Sibyl.  But I don’t care so much about defying the philosophers, if only one could get a clear idea of life, or soul, for one’s self.

L. Well, Sibyl, you used to know more about it, in that cave of yours, than any of us.  I was just going to ask you about inspiration, and the golden bough, and the like; only I remembered I was not to ask anything.  But, will not you, at least, tell us whether the ideas of Life, as the power of putting things together, or “making” them; and of Death, as the power of pushing things separate, or “unmaking” them, may not be very simply held in balance against each other?

Sibyl.  No, I am not in my cave to-night; and cannot tell you anything.

L. I think they may.  Modern Philosophy is a great separator; it is little more than the expansion of Moliere’s great sentence, “Il s’ensuit de la, que tout ce qu’ily a de beau est dans les dictionnaires; il n’y a que les mots qui sont transposes.”  But when you used to be in your cave, Sibyl, and to be inspired, there was (and there remains still in some small measure), beyond the merely formative and sustaining power, another, which we painters call “passion”—­I don’t know what the philosophers call it; we know it makes people red, or white; and therefore it must be something, itself; and perhaps it is the most truly “poetic” or “making” force of all, creating a world of its own out of a glance, or a sigh:  and the want of passion is perhaps the truest death, or “unmaking” of everything;—­even of stones.  By the way, you were all reading about that ascent of the Aiguille Verte, the other day?

Sibyl.  Because you had told us it was so difficult, you thought it could not be ascended.

L Yes, I believed the Aiguille Verte would have held its own.  But do you recollect what one of the climbers exclaimed, when he first felt sure of reaching the summit.

Sibyl.  Yes, it was, “Oh, Aiguille Verte, vous etes morte, vous etes morte!”

L. 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?