"I cannot bear to go--I cannot bear to leave this place. I shall never return to it if I leave it now. In the murmur of the river--in the songs of the birds, in the rustling of the leaves, there has been all day a voice of lamentation which has haunted me; something mournful which has sounded to me like an eternal adieu. I have tried to exclude these thoughts, but they return in spite of me; and when you spoke of going, your words--" "My dearest Ellen, I really cannot listen to such absurd nonsense. You know how much I admire your love of the beauties of nature--how much I appreciate your eloquence in describing them; but when all this degenerates into sentimentality, I own I cannot stand it." "Dearest Edward, for you everything in nature wears a smile, and I thank God that it is so. You have never had cause to shrink from what is pure and bright and beautiful, with an aching heart and a self-accusing spirit." As I raised my eyes to Edward's face, I was startled at its expression. There was a sternness in it which made me tremble. "Ellen," he said, "listen to me, and mark my words. Either a morbid sensibility, which I despise, or a mawkish affectation, which I detest, injures the tone of your mind, and the truth of your character. Never let me hear again of wounded spirits, and self-reproaches, and poetic sufferings. When you were a girl you almost frightened away my love for you by these mysterious exclamations, and I hate the very sound of them. Do not let me hear that my wife cannot look upon the face of nature with a calm and hopeful eye, or on her past life with a self-approving conscience. I know there is no reality in such language, God knows, I should not speak so calmly if I could suppose there was; but as you value my love, or dread my anger, never use expressions again which in your mouth are senseless." "You are severe," I said, with an attempt at a smile, which made my mouth quiver; "your wife should indeed be perfect, for it is evident that her faults would meet with no mercy from you." "You think me harsh, Ellen? Perhaps I am. But look here; there are four lines in this book (and he took up a volume of Metastasio's plays which was lying on the table), which makeup, in my opinion, for all the sentimental non-sense it contains." He pointed to these lines: "La gloria nostra E geloso cristallo, e debil canna Ogni aura ch'inchina, ogni respiro ch'appanna."