impress on my mind and very often recall, many such scenes, pictures,
times or memories. Very few people do this. Hence in all novels and
poems, especially the French, description generally smacks of
imitation and mere manufacture. It passes for "beautiful writing," but
there is always something in really unaffected truth from nature which
is caught by the true critic. I read lately a French romance which is
much admired, of this manufactured or second-hand kind. Every third
page was filled with the usual botany, rocks, skies, colors, fore and
backgrounds--"all very fine"--but in the whole of it not one of those
little touches of truth which stir us so in SHAKESPEARE, make us smile
in HERRICK or naïve PEPYS, or raise our hearts in WORDSWORTH. These
were true men.

To be true we must be far more familiar with Nature than with scene
painting or photographs, and to do this we must, so to speak,
fascinate ourselves with pictures in life, glad memories of golden
hours, rock and river and greenwood tree. We must also banish
resolutely from our past all recollections of enemies and wrongs,
troubles and trials, and throw all our heart into doing so. Forgive
and forget all enmities--those of Misfortune and Fate being included.
Depend upon it that the brighter you can make your Past the pleasanter
will be your Future.

This is just the opposite to what most people do, hence the frequent
and fond quotation of pessimistic poetry. It is all folly, and worse.
One result is that in modern books of travel the only truthful or
vivid descriptions are of sufferings of all kinds, even down to
inferior luncheons and lost hair brushes. Their joys they sketch with
an indifferent skill, like HEINE'S monk, who made rather a poor
description of Heaven, but was "gifted in Hell," which he depicted