ng
surrounded by them, tier on tier, may rail at the productiveness of the
age, and wish that there might not be more than one new book each week.
And the omnivorous reader, anxious to keep up with the literature of the
day, might fairly re-echo the aspiration. Who, indeed, can hope to turn
over a tithe of the new leaves which are issued daily? Nor can an
unlimited consumption of them be recommended. Mr. Lowell is to a certain
extent justified when he says that

'Reading new books is like eating new bread;
One can bear it at first, but by gradual steps he
Is brought to death's door of a mental dyspepsy.'

Assuredly new books are so far like new bread, that we should not
consume them in too rapid succession. At the same time, let us be
thankful for them, inasmuch as they have the unquestionable gift of
novelty. Lord Beaconsfield's Lady Montfort said she preferred a new
book, even if bad, to a classic. That was a strong saying, but there are
points of view from which it is perfectly defensible.

RUSKIN AS POET.

It was lately rumoured that Mr. Ruskin was about to issue a volume of
poems, consisting mainly of pieces already published. The statement was
probably the first intimation received by many that the author of
'Modern Painters' had ever written anything in the shape of verse. That
he has always been, like Sidney, a 'warbler of poetic prose,' has lately
been emphasized by a magazine-writer; but it is not at all universally
known that between the years 1835 and 1845 Mr. Ruskin figured somewhat
largely as a poet, in the popular sense of that much abused word. During
that time he produced a good deal of verse, in addition to the prize
poem which has always been readily accessible by his admirers.

Even if one had not known, it would not have been difficult to have
assumed, from the rhythmic character of Mr. Ruskin's prose, that he had
at one time 'dropped into poetry.' Such a master of rhetoric could
hardly have gone through life without wooing the Muse of Song, however
temporarily or unsuccessfully. It would not have been natural for him to
have done so. And, indeed, it is probable that no great prose
rhetorician has failed to pay the same homage to the charm of verbal
melody and cadence. In all the most sonorous prose turned out by English
authors there will be found a lilt and a swing which would without
difficulty translate themselves into verse. 'Most wretched men,' says
Shelley, 'are cradled in