The Florida agriculturist. [volume] (DeLand, Fla.) 1878-1911, 1893-08-09
every much So" I replied.

translated, and least of all the one you
are now reading. 1t is not even second
handed. 1t is what Mrs. Austin called
"a bad translation of very bad French
translation Two elements enter into
every translation-the author and the
translator. Thus, Hoole's 'Ariosto' is
nearer to Hoole than to Ariosto. So in
Pope's Homer The Greek is nothing,
the Englishman everything. Transla-
lions have been called pressed flowers.
If you want to enjoy Goethe in all his
freshness and fragrance.Ayou must go to
the original. In no other way will you
be able thoroughly to appreciate him."
"Do you understand German, Mr..
Jackson?' I asked.
II have been told that am a perfect
master of the language. I have Goethe's
works in my library. You must study
German"
Well, mastered German. The study
was pleasure and recreation. I
caught the inspiration from the very
lips, as it were, of Goethe and Heine and
Schiller. I learned, too, the truthful
ness of Coleridges definition of genius
that it consists in carrying on the feel
ings of the child into 1naturer years.
Men Of true genius give themselves up
to the first simple impressions of COM
mon things. They are content to won
der and smile and admire, just as. they
did when they were children. It is the
opening Of the heart to all sweet infu-
ences.
We are not called upon to write poetry
for angels Or saints, but for mentor
men who work and think and suffer.
He who is to photograph humanity must
at least be able to stand on a common
level with it and by his many sympa-
thies enrich his special experience with
all that is universal. Poetry is the mu-
sic of truth, and let it come through
what medium it may it is always mu-
steal while it is true.
But that literary feast also became
"Liebesmahl." To conjugate the verb
'to love" in that rich, full, sOnOrOus dia-
lect was less easy than to give it real
ity, an active transitiveness. l learned
to love the German, but Mr.. jackson,
the rector, more.
Well, time brought with it its changes
The invalid Alice died. She is waiting
for me beside those ever shining gates.
Mr.. jackson became more and more en-
deared to his people and to me; his
moodiness went away from him. Fred
grew toward the stature Of his manhood,
a kind, sterling, tractable child, while
the angel Carrie grew still more beauti-
full to me in that childish truthfulness
which will light her to the grave. To
couple her name, the memory of her
virtues and the consciousness of the god
illness of her life with the tomb was to
rob the latter of all it's shadowiness and
dread!
At last it came as it was to be. Mr..
Jackson spoke to me of love. It was on
a cold, starlit night in March. We were
standing by one of the broad windows,
looking out upon the landscape, which
was beautiful still, though clothed in the
dreariness of winter.
Jenny" he commenced half sorrow
fully, 81 am about to say something that
may lower me very much in your esti-
nation, but I cannot help it. It has
been in my heart for many weeks. 1t
has wrapped it, like the landscape before
us, in all the chilliness of winter. Wheth-
er what 1 may say will bring sunshine
and spring, or leave me still standing an
Ishmael in this desert of my life, can
not tell"
He paused moment, and thought l
hoard nv heart heat in that Stiffness /