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