much for some of Wordsworth, though his genius is undeniable, nor
excessively for the late Prof. Amiel. Why should we force ourselves into
an affection for them, any more than into a relish for olives or claret,
both of which excellent creatures I have the misfortune to dislike? No
spectacle annoys me more than the sight of people who ask if it is
"right" to take pleasure in this or that work of art. Their loves and
hatreds will never be genuine, natural, spontaneous.

You say that it is "right" to like Virgil, and yet you admit that you
admire the Mantuan, as the Scotch editor joked, "wi' deeficulty." I,
too, must admit that my liking for much of Virgil's poetry is not
enthusiastic, not like the admiration expressed, for example, by Mr.
Frederic Myers, in whose "Classical Essays" you will find all that the
advocates of the Latin singer can say for him. These heights I cannot
reach, any more than I can equal that eloquence. Yet must Virgil always
appear to us one of the most beautiful and moving figures in the whole of
literature.

How sweet must have been that personality which can still win our
affections, across eighteen hundred years of change, and through the
mists of commentaries, and school-books, and traditions! Does it touch
thee at all, oh gentle spirit and serene, that we, who never knew thee,
love thee yet, and revere thee as a saint of heathendom? Have the dead
any delight in the religion they inspire?

_Id cinerem aut Manes credis curare sepultos_?

I half fancy I can trace the origin of this personal affection for
Virgil, which survives in me despite the lack of a very strong love of
parts of his poems. When I was at school we met every morning for