The fragrance does not come at its own sweet
will; we clutch at it. It does not enfold and pervade our most arduous
speculations; no involuntary sweetness comes flooding in upon our
confrontation of human destinies. Hardy is the last of that great line.
If we long for sweetness--as we do long for it, and with how poignant a
pain!--we must seek it out, like men who rush dusty and irritable from
the babble and fever of the town. The rhythm of the earth never enters
into their gait; they are like spies among the birds and flowers, like
collectors of antique furniture in the haunts of peace. The Georgians
snatch at nature; they are never part of it. And there is some element
of this desperation in Mr Masefield. We feel in him an anxiety to load
every rift with ore of this particular kind, a deliberate intention to
emphasise that which is most English in the English country-side.
How shall we say it? It is not that he makes a parade of arcane
knowledge. The word 'parade' does injustice to his indubitable
integrity.
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