第17部分(第6/7 頁)

y　of　our　landscape　work。　Were　it　possible　to　collect；　and　suitably　to　display；　the　very　best　of　such　work　in　every　vehicle；　I　know　not　which　would　be　the　stronger　emotion　in　an　English　heart；　pride　or　rapture。

One　obvious　reason　for　the　long　neglect　of　Turner　lies　in　the　fact　that　his　genius　does　not　seem　to　be　truly　English。　Turner's　landscape；　even　when　it　presents　familiar　scenes；　does　not　show　them　in　the　familiar　light。　Neither　the　artist　nor　the　intelligent　layman　is　satisfied。　He　gives　us　glorious　visions；　we　admit　the　glory……but　we　miss　something　which　we　deem　essential。　I　doubt　whether　Turner　tasted　rural　England；　I　doubt　whether　the　spirit　of　English　poetry　was　in　him；　I　doubt　whether　the　essential　significance　of　the　mon　things　which　we　call　beautiful　was　revealed　to　his　soul。　Such　doubt　does　not　affect　his　greatness　as　a　poet　in　colour　and　in　form；　but　I　suspect　that　it　has　always　been　the　cause　why　England　could　not　love　him。　If　any　man　whom　I　knew　to　be　a　man　of　brains　confessed　to　me　that　he　preferred　Birket　Foster；　I　should　smile……but　I　should　understand。

V

A　long　time　since　I　wrote　in　this　book。　In　September　I　caught　a　cold；　which　meant　three　weeks'　illness。

I　have　not　been　suffering；　merely　feverish　and　weak　and　unable　to　use　my　mind　for　anything　but　a　daily　hour　or　two　of　the　lightest　reading。　The　weather　has　not　favoured　my　recovery；　wet　winds　often　blowing；　and　not　much　sun。　Lying　in　bed；　I　have　watched　the　sky；　studied　the　clouds；　which……so　long　as　they　are　clouds　indeed；　and　not　a　mere　waste　of　grey　vapour……always　have　their　beauty。　Inability　to　read　has　always　been　my　horror；　once；　a　trouble　of　the　eyes　all　but　drove　me　mad　with　fear　of　blindness；　but　I　find　that　in　my　present　circumstances；　in　my　own　still　house；　with