This is not, nor could it for a moment be mistaken for, the language of passion. It is simple falsehood, uttered by hypocrisy; definite absurdity, rooted in affectation, and coldly asserted in the teeth of nature and fact. Passion will indeed go far in deceiving itself; but it must be a strong passion, not the simple wish of a lover to tempt his mistress to sing. Compare a very closely parallel passage in Wordsworth, in which the lover has lost his mistress: Three years had Barbara in her grave been laid, When thus his moan he made:-- ‘Oh move, thou cottage, from behind yon oak, Or let the ancient tree uprooted lie, That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky. If still behind yon pine-tree’s ragged bough, Headlong, the waterfall must come, Oh, let it, then, be dumb-- Be anything, sweet stream, but that which thou art now.’ Here is a cottage to be moved, if not a mountain, and a waterfall to be silent, if it is not to hang listening: but with what different relation to the mind that contemplates them! Here, in the extremity of its agony, the soul cries out wildly for relief, which at the same moment it partly knows to be impossible, but partly believes possible, in a vague impression that a miracle _might_ be wrought to give relief even to a less sore distress,--that nature is kind, and God is kind, and that grief is strong: it knows not well what _is_ possible to such grief. To silence a stream, to move a cottage wall,--one might think it could do as much as that! § 16. I believe these instances are enough to illustrate the main point I insist upon respecting the pathetic fallacy,--that so far as it _is_ a fallacy, it is always the sign of a morbid state of mind, and comparatively of a weak one. Even in the most inspired prophet it is a sign of the incapacity of his human sight or thought to bear what has been revealed to it. In ordinary poetry, if it is found in the thoughts of the poet himself, it is at once a sign of his belonging to the inferior school; if in the thoughts of the characters imagined by him, it is right or wrong according to the genuineness of the emotion from which it springs; always, however, implying necessarily _some_ degree of weakness in the character. Take two most exquisite instances from master hands. The Jessy of Shenstone, and the Ellen of Wordsworth, have both been betrayed and deserted. Jessy, in the course of her most touching complaint, says: If through the garden’s flowery tribes I stray, Where bloom the jasmines that could once allure, ‘Hope not to find delight in us,’ they say, ‘For we are spotless, Jessy; we are pure.’ Compare with this some of the words of Ellen: