[continued from previous message]

parchment, with brass *CLASPS*, and seated myself at the table
in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, howEVER, I was
beguiled by the solemn monastic air and lifeless quiet of the
place, into a train of musing. As I looked around upon the old
volumes in their mouldering covers, thus ranged on the shelves
and apparently nEVER disturbed in their repose, I could not but
consider the library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors,
like mummies, are piously entombed and left to blacken and
moulder in dusty oblivion.

While I sat half-murmuring, half-meditating, these unprofitable
speculations with my head resting on my hand, I was thrumming
with the other hand upon the quarto, until I accidentally
loosened the *CLASPS*; when, to my utter astonishment, the
little book gave two or three yawns, like one awaking from
a *DEEP* sleep, then a husky hem, and at length began to talk. .....................................................................
“Ah,” said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, “I see how it is;
these modern scribblers have superseded all the good old authors.
I suppose nothing is read now-a-days but Sir Philip [SIDNEY]’s
Arcadia, Sackville’s stately plays, and Mirror for Magistrates,
or the fine-spun euphuisms of the ‘unparalleled John Lyly.”’

“There you are again mistaken,” said I; “the writers whom you
suppose in vogue, because they happened to be so when you were last
in circulation, have long since had their day. Sir Philip [SIDNEY]’s
Arcadia, the immortality of which was so fondly predicted by
his admirers, and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts,
delicate images, and graceful turns of language, is now
scarcel[Y E]ver me[N]tione[D]. Sackv[I]lle ha[S] strutted
into obscurity; and even Lyly, though his writings were
once the delight of a court, and apparently perpetuated
by a proverb, is now scarcely known even by name.
......................
. . <= 6 =>
.
. s .c a. r c e
. l [Y E] v e r
. m e [N] t i o
. n e [D] S a c
. k v [I] l l e
. h a [S] s t r
. u t .t. e d
............................................................
"My very good sir," said the little quarto, yawning most drearily
in my face, "excuse my interrupting you, but I perceive you are
rather given to prose. I would ask the fate of an author who
was making some noise just as I left the world. His reputation,
however, was considered quite temporary. The learned shook their
heads at him, for he was a poor, half-educated varlet, that knew
little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged to
run the country for deer-stealing. I think his name was
Shakespeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion."

"On the contrary," said I, "it is owing to that *VERy man* that
the literature of his period has experienced a duration beyond the
ordinary term of English literature. There rise authors now and
then who seem proof against the mutability of language because
they have rooted themselves in the unchanging principles of
human nature. They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes
see on the banks of a stream, which by their vast and *DEEP* roots,
penetrating through the mere surface and laying hold on the VERy
foundations of the earth, preserve the soil around them from
being swept away by the EVER-flowing current, and hold up many
a neighboring plant, and perhaps WORTHless WEED, to perpetuity.
Such is the case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying the
encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the language and
literature of his day, and giving duration to many an indifferent
author, merely from having flourished in his vicinity. But even
he, I grieve to say, is gradually assuming the tint of age,
and his whole form is overrun by a profusion of commentators,
who, like clambering vines and creepers, almost
*bury the NOBLE plant* that upholds them." .........................................................
{W}hat (D)reary waste{S} of m(E)taphysics! H[E]re a(N)d there o(N)ly
[D]o we behold th(E) he[A]ven-illumine(D) ba[R|D)s, elevated like
[B|E)acons on their w[I|D)ely-separated h[E|I)ghts, to transmit
(T)he pure light of poetical intelligence from age to age."

I was just about to launch *FORTH* into eulogiums upon the poets
of the day, when 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. .........................................................
. . . . <= 15 =>
.
. {W} h. a t(D)r e a r y w a s t e
. {S} o. f m(E)t a p h y s i c s!H
. [E] r. e a(N)d t h e r e o(N)l y
. [D] o. w e b e h o l d t h(E)h e
. [A] v. e n-i l l u m i n e(D)b a
. [R](D) s,e l e v a t e d l i k e
. [B](E) a c o n s o n t h e i r w
. [I](D) e l y-s e p a r a t e d h
. [E](I) g h t s,t o t r a n s m i
. .t.(T) h e p u r e l i g h t o f
. .p.{O} e t i c a l i n t e l l i
. .g.{E} n c e f r o m a g e t o a
. .g. e.
.
(NED) -15,15 : Prob. both in array ~ 1 in 150
(DEDIT) 15 : He gave (Latin)
[{W.S.} E.DARBIE] 15
.
Prob. of [{W.S.} E.DARBIE] in last 2 sentences ~ 1 in 57,000,000. ---------------------------------------------------------------
Art Neuendorffer

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