He
wrote another piece, with a sonorous and delightful title, "Ajalon of the
Winds." Where is "Ajalon of the Winds"? Miss Stoddart knows nothing of
it, but I fancy that the thrice-loathed Betty could have told a tale.
MALIM CONVIVIS QVAM PLACVISSE COQVIS.
We need not, perhaps, regret that Mr. Stoddart withdrew from the
struggles and competitions of poetic literature. No very high place, no
very glorious crown, one fancies, would have been his. His would have
been anxiety, doubt of self, disappointment, or, if he succeeded, the
hatred, and envyings, and lies which even then dogged the steps of the
victor. It was better to be quiet and go a-fishing.
"Sorrow, sorrow speed away
To our angler's quiet mound,
With the old pilgrim, twilight gray,
Enter through the holy ground;
There he sleeps whose heart is twined
With wild stream and wandering burn,
Wooer of the western wind
Watcher of the April morn!"
CHAPTER VIII: THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT AUGUSTINE
My copy of the Confessions is a dark little book, "a size uncumbersome to
the nicest hand," in the format of an Elzevir, bound in black morocco,
and adorned with "blind-tooled," that is ungilt, skulls and crossbones.
It has lost the title-page with the date, but retains the frontispiece,
engraved by Huret. Saint Augustine, in his mitre and other episcopal
array, with a quill in his hand, sits under a flood of inspiring
sunshine.
Pages:
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