But so it is. In our prurient
prudery, we have got to despise the human, and therefore the truly
divine, element in art, and look for inspiration, not to living men
and women, but to leaves and straws, stocks and stones. It is an
idolatry baser than that of the old Canaanites; for they had the
courage to go up to the mountain tops, and thence worship the host of
heaven: but we are to stay at the bottom, and worship the mountains
themselves. Byron began the folly with his misanthropic "Childe
Harold." Sermons in stones? I don't believe in them. I have seen a
better sermon in an old peasant woman's face than in all the Alps and
Apennines of Europe. Did you ever see any one who was the better for
mountains? Have the Alps made * * * a whit honester, or * * * a whit
more good-natured, or Lady * * * a whit cleverer? Do they alter one
hair's breadth for the better the characters of the ten thousand male
and female noodles who travel forth to stare at them every year? Do
mountains make them lofty-minded and generous-hearted? No. Caelum,
non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt.
Pages:
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42