I mean to say that there is
no nation so thoroughly and earnestly artistic as the English in their
lives, their joys, their thoughts, their hopes. Who loves nature like an
Englishman? Do Italians care for their pale skies? I never heard so. We
go all over the world in search of beauty--to the keen north, to the cape
whence the midnight sun is visible, to the extreme south, to the interior
of Africa, gazing at the vast expanse of Tanganyika or the marvellous
falls of the Zambesi. We admire the temples and tombs and palaces of
India; we speak of the Alhambra of Spain almost in whispers, so deep is
our reverent admiration; we visit the Parthenon. There is not a picture
or a statue in Europe we have not sought. We climb the mountains for
their views and the sense of grandeur they inspire; we roam over the wide
ocean to the coral islands of the far Pacific; we go deep into the woods
of the West; and we stand dreamily under the Pyramids of the East. What
part is there of the English year which has not been sung by the poets?
all of whom are full of its loveliness; and our greatest of all,
Shakespeare, carries, as it were, armfuls of violets, and scatters roses
and golden wheat across his pages, which are simply fields written with
human life.
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