"If there were not so many of them," said the curate, "they would be more relished: this book must be weeded and cleansed of certain vulgarities which it has with its excellences; let it be preserved because the author is a friend of mine, and out of respect for other more heroic and loftier works that he has written."
"The author of that book, too," said the curate, "is a great friend of mine, and his verses from his own mouth are the admiration of all who hear them, for such is the sweetness of his voice that he enchants when he chants them: it gives rather too much of its eclogues, but what is good was never yet plentiful: let it be kept with those that have been set apart.
His book has some good invention in it, it presents us with something but brings nothing to a conclusion: we must wait for the Second Part it promises: perhaps with amendment it may succeed in winning the full measure of grace that is now denied it; and in the mean time do you, senor gossip, keep it shut up in your own quarters."
He threw himself heart and soul into the service of this great cause, and forgot to think about his book
. His whole time now was engrossed by it, so that he could scarcely manage to answer all the letters and appeals addressed to him.
Instantly forgetting me and my book, this curious girl pounced like a fury on the flowers, and actually trampled them under her feet!
I was in such a rage that I up with the book I was reading at the time and shied it at the painted face.
I have, with the consent of his family, changed the long and cumbersome sub-title of the book, calling it a 'Real-Romance of the South Seas,' as best expressing its nature.
This book has no equal as a picture of life aboard a sailing man-of-war, the lights and shadows of naval existence being well contrasted.
Are you NEVER going to grow sensible?" With that he darted forward to pick up the books, while I bent down to help him.
I opened it, and he informed me that, since, possibly, I might find the time wearisome, he had brought me a few books to read.
'There are none of those one-legged scoundrels in my books,' I say.
But before he had written books he was in my part of the country with a fishing-wand in his hand, and I like to think that I was the boy who met him that day by Queen Margaret's burn, where the rowans are, and busked a fly for him, and stood watching, while his lithe figure rose and fell as he cast and hinted back from the crystal waters of Noran-side.