St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1889-06-02

vestj Es s Of i sment t.
flow pleased Darwin would be if he
rould come on earth again like DIoge-
mes and gaze about, and examine the
heads of certain portion OF the
earth's population. He would find
HAT those large and misunderstanding
bumps were the living personitcatlon
pf ali his theories. 1t is not meant to
imply that all those who DO not read
hooks are living monuments OF OAR
Winism. but it is dead certainty that
all living monuments of DarwiniSm do
not read books. To come back to the
original topic. however, re gardlng rum
aging for literary treasures. Take the
old city library as it now is. Don't look
into the future and imagine the new
building, where the shelves will be new
and freshly painted, and the books all
ARRANGED with mathematical precision,
because that knocks the romance all
out of the theme, but it is around the
old dingy room and time-besmirched
shelves in the old Atheneum, where
a glamor Of romance hangs.
The room reminds one of a city in
fog, and has musty smell about 1t.
The carpets are ragged, and the long
reading tables and old arm chairs
ancient times. The covers on the books
are worn and tern. and the leaves have
many finger mark on the edges. But
to a book worm all those things are
bliss. and he fairly revelS as he sits
pouring over the closely printed pages
of some book. The old library is a
Seritable
OLD CURIOSITY SHOP.
and visit there is full of interest. A
GLOBE reporter dropped in there the
pther morning and seating himself in
Dne of the rickety old chairs standing in
q corner proceeded TO watch the people
who came in to get books and to read.
Young and pretty girls. young men, Old
men and boys, we'll dressed and shabby,
all we're represented during the time the
reporter sat there. The books they
asked for varied all the way from the
"Omnipotency of Electricity in the
Mechanical World" to nursery rhymes.
Among the very first to come in the
reporter noticed middle aged, plainly
dressed man, who evidently knew what
he wanted, as, after a few words Of
conversation with the librarian, he sat
down at one of the tables with his book
i'm hand and was soon lost to everything
around him.
'sAh. here'sa book worm of the first
water" thought the reporter. The
mans face was sallow and covered with
struggling beard, and, in fact, he was
very plain looking, but when his eye
lighted up and his face frightened. in
duced by something he was reading. he
looked quite handsome and, at least.
very intellectual. The reporter touched
him on the arm, at the same time apollo
giving for the interruption, and, after
telling his business, finally managed to
strike up conversation. When asked
if he was very fond of books, the book
worm, as he may as well be dubbed for
want of something better, smiled and
II come here nearly every day to
read, as l have read and reread every
book that am fortunate to own. l was
reading John Keats just now, my ideal
of all poets. Our literature is strug-
Cling under false classiclsm, and the
Slow growth of the nineteenth century
out of the ashes of the eighteenth CEN
fury. | think it can be all summed up
. in the four single words-from Pope to
Keats. Alexander Pope bound verse
with ten-llnked chain, and all its
merit lies III its exquisite polish. But
while the poetry that Pope was the eX-
ponent of was perfect in form and color
as a delicately twisted flower of glass,
it was dead. Keats. Oh the other hand,
burst the Illuminate symbol into sudden
bloom and beauty of life. Side by side
with him stands Wordsworth and
Shelley. Keats died unrecognized, al
most a pauDer, at the age of twenty
six but his exquisite sentiments
brought forth in his exquisite verse
will live forever. In his beautiful EN-
dymion" his personificationS and direct
TO, NI,np
again, his Eve of st. Agnes" l was
reading it just now. Where will you
find anything more exquisite, than
where he says:
st. Agnes Eve-Ah. bitter chill it was,
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
the hare limped trembling through the
frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woody fold, etc.
81 love John Keats and can dream and
forget all else while reading his odes
TO Grecian Urn and TO Nightin-
gale and drop tear over his Sonnet
to STAR"
81 like Scott, too, went on the book
worm, as he closed the volume of Keats
with tender hand. Il like everything
he wrote, both poetry and prose. His
Lay of the Last Minstrel and Lady of
the Lake are beautiful. His prose
works were equally so. There was
something in
THE WHOLESOME HUMANITY
of Scott, which caused men to love and
revere him. Then there is Bobby
Burns, the very name of whom all Scot
fish people love. What tenderness,
pathos and wit he possessed. 1t makes
me laugh when read his weird, queer
Tam O'Shanter." Let me see: what
is it he says about Tam's mare Maggie
in that terrible ride?
The carlin caught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce stump.
There are so many poets that 1 admire
that it would take all day to talk about
them. | think old Ben johnson was a
master writer. What is more touching
than the sonnet ''Drink to Me With
Thine Eyes," from his 1.-The Forest"
Drink to me with thine eyes,
And will pledge with mine;
Or leave q kiss but i'll the cup,
And I'll not ask for wine.
"You are not getting tired, are you?''
inquired the bOokworn, settling him
self in his chair; ''becausc | have Just
commenced to talk" Upon the reporter
assuring him that he was not tired. but
very interested. the bookworm launched
into discussion of books of prose.
Said he:
81 am not going to say very much
about books of fiction, because | do not
read them very much. Just glance
. along these shelves and see the familiar
names OF authors labeled on sheen.
Here is the French school. Victor Hugo
stands first on the shelf. The Hunch-
back of Notre Dame and Les Miser-
ables," masterpieces of fiction both of
them, and embodied in the last is the