That was true instinct. Real philosophic joy. Now, can you at
all fancy the difference between that feeling of triumph in a
mountain's death; and the exultation of your beloved poet, in its
life--
"Quantus Athos, aut quantus Eryx, aut ipse coruscis Quum fremit
ilicibus quantus, gaudetque nivali Vertice, se attollens pater
Apenninus ad auras."
DORA. You must translate for us mere housekeepers, please--
whatever the carekeepers may know about it.
MAY. I'll try then to?
L. No Dryden is a far way worse than nothing, and nobody will "do"
You can't translate it. But this is all you need know, that the
lines are full of a passionate sense of the Apennines' fatherhood,
or protecting power over Italy; and of sympathy with, their joy in
their snowy strength in heaven, and with the same joy, shuddering
through all the leaves of their forests.
MARY. Yes, that is a difference indeed, but then, you know, one
can't help feeling that it is fanciful. It is very delightful to
imagine the mountains to be alive; but then,--are they alive?
L. It seems to me, on the whole, Mary, that the feelings of the
purest and most mightily passioned human souls are likely to be
the truest. Not, indeed, if they do not desire to know the truth,
or blind themselves to it that they may please themselves with
passion; for then they are no longer pure: but if, continually
seeking and accepting the truth as far as it is discernible, they
trust their Maker for the integrity of the instincts.
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