OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.
Reading edition
Going to the Booking-Office.
Poet William Watson's Excursions in Criticism are cheap Excursions. He himself describes them as "Prose Recreations of a Rhymer." "Prosy" would have been the truer epithet. The meeting of an Interviewer with Dr. Johnson is the best, and it is also the last. Poet Watson's criticism of Tess of the D'Urbevilles, his Essay on Ibsen's Plays, and another on George Meredith, may have been recreations to the writer, but, like most of the other papers in this volume, they will never be so considered by the lightheaded and unbiassed reader. What is recreation to William Watson is boredom to the Baron, and, as the latter is inclined to think, to the majority of such of the public as may attempt the perusal of W. W.'s recreations. Let W. W. make no more cheap excursions in criticism,—excepting, of course, for his own private amusement, with which no one has a right to interfere,—but let him "thank the gods he is poetical," and so let him remain. His second best Essay, is on The Punishment of Genius, in which he advocates the post-mortem destruction of every scrap of composition, which its author had never intended for the public eye.
"We've had no rain to speak of for some weeks," observed Mrs. R.; "and, if this goes on, I heard some scientific gentlemen say, the other day, we ought to have the land irritated by hydras."
MELANCHOLIA.
(Modern French Version: After the celebrated Picture "Melencolia" by Albert Dürer.)
An enigmatic picture! Yet, indeed, In current Gallic light not hard to read. Woman, with angel-wings, and mournful face, What are the plans those listless fingers trace? What are the visions those fixed eyes survey? The War-dog fierce lies couchant in your way. The instruments of Art are scattered round. Mistress of charm in form, in tint, in sound, Of engineering might, mechanic skill, That checks your genius, and what thwarts your will? Winged Wit is at your side, your cherished guest, Who quits you never on an alien quest. But what that mystic prism shadows forth Hath menace which auxiliar from the North May scarce avert. The scales of Justice tilt Something askew. The curse of high-placed guilt Is on you, if the warning tocsin's knell, Clanging forth fiercely, hath not force to tell The hearer that Fate's hourglass fast runs out. That spectral Comet flames, beset about With miasmatic mist, and lurid fume, Conquering Corruption threatens hideous doom. Yet, yet the Bow of Promise gleams above, Herald of Hope to her whom all men mark and love!
THE SOLE INHABITANT.
Fishing Club Keeper (to New Member). "'Xcuse me, Sir, but, bein' a Stranger, so to speak; mayhap yer mayn't ha' noticed as how this here little Bit be Private Water."
Mr. O'Bulligan (who has had bad sport). "Shure private is it ye say, Rodgers? Faith an' I'm thinkin' the whole Strame's pretty Private, for Devil a Fish is there in it at all at all, 'cept Wan, an' he's in my Basket!"