a higher and more imaginative quality than that of merely beautiful cultivation; and, I must add, I do not at all agree with Marmontel, who said, that whenever he saw a beautiful scene he longed for some one to whom he could say, 'How beautiful!'"—
"Which," interrupted Mrs. Sullivan, "being translated into plain English, means that vanity and imagination were at variance; and a thousand fine things that he might have said about the prospect with such effect, if he had been listened to, were now being wasted on himself."
"To again quote the oracles of my high-priest, Wordsworth, there is nothing like
'The harvest of a quiet eye,
That broods and sleeps on its own heart.'
What 'truths divine' crowd every page of Wordsworth's writings! I sometimes wish to be a modern Alexander, that I might have Mount Athos carved into, not my own statue, but his."
"Nay," exclaimed Mrs. Sullivan, "spare me 'lectures on poetry.' I am worse than even Wordsworth's flitch. He says,
'The very bacon showed its feeling.
Swinging from the smoky ceiling.'
