If It Had Not Been For A
Hill Which Stood In The Way, We Should Have Seen It.
At our leisure we
discussed painting.
Before us, a perfect landscape; around us, a deep
solitude and stillness, broken by the sighing of ancient aristocratic
shades, and the songs of birds; within us, emotions of lassitude and
dreamy delight.
We had found a spot where existence was a blessing; a spot where to
exist was enough; where the "to be" was, for a moment, disjoined from
the inexorable "to do," or "to suffer." How agreeable to converse with
cultivated and refined artistic minds! How delightful to find people
to whom the beautiful has been a study, and art a world in which they
could live, move, and have their being! And yet it was impossible to
prevent a shade of deep sadness from resting on all things - a tinge of
melancholy. Why? - why this veil of dim and indefinable anguish at
sight of whatever is most fair, at hearing whatever is most lovely? Is
it the exiled spirit, yearning for its own? Is it the captive, to whom
the ray of heaven's own glory comes through the crevice of his dungeon
walls? But this is a digression. Returning, we examined the mansion, a
fine specimen of the old French chateau; square-built, with high
Norman roof, and a round, conical-topped tower at each corner. In
front was a garden, curiously laid out in beds, and knots of flowers,
with a fountain in the centre.
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