Much Ado about Sonnets [pp. 212-222]

Catholic world. / Volume 42, Issue 248

MUCH ADO ABOUT SONNETS. "Well, you know what a despairing poet is apt to do," she replied. "But we hoped you had merely changed your residence. Grief does not drive a good Catholic to suicide. It makes him better. But let me ask you, Did you meet in Clayburg that lovely Ruth Pendleton?" It was more than the poet could do to keep the blood from his fair face. It rose to his collar, over it, to his ears, to his eyes, to the roots of his hair, nor could his glib chatter hide it from her eyes. "It is more than I expected," said she, ignoring his talk and fixing her eyes on the tell-tale blush. "How did you get so well acquainted with Ruth Pendleton?" "You know how it is with some acquaintances, Frank. Yet I loved her for eight years, and I haven't spoken a word of love to her yet. But I hope, at least I think-" "She couldn't resist a poet, the dear girl, and I believe you two were assuredly made for each other." "Thank you for that," said he, "but not more so than you and Florian." "And, by the nine gods," he added in secret, "this thing shall be accomplished yet! " TO BE CONTINUED. MUCH ADO ABOUT SONNETS. WHATEVER the date of its first appearance, it is very evident that when the idea that the Shakspere sonnets were expressions of hidden and cipher meanings, of unique or interwritten philosophy, mystic or erotic relations between personages contemporary with their composition (were anything, in fact, but some one hundred and fifty-four desultory rhymes in sonnet form), came into English literature, it came to stay. For, often as it has been dismissed and discarded, it is still to the fore; and even now, within this current year of enlightenment, when most other mundane things not responding to the touchstone of nineteenthcentury scrutiny have been discarded as rubbish, when even on the stage and in decorative art the romantic, rococo, and purposeless have disappeared-even here are one stout volume and two ponderous essays in as many phlegmatic reviews, which thresh the old floors once more, reread once more the alleged crypto [Nov., 212


MUCH ADO ABOUT SONNETS. "Well, you know what a despairing poet is apt to do," she replied. "But we hoped you had merely changed your residence. Grief does not drive a good Catholic to suicide. It makes him better. But let me ask you, Did you meet in Clayburg that lovely Ruth Pendleton?" It was more than the poet could do to keep the blood from his fair face. It rose to his collar, over it, to his ears, to his eyes, to the roots of his hair, nor could his glib chatter hide it from her eyes. "It is more than I expected," said she, ignoring his talk and fixing her eyes on the tell-tale blush. "How did you get so well acquainted with Ruth Pendleton?" "You know how it is with some acquaintances, Frank. Yet I loved her for eight years, and I haven't spoken a word of love to her yet. But I hope, at least I think-" "She couldn't resist a poet, the dear girl, and I believe you two were assuredly made for each other." "Thank you for that," said he, "but not more so than you and Florian." "And, by the nine gods," he added in secret, "this thing shall be accomplished yet! " TO BE CONTINUED. MUCH ADO ABOUT SONNETS. WHATEVER the date of its first appearance, it is very evident that when the idea that the Shakspere sonnets were expressions of hidden and cipher meanings, of unique or interwritten philosophy, mystic or erotic relations between personages contemporary with their composition (were anything, in fact, but some one hundred and fifty-four desultory rhymes in sonnet form), came into English literature, it came to stay. For, often as it has been dismissed and discarded, it is still to the fore; and even now, within this current year of enlightenment, when most other mundane things not responding to the touchstone of nineteenthcentury scrutiny have been discarded as rubbish, when even on the stage and in decorative art the romantic, rococo, and purposeless have disappeared-even here are one stout volume and two ponderous essays in as many phlegmatic reviews, which thresh the old floors once more, reread once more the alleged crypto [Nov., 212

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Much Ado about Sonnets [pp. 212-222]
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Morgan, Appleton
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Catholic world. / Volume 42, Issue 248

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