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Read Ebook: The Mary Frances Story Book; or Adventures Among the Story People by Fryer Jane Eayre Prittie Edwin John Illustrator
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Ebook has 194 lines and 12508 words, and 4 pages
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PAPER-KNIFE PLEASURES 1
RUSKIN AS POET 10
ELECTIONS IN LITERATURE 19
FAMILIAR VERSE 28
SHAKESPEARE'S ENGLAND 36
HEREDITY IN SONG 44
STINGS FOR THE STINGY 51
DIALOGUES OF THE DEAD 59
SERMONS IN FLOWERS 66
BEDSIDE BOOKS 83
THEIR MUCH SPEAKING 91
PEERS AND POETRY 99
THE PRAISE OF THAMES 107
ENGLISH EPIGRAPHS 114
THE 'SEASON' IN SONG 123
THE 'RECESS' IN RHYME 131
JAQUES IN LOVE 139
MOCKING AT MATRIMONY 148
PARSON POETS 156
THE OUTSIDES OF BOOKS 164
THE NOT IMPOSSIBLE SHE 172
NONSENSE VERSES 180
SINGLE-SPEECH HAMILTONS 188
DRAMATIC NOMENCLATURE 196
PUNS AND PATRONYMICS 203
'YOURS TRULY' 209
POSTSCRIPTS 217
PAPER-KNIFE PLEASURES.
One is for ever hearing enough and to spare about old books and those who love them. There is a whole literature of the subject. The men themselves, from Charles Lamb downwards, have over and over again described their ecstasies--with what joy they have pounced upon some rare edition, and with what reverence they have ever afterwards regarded it. It is some time since Mr. Buchanan drew his quasi-pathetic picture of the book-hunter, bargaining for his prize,
'With the odd sixpence in his hand, And greed in his gray eyes;'
having, moreover, in his mind's eye as he walked
'Vistas of dusty libraries Prolonged eternally.'
Mr. Andrew Lang, too, has sung to us of the man who 'book-hunts while the loungers fly,' who 'book-hunts though December freeze,' for whom
'Each tract that flutters in the breeze Is charged with hopes and fears,'
while
'In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.'
There are periodicals which cater solely for old-book adorers; and while on the one hand your enthusiast will publish his 'Pleasures' and 'Diversions,' on the other a contemporary will devote a volume to the subjects which attract and interest 'the Book Fancier.'
Meanwhile, is there nothing to be said of, or by, the admirer of new books--the man or woman who rejoices in the pleasant act of turning over new leaves? At a time when volumes are issuing by the dozen from the publishers' counters, shall not something be chronicled of the happiness which lies in the contemplation, the perusal, of the literary product which comes hot from the press? For, to begin with, the new books have at least this great advantage over the old--that they are clean. It is not everybody who can wax dithyrambic over the 'dusty' and the 'mouldy.' It is possible for a volume to be too 'second-hand.' Your devotee, to be sure, thinks fondly of the many hands, dead and gone, through which his 'find' has passed; he loves to imagine that it may have been held between the fingers of some person or persons of distinction; he is in the seventh heaven of exaltation if he can be quite certain it has had that honour. But suppose this factitious charm is really wanting? Suppose a volume is dirty, and ignobly so? Must one necessarily delight in dogs' ears, bask in the shadow of beer-stains, and 'chortle' at the sign of cheese-marks? Surely it is one of the merits of new leaves that they come direct from the printer and the binder, though they, alas! may have left occasional impressions of an inky thumb.
Who shall say that new leaves have no drawbacks? Verily, they have them. It cannot be supposed, for instance, that they are always wholly acceptable to the aforesaid professional censor. The reviewer, sitting surrounded by them, tier on tier, may rail at the productiveness of the age, and wish that there might not be more than one new book each week. And the omnivorous reader, anxious to keep up with the literature of the day, might fairly re-echo the aspiration. Who, indeed, can hope to turn over a tithe of the new leaves which are issued daily? Nor can an unlimited consumption of them be recommended. Mr. Lowell is to a certain extent justified when he says that
'Reading new books is like eating new bread; One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy.'
Assuredly new books are so far like new bread, that we should not consume them in too rapid succession. At the same time, let us be thankful for them, inasmuch as they have the unquestionable gift of novelty. Lord Beaconsfield's Lady Montfort said she preferred a new book, even if bad, to a classic. That was a strong saying, but there are points of view from which it is perfectly defensible.
RUSKIN AS POET.
It was lately rumoured that Mr. Ruskin was about to issue a volume of poems, consisting mainly of pieces already published. The statement was probably the first intimation received by many that the author of 'Modern Painters' had ever written anything in the shape of verse. That he has always been, like Sidney, a 'warbler of poetic prose,' has lately been emphasized by a magazine-writer; but it is not at all universally known that between the years 1835 and 1845 Mr. Ruskin figured somewhat largely as a poet, in the popular sense of that much abused word. During that time he produced a good deal of verse, in addition to the prize poem which has always been readily accessible by his admirers.
Even if one had not known, it would not have been difficult to have assumed, from the rhythmic character of Mr. Ruskin's prose, that he had at one time 'dropped into poetry.' Such a master of rhetoric could hardly have gone through life without wooing the Muse of Song, however temporarily or unsuccessfully. It would not have been natural for him to have done so. And, indeed, it is probable that no great prose rhetorician has failed to pay the same homage to the charm of verbal melody and cadence. In all the most sonorous prose turned out by English authors there will be found a lilt and a swing which would without difficulty translate themselves into verse. 'Most wretched men,' says Shelley, 'are cradled into poetry by wrong.' Most literary men have been cradled into it by their irresistible feeling and aptitude for rhythm, together with that general poetic sensibility which is rarely absent from the nature of the literary artist. Certain it is that practice in verse has always been recognised as the best of all preparation for work in prose, and no doubt much of Mr. Ruskin's success as prose-producer has been owing to his early devotion to the Muse.
He himself tells us, in the course of his tribute to his 'first editor' , that
'A certain capacity for rhythmic cadence , and the cheerfulness of a much-protected but not foolishly-indulged childhood, made me early a rhymester.'
And he adds--the tribute was paid in 1878--
'A shelf of the little cabinet by which I am now writing is loaded with poetical effusions which were the delight of my father and mother, and which I have not got the heart to burn.'
A much fuller account of the poetic stages through which he passed in childhood is given by Mr. Ruskin in his 'Praeterita,' where he tells us of the six 'poems' he brought forth in his seventh year , one of them being on the subject of the steam-engine, and rejoicing in such couplets as:
'When furious up from mines the water pours, And clears from rusty moisture all the ores.'
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