DEATH.
A traveller who has always heard
That on this journey he some day must go,
Yet shudders now, when at the fatal word
He starts upon the lonesome, dreary way.
The past, a page of joy and woe,--the future, none can say.
FAITH.
Blind clinging to a stern, stone cross,
Or it may be of frailer make;
Eyes shut, ears closed to earth's drear dross,
Immovable, serene, the world away
From thoughts--the mind uncaring for another day.
SALAMMBO.
BY GUSTAVE FLANBERT.
Like unto the barbaric splendor, the clashing of arms, the flashing of
jewels, so is this book, full of brightness that dazzles, yet does not
weary, of rich mosaic beauty of sensuous softness. Yet, with it all,
there is a singular lack of elevation of thought and expression;
everything tends to degrade, to drag the mind to a worse than earthly
level. The crudity of the warriors, the minute description of the
battles, the leper, Hann; even the sensual love-scene of Salammbo and
Matho, and the rites of Taint and Moloch. Possibly this is due to the
peculiar shortness and crispness of the sentences, and the painstaking
attention to details. Nothing is left for the imagination to complete.
Pages:
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51