Nor do our men owe
one jot or title of their inspiration to individuals on the other side
of the water.
Locally, too, these books are more noteworthy than may at first
appear. They are curiously passionate, and passion in American
literature since the Civil War is rare. I do not mean sentiment,
or romance, or eroticism. I mean such passion as Wordsworth felt
for his lakes, Byron (even when most Byronic) for the ocean, the
author of "The Song of Roland" for his Franks. Muir loved the
Yosemite as a man might love a woman. Every word he wrote of the
Sierras is touched with intensity. Hear him after a day on Alaskan
peaks: "Dancing down the mountain to camp, my mind glowing like
the sunbeaten glaciers, I found the Indians seated around a good
fire, entirely happy now that the farthest point of the journey
was safely reached and the long, dark storm was cleared away. How
hopefully, peacefully bright that night were the stars in the
frosty sky, and how impressive was the thunder of icebergs,
rolling, swelling, reverberating through the solemn stillness! I
was too happy to sleep."
Such passion, and often such style, is to be found in all these
books when they are good books.
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