Earthwork out of Tuscany - Being Impressions and Translations of Maurice Hewlett

Maurice Henry Hewlett

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Earthwork Out Of Tuscany, by Maurice HewlettCopyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country beforedownloading or redistributing this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do notchange or edit the header without written permission.Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom ofthis file. Included is important information about your specific rights and restrictions in how the file may be used. Youcan also find out about how to make a donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts****eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971*******These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****Title: Earthwork Out Of TuscanyAuthor: Maurice HewlettRelease Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8858] [This file was first posted on August 14, 2003]Edition: 10Language: English*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY ***E-text prepared by Project Gutenberg Distributed ProofreadersEARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANYBeing Impressions and Translations of Maurice Hewlett"For as it is hurtful to drink wine or water alone; and as wine mingled with water is pleasant and delighteth the taste:even so speech, finely framed, ...

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• Publié par: ubba
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 62
• Langue: English

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Title: Earthwork Out Of Tuscany Author: Maurice Hewlett Release Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8858] [This file was first posted on August 14, 2003] Edition: 10 Language: English

START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY *** ***

**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** **eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** *****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****

EARTHWORK OUT OF TUSCANY Being Impressions and Translations of Maurice Hewlett

"For as it is hurtful to drink wine or water alone; and as wine mingled with water is pleasant and delighteth the taste: even so speech, finely framed, delighteth the ears of them that read the story."—3 MACCABEES xv. 39. TO MYFATHER THIS LITTLEBOOK NOT AS BEING WORTHY BUT AS ALL I HAVE IS DEDICATED I cannot add one tendril to your bays, Worn quietly where who love you sing your praise; But I may stand Among the household throng with lifted hand, Upholding for sweet honour of the land Your crown of days.

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PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION Mr. Critics—to whom, kind or unkind, I confess obligations—and the Public between them have produced, it appears, some sort of demand for this Second Edition. While I do not think it either polite or politic to enquire too deeply into reasons, I am not the man to disoblige them. It is sufficient for me that in a world indifferent well peopled five hundred souls have bought or acquired my book, and that other hundreds have signified their desire to do likewise. Nevertheless—the vanity of authors being notoriously hard-rooted—I must own to my mortification in the discovery that not more than two in every hundred who have read me have known what I was at. I have been told it is a good average, but, with deference, I don't think so. No man has any right to take beautiful and simple things out of their places, wrap them up in a tissue of his own conceits, and hand them about the universe for gods and men to wonder upon. If he must convey simple things let him convey them simply. If I, for instance, must steal a loaf of bread, would it not be better to walk out of the shop with it under my coat than to call for it in a hansom and hoodwink the baker with a forged cheque on Coutts's bank? Surely. If, then, I go to Italy, and convey the hawthor-scent of Della Robbia, the straining of Botticelli to express the ineffable, the mellow autumn tones of the life of Florence; if I do this, and make a parade of my magnanimity in permitting the household to divide the spoil, how on earth should I mar all my bravery by giving people what they don't want, or turn double knave by fobbing them off with an empty box? I had hoped to have done better than this. I tried to express in the title of my book what I thought I had done; more, I was bold enough to assume that, having weathered the title, my readers would find a smooth channel with leading- lights enough to bring them sound to port. Mea culpa! I believe that I was wrong. The book has been read as a collection of essays and stories and dialogues only pulled together by the binder's tapes; as otherwise disjointed, fragmentary, décousue a "piebald monstrous book," a sort of, kous-kous , made out of the odds and ends of a scribbler's note-book. Some have liked some morsels, others other morsels: it has been a matter of the luck of the fork. Very few, one only to my knowledge, can have seen the thing as it presented itself to my flattering eye—not as a pudding, not as a case of confectionery even, but as a little sanctuary of images such as a pious heathen might make of his earthenware gods. Let us be serious: listen. The thing is Criticism; but some of it is criticism by trope and figure. I hope that is plain enough. When the first man heard his first thunderstorm he said (or Human Nature has bettered itself), "Certainly a God is angry." When after a night of doubt and heaviness the sun rose out of the sea, the sea kindled, and all its waves laughed innumerably, again he said, "God is stirring. Joy cometh in the morning." Even in saying so much he was making images, poor man, for one's soul is as dumb as a fish and can only talk by signs. But by degrees, as his hand grew obedient to his heart, he set to work to make more lasting images of these gods—Thunder Gods, Gods of the Sun and the Morning. And as these gods were the sum of the best feelings he had, so the images of them were the best things he made. And that goes on now whenever a young man sees something new or strange or beautiful. He wonders, he falls on his face, he would say his prayers; he rises up, he would sing a pæan. But he is dumb, the wretch! He must make images. This he does because Necessity drives him: this I have done. And part of the world calls the result Criticism, and another part says, It may be Art. But I know that it is the struggling of a dumb man to find an outlet, and I call it Religion. "God first made man, and straightway man made God; No wonder if a tang of that same sod, Whereout we issued at a breath, should cling To all we fashion. We can only plod Lit by a starveling candle; and we sing Of what we can remember of the road." The vague informed, the lovely indefinite defined: that is Art. As a sort of pâte sur pâte comes Criticism, to do for Art what Art does for life. I have tried in this book to be the artist at second-hand, to make pictures of pictures, images of images, poems of poems. You may call it Criticism, you may call it Art: I call it Religion. It is making the best thing I can out of the best things I feel. LONDON, 1898.

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PROEM

PROEM: APOLOGIA PRO LIBELLO 1. EYEOFITALY 2. LITTLEFLOWERS 3. A SACRIFICEAT PRATO 4. OFPOETS AND NEEDLEWORK 5. OFBOILS AND THEIDEAL 6. THESOUL OFA FACT 7. QUATTROCENTISTERIA 8. THEBURDEN OFNEW TYRE 9. ILARIA, MARIOTA, BETTINA 10. CATS 11. THESOUL OFA CITY 12. WITH THEBROWN BEAR 13. DEAD CHURCHES AT FOLIGNO ENVOY: TO ALL YOU LADIES

CONTENTS

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