of it, the soul of eternal youth that is in it, would appear to have been the normal condition of Spenser
While the senses of most men live in the cellar, his ‘were laid in a large upper chamber which opened toward the sunrising.’
His birth was of the womb of morning dew,
And his conception of the joyous prime.
The very greatest poets (and is there, after all, more than one of them?) have a way, I admit, of getting within our inmost consciousness and in a manner betraying us to ourselves.
There is in Spenser
a remoteness very different from this, but it is also a seclusion, and quite as agreeable, perhaps quite as wholesome in certain moods when we are glad to get away from ourselves and those importunate trifles which we gravely call the realities of life.
In the warm Mediterranean
of his mind everything
Suffers a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
He lifts everything, not beyond recognition, but to an ideal distance where no mortal, I had almost said human, fleck is visible.
Instead of the ordinary bridal gifts, he hallows his wife with an Epithalamion fit for a conscious goddess, and the ‘savage soil’1
becomes a turf of Arcady under her feet, where the merchants' daughters of the town are no more at home than the angels and the fair shapes of pagan mythology whom they meet there.
He seems to have had a common-sense side to him, and could look at things (if we may judge by his tract on Irish affairs) in a practical