It is in the hours of sleep that the mind, by some divine paradox, has the extremest sense of light.  Almost the most shining lines in English poetry—­lines that cast sunrise shadows—­are those of Blake, written confessedly from the side of night, the side of sorrow and dreams, and those dreams the dreams of little chimney-sweepers; all is as dark as he can make it with the “bags of soot”; but the boy’s dream of the green plain and the river is too bright for day.  So, indeed, is another brightness of Blake’s, which is also, in his poem, a child’s dream, and was certainly conceived by him in the hours of sleep, in which he woke to write the Songs of Innocence:-

   O what land is the land of dreams? 
   What are its mountains, and what are its streams? 
   O father, I saw my mother there,
   Among the lilies by waters fair. 
   Among the lambs clothed in white,
   She walk’d with her Thomas in sweet delight.

To none but the hours claimed and inspired by sleep, held awake by sufferance of sleep, belongs such a vision.

Corot also took the brilliant opportunity of the hours of sleep.  In some landscapes of his early manner he has the very light of dreams, and it was surely because he went abroad at the time when sleep and dreams claimed his eyes that he was able to see so spiritual an illumination.  Summer is precious for a painter, chiefly because in summer so many of the hours of sleep are also hours of light.  He carries the mood of man’s night out into the sunshine—­Corot did so—­and lives the life of night, in all its genius, in the presence of a risen sun.  In the only time when the heart can dream of light, in the night of visions, with the rhythmic power of night at its dark noon in his mind, his eyes see the soaring of the actual sun.

He himself has not yet passed at that hour into the life of day.  To that life belongs many another kind of work, and a sense of other kinds of beauty; but the summer daybreak was seen by Corot with the extreme perception of the life of night.  Here, at last, is the explanation of all the memories of dreams recalled by these visionary paintings, done in earlier years than were those, better known, that are the Corots of all the world.  Every man who knows what it is to dream of landscape meets with one of these works of Corot’s first manner with a cry, not of welcome only, but of recognition.  Here is morning perceived by the spirit of the hours of sleep.

SOLITUDE

The wild man is alone at will, and so is the man for whom civilization has been kind.  But there are the multitudes to whom civilization has given little but its reaction, its rebound, its chips, its refuse, its shavings, sawdust and waste, its failures; to them solitude is a right foregone or a luxury unattained; a right foregone, we may name it, in the case of the nearly savage, and a luxury unattained in the case of the nearly refined.  These has the movement of the world thronged together into some blind by-way.