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Shall we walk up to the house? 'I have broken in upon your reading. She exhibited the volume; it was Buskin's 'Sesame and Lilies. 'Ah! you got it; and like it? 'On the whole. 'That is disappointing. Annabel was silent, then spoke of another matter as they walked up from the lake. This Mr. Egremont had not the look of a man who finds his joy in the life of Society.
Of other books which influenced me about this period, Emerson's ``Representative Men'' was one; another was Carlyle's ``Past and Present, in which the old Abbot of Bury became one of my ideals; still another was Buskin's ``Seven Lamps of Architecture''; and to such a degree that this art has given to my life some of its greatest pleasures. Ruskin was then at his best.
Yet what is this but another form of Buskin's "Pathetic fallacy"? Those divinely sweet, sad days were in reality just as commonplace as to-day. Life is a chaos of comic confusion, Past things alone take a halo harmonious; So from illusion we wake to illusion, Each as the rest just as true and erroneous.
Scarcely, I suppose. Well, now I'm to have a glimpse of another new world. Mr St Aubyn has shown me one or two; what will Mr Buskin's be like? It's all extremely interesting, anyhow." Then he stumped along to the river side, giving a majestic twirl to his wooden leg with every step he took through the long grass. How he would have loved a bathe!
"Now for it!" said Austin to himself, when another act had been got through, in the course of which Sardanapalus had suffered from a distressing nightmare. He took Mr Buskin's card out of his pocket, and, hurrying out as fast as he could manage, stumped his way round to the stage door.
Buskin's talk, and it had neither the historic range and brilliance of Dean Stanley's, nor the fascinating subtlety the elevation and the depth combined of that of the late F.D. Maurice. But it was clear as crystal, and calm as well as clear. It was terse and exact, precise and luminous. Not a word was wasted and every phrase was suggestive. Tennyson did not monopolize conversation.
"Well, no, I hardly think that would be just," replied Mr. Brown, lowering the muzzle of the gun, and beginning to think that he had met with a strange customer, whom it was better to conciliate than to cross. "Come, tell a feller who you is," the red-haired genius remarked "do you belong to Buskin's gang, or is you on your own tramp?"
The play over, each of them throws off his gold-spangled robe and his mask, descends from the buskin's height, and moves a mean ordinary creature; his name is not now Agamemnon son of Atreus, or Creon son of Menoeceus, but Polus son of Charicles of Sunium, or Satyrus son of Theogiton of Marathon. Such is the condition of mankind, or so that sight presented it to me. Philip.
The shepherd started to his feet, and looked eagerly in the direction of the sound; but nothing was to be seen. "What is the meaning of that?" asked Mr. Brown. "It means that Buskin's band of bushrangers is all the more alarmed at the sound of your pistol.
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