One who
should seek repose on the bosom of such a mythology is as one who
seeks to pillow himself on the many-tinted clouds of evening; soft and
beautiful as they are, there is nothing real to them but their
dampness and coldness.
Here M. and Madame Belloc entered, and as he wanted my opinion of the
Diane, I let her read this part of the letter to him in French. You
ought to have seen M. Belloc, with tears in his eyes, defending the
old Greeks, and expounding to me, with all manner of rainbow
illustrations, the religious meanings of Greek mythology, and the
_morale_ of Greek tragedy. Such a whole souled devotion to a
nation dead and gone could never be found but in France.
Madame Belloc was the translator of Maria Edgeworth by that lady's
desire; corresponded with her for years, and still has many of her
letters. Her translation of Uncle Tom has to me all the merit and all
the interest of an original composition. In perusing it I enjoy the
pleasure of reading the story with scarce any consciousness of its
ever having been mine. In the evening Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall called.
They are admirably matched--he artist, she author.
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