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Cambridge is a world of subdued tones, of excessively subtle humours, of prim conduct and free thinking; it fears the Parent, but it has no fear of God; it offers amidst surroundings that vary between disguises and antiquarian charm the inflammation of literature's purple draught; one hears there a peculiar thin scandal like no other scandal in the world a covetous scandal so that I am always reminded of Ibsen in Cambridge.
An indefatigable youthfulness was also the prime distinction of the Elizabethan era's writings and doings; it was fitting that such a period should have witnessed the first translation into the English language of this Benjamin of a classic literature's old age.
He lived and died in that stale, flat, and literarily unprofitable expanse of prairie between Lake Michigan and the Rio Grande, where man's most pretentious achievement was the Ead's Bridge at St. Louis, Nature's most spectacular effort, the Ozark Mountains, and literature's most worthy resident representative, William Marion Reedy.
While usage establishes grammar, it no less establishes so-called dialect. Therefore we may as rightfully refer to "so-called grammar." It is not really a question of Literature's position toward dialect that we are called upon to consider, but rather how much of Literature's valuable time shall be taken up by this dialectic country cousin.
His fiction, whether we award it the somewhat grudging recognition of Carlyle or with Ruskin regard its maker as the one great novelist of English race, must be deemed a precious legacy, one of literature's most honorable ornaments especially desirable in a day so apparently plain and utilitarian as our own, eschewing ornament and perchance for that reason needing it all the more.
One to radiate all of art's, all literature's splendor a splendor so dazzling that he himself is almost lost in it, and his contemporaries the same his fictitious Othello, Romeo, Hamlet, Lear, as real as any lords of England or Europe then and there more real to us, the mind sometimes thinks, than the man Shakspere himself. Then the other may we indeed name him the same day?
The spurious prudence, making the senses final, is the god of sots and cowards, and is the subject of all comedy. It is nature's joke, and therefore literature's. The true prudence limits this sensualism by admitting the knowledge of an internal and real world.
Her interest in literature's touching something quite peculiar to herself; she takes it all so seriously. She feels the arts and she wants to feel them more. To those who practise them it's almost humiliating her curiosity, her sympathy, her good faith. How can anything be as fine as she supposes it?" "She's a rare organisation," the younger man sighed.
And in those days there still were bookmen widely-informed, observant, devoted old bookmen who loved their trade, and adorned it. Thorpe reflected that, as he grew older, he was the better able to apprehend the admirable qualities of that departed race of literature's servants.
Literature's Ambassador at Keeb.... I rose gingerly from my chair, and caught sight of my face, of my Braxtonised cheek, in the mirror. I heard the twittering of birds in distant trees. I saw through my window the elaborate landscape of the Duke's grounds, all soft in the grey bloom of early morning. I think I was nearer to tears than I had ever been since I was a child. But the weakness passed.
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