And then, puzzled, and yet happy;
pleased, and yet ashamed of being so; accepting sympathy from nature
which we do not believe it gives, and giving sympathy to nature, which
we do not believe it receives,--mixing, besides, all manner of
purposeful play and conceit with these involuntary fellowships,--we
fall necessarily into the curious web of hesitating sentiment,
pathetic fallacy, and wandering fancy, which form a great part of our
modern view of nature. But the Greek never removed his god out of
nature at all; never attempted for a moment to contradict his
instinctive sense that God was everywhere. "The tree _is_ glad," said
he, "I know it is; I can cut it down: no matter, there was a nymph in
it. The water _does_ sing," said he; "I can dry it up; but no matter,
there was a naiad in it." But in thus clearly defining his belief,
observe, he threw it entirely into a human form, and gave his faith to
nothing but the image of his own humanity. What sympathy and
fellowship he had, were always for the spirit _in_ the stream, not for
the stream; always for the dryad _in_ the wood, not for the wood.
Content with this human sympathy, he approached the actual waves and
woody fibres with no sympathy at all. The spirit that ruled them, he
received as a plain fact. Them, also, ruled and material, he received
as plain facts; they, without their spirit, were dead enough.
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