stealing. I think his name was Shakespeare; I presume he soon sank into oblivion." "On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that very man that the literature of his period has lasted beyond the ordinary term. There rise authors now and then who seem like the great trees that we sometimes see on the banks of a stream: by their vast and deep roots laying hold on the very foundations of the earth, they preserve the soil around them from being swept away by the current, and thus save from ruin many a neighbouring plant, and perhaps many a worthless weed. Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying time, and retaining in modern use the language and literature of his day." Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and chuckle, until at length he broke out into a fit of laughter that had well-nigh choked him. "Mighty well!" cried he, as soon as he could recover breath, "mighty well! And so you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to be preserved by a vaga-bond deer-stealer-by a man without learning-by a poet, forsooth, a poet!" And here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. "Yes," I replied, "a poet; for of all writers he has the best chance of living. He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. He illustrates them by everything that he sees most striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures of human life, such as it is passing before him. His writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the flavour of the age in which he lives. They are caskets which enclose within a small compass the wealth of the language-its family jewels, which are thus handed down to posterity." The sudden opening of the door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who came to inform me that it was time to close the library. I sought to have a parting word with the quarto; but the worthy little tome was silent, the clasps were closed, and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had passed. I have been to the library two or three times since, and have tried to draw it into further conversation, but in vain; and whether all this actually took place, or whether it was one of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have never to this moment been able to discover. Adapted from WASHINGTON IRVING. 54. ON CHAPMAN'S HOMER. That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne, Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes KEATS. 55. THE TEMPLE OF FAME. Before my view appeared a structure fair, With rapid motion turned the mansion round, And the touched needle trembles to the pole,- All various sounds from earth, and seas, and skies, Wide, and more wide, the floating rings advance, There various news I heard of love and strife, life, Of loss and gain, of famine, and of store, Of storms at sea and travels on the shore, Of prodigies, and portents seen in air, Of fires and plagues, and stars with blazing hair, Of turns of fortune, changes in the state, Above, below, without, within, around, Fame sits aloft, and points them out their course, Or wane and wax alternate like the moon. Around, a thousand winged wonders fly, Borne by the trumpet's blast, and scattered through the sky. There, at one passage, oft you might survey A lie and truth contending for the way; And long 'twas doubtful, both so closely pent, Which first should issue through the narrow vent; At last agreed, together out they fly, Inseparable now the truth and lie; The strict companions are for ever joined, And this or that unmixed no mortal e'er shall find. How vain that second life in others' breath, Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway, But the fallen ruins of another's fame, Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays, Drive from my breast that wretched lust of praise; Unblemished let me live, or die unknown; Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none!" + POPE |