its own
sap makes only the least of its varieties； for the greater it must
wait upon the visits of the light。 Spring and autumn are
inconsiderable events in a landscape compared with the shadows of a
cloud。
The cloud controls the light； and the mountains on earth appear or
fade according to its passage； they wear so simply； from head to
foot； the luminous grey or the emphatic purple； as the cloud
permits； that their own local colour and their own local season are
lost and cease； effaced before the all…important mood of the cloud。
The sea has no mood except that of the sky and of its winds。 It is
the cloud that； holding the sun's rays in a sheaf as a giant holds a
handful of spears； strikes the horizon； touches the extreme edge
with a delicate revelation of light； or suddenly puts it out and
makes the foreground shine。
Every one knows the manifest work of the cloud when it descends and
partakes in the landscape obviously； lies half…way across the
mountain slope； stoops to rain heavily upon the lake； and blots out
part of the view by the rough method of standing in front of it。
But its greatest things are done from its own place； aloft。 Thence
does it distribute the sun。
Thence does it lock away between the hills and valleys more
mysteries than a poet conceals； but； like him； not by interception。
Thence it writes out and cancels all the tracery of Monte Rosa； or
lets the pencils of the sun renew them。 Thence； hiding nothing； a