try, and beautiful without ornament; and, which cannot be said of the writings of Sir Thomas Elyot and Sir Thomas More, the volume of Ascham is indispensable in every English' library, whose possessor in any way aspires to connect together the progress of taste and of opinion in the history of our country.-Disraeli's Amenities of Literature. CURIOSITIES OF LANGUAGE AND VALUE OF BOOKS IN THE MIDDLE AGES. BEFORE the invention of the art of printing, books were so very valuable that the cost of a copy of the Bible was equal to the cost of building an ordinary church; and the bequest of a Bible with annotations to a monastery was attended with certain solemn ceremonies, and procured for the generous donor a daily mass for the repose of his soul. The following is a specimen of the formalities practised in bequeathing a book in those days (the spelling is modernized):— "I, Philip of Repyngdon, late of Lincoln, give this book, called, Peter de Aureolis, to the new library to be built within the church of Lincoln; reserving the use and possession of it to Richard Trysely, clerk, canon, and prebendary of Milton, in fee and to the term of his life; and afterwards to be given up and restored to the said library or to the keepers of the same for the time being, faithfully and without delay. Written with my own hand, A.D. 1422." "TOM JONES" AND THE PUBLISHERS. [This interesting narrative is given in an edition of Fielding's Novels published about thirty years ago. The circumstances here related bear some resemblance to the difficulties encountered by the authors of "Paradise Lost" and "Robinson Crusoe" with the booksellers of their day.] FIELDING, having finished his manuscript of "Tom Jones," and being at the time hard pressed for money, went with it to one of the second-rate booksellers, with the view of selling it for what it would fetch at the moment. He left it with this trader in the children of other men's brains, and called upon him the succeeding morning, full of anxiety both to know at how high a rate his labours were appreciated, as well as how far he might calculate upon its producing him wherewithal to discharge a debt of some twenty pounds, which he had promised to pay the next day. He had reason to imagine, from the judgment of some literary friends, to whom he had shown his manuscript, that it should at least produce twice that sum. But, alas! when the bookseller, with a significant shrug, showed a hesitation as to publishing the work at all, even the moderate expectations with which our Cervantes had buoyed up his hopes, seemed at once to close upon him at this unexpected and distressing intimation. "And will you give me no means of hopes ?" said he, in a tone of despair. "Very faint ones, indeed, sir," replied the bookseller; "for I have scarcely any that the book will move." 66 Well, sir," answered Fielding, "money I must have for it; and little as that may be, pray give me some idea of what you can afford to give for it." "Well, sir," returned our bookseller, again shrugging up his shoulders, "I have read some part of your Jones,' and in justice to myself, must even think again before I name a price for it. The book will not move; it is not for the public; nor do I think that any inducement can make me offer you more than twenty-five pounds for it." "And that you will give for it?" said Fielding, quickly. "Really I must think again, and will endeavour to make up my mind by to-morrow." "Well, sir," replied Fielding, "I will look in again to-morrow morning. The book is yours for the twenty-five pounds; but these must positively be laid out for me when I call. I am pressed for the money, and if you decline, must go elsewhere with my manuscript." "I will see what I can do," replied the bookseller. Our author, returning home from this unpromising visit, met his friend Thomson, the poet, and told him how the negotiation for the manuscript he had formerly shown him stood. The poet, sensible of the extraordinary merit of his friend's production, reproached Fielding with his headstrong bargain; conjured him, if he could do it honourably, to cancel it; and promised him, in that event, to find him a purchaser whose purse would do more credit to his judgment. Fielding, therefore, posted away to his appointment the next morning, with as much apprehension lest the bookseller should stick to his bargain, as he had felt the day before lest he should altogether decline it. To his great joy, the ignorant trafficker in literature, either from inability to advance the money, or a want of common discrimination, returned the manuscript very safely into Fielding's hands. Our author set off, with a gay heart, to his friend Thomson, and went in company with him to Mr. Andrew Millar, a popular bookseller of that day. Mr. Millar was in the habit of publishing no work of light reading but on his wife's approbation; the work was, therefore, left with him, and some days after, she, having perused it, bade him by no means let it slip through his fingers. Millar, accordingly, invited the two friends. to meet him at a coffee-house in the Strand, where, having disposed of a good dinner and two bottles of port, Thomson at last suggested, "it would be as well if they proceeded to business." Fielding, still with no little trepidation, arising from his recent rebuff in another quarter, asked Millar what he had concluded upon giving for his work. “I am a man,” said Millar, “of few words, and fond of coming to the point; but really, after giving every consideration I am able to your novel, I do not think I can afford to give you more than two hundred pounds for it." "What!" exclaimed Fielding; two hundred pounds!" Indeed, Mr. Fielding," returned Millar, "indeed, I am sensible of your talent, but my mind is made up.” "Two hundred pounds!" continued Fielding, in a tone of perfect astonishment. "Two hundred pounds, did you say?" 66 Upon my word, sir, I mean no disparagement to the writer or his great merit, but my mind is made up, and I cannot give more." "Allow me to ask you," continued Fielding, "to ask you-whether -you-are-se-rious ?" "Never more so," replied Millar, "in all my life; and I hope you will candidly acquit me of every intention to injure your feelings or depreciate your abilities, when I repeat that I positively cannot afford you more than two hundred pounds for your novel." "Then, my good sir," said Fielding, recovering himself from this unexpected stroke of good fortune, "give me your hand; the book is yours. And, waiter," continued he, “bring a couple of bottles of your best port." Before Millar died he had cleared eighteen thousand pounds by "Tom Jones," out of which he had the generosity to make Fielding presents, at different times, of various sums, till they amounted to two thousand pounds; and he closed his life by bequeathing a handsome legacy to each of Mr. Fielding's sons. SIGNIFICATION OF HEBREW NAMES. IN the Hebrew tongue nearly all proper names are significant, each individual having received his name from some circumstance connected either with his birth or with his life and character. Thus Abraham signifies the father of a great multitude;" Jacob, "the supplanter;" David, "the beloved," etc. This often gives a force to particular passages in the original Scriptures that is quite lost in the translation. We shall give an instance:-When Abigail meets David coming to avenge himself on her husband, she says, "Let not my lord, I pray thee, regard this man of Belial, even Nabal; for as his name is, so is he; Nabal is his name, and folly is with him." This has no point at all in English; it is impossible for the mere English scholar to perceive its meaning; but to the Hebrew scholar who understands that "Nabal" signifies "foolish, stupid, wicked, abandoned, impious," and that the word translated "folly" is simply the noun substantive formed from the same root, the sentence has a pungency and a zest that can at once be appreciated. A very wonderful example of something of the same kind is the following, which indeed appears to suggest matter for serious reflection. The names of the antediluvian patriarchs, from Adam to Noah inclusive, run thus in the Hebrew: Adam, Seth, Enos, Cainan, Mahalaleel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, Noah; which names, read in their order, and literally translated, give the following English sentence:-" Man appointed wretched miserable, the blessed God shall descend teaching, his death sends to the afflicted rest." "THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET." THE Occasion (meeting of Hunt and Keats) that recurs with the liveliest interest was one evening when-some observations having been made upon the character, habits, and pleasant associations with that reverend denizen of the hearth, the cheerful little grasshopper of the fireside-Hunt proposed to Keats the challenge of writing then, there, and to time, a sonnet "On the Grasshopper and Cricket." No one was present but myself, and they accordingly set to. I, apart, with a book at the end of the sofa, could not avoid furtive glances every now and then at the emulants. I cannot say how long the trial lasted. I was not proposed umpire, and had no stop watch for the occasion. The time, however, was short for such a performance, and Keats won as to time. But the event of the after scrutiny was one of many such occurrences which have riveted the memory of Leigh Hunt in my affectionate regard and admiration for unaffected generosity and perfectly unpretentious encouragement. His sincere look of pleasure at the first line "The poetry of earth is never dead." "Such a prosperous opening!" he said; and when he came to the tenth and eleventh lines "On a lone winter evening, when the frost "Ah! that's perfect! Bravo, Keats!" And then he went on in a dilatation upon the dumbness of Nature during the season's suspension and torpidity. With all the kind and gratifying things that were said to him, Keats protested to me, as we were walking home, that he preferred Hunt's treatment of the subject to his own. As neighbour Dogberry would have rejoined, "'Fore God, they are both in a tale!" It has occurred to me, upon so remarkable an occasion as the one here recorded, that a reunion of the two sonnets will be gladly hailed by the reader. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost JOHN KEATS. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND THE CRICKET. Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, Catching your heart up at the feel of June, With those who think the candles come too soon, One to the fields, the other to the hearth, Both have your sunshine; both though small are strong LEIGH HUNT. Dec. 30, 1816. PARALLEL PASSAGES AND POETICAL RESEMBLANCES. 66 THE MIND, THE MUSIC OF HER FACE." LORD BYRON has been censured for a line in his "Bride of Abydos," in which he says of his heroine, "The mind, the music breathing from her face." The noble poet vindicates the expression on the ground of its truth and appositeness. He does not seem to have been aware (as was pointed out by Sir Egerton Brydges) that Lovelace first employed the same illustration in a song of Orpheus lamenting the death of his wife : The following lines from Shenstone's "Schoolmistress" probably suggested to Gray the fine reflection in his "Elegy "– "Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest," etc. |