File:Scribner's magazine (1887) (14595110898).jpg

Identifier: scribnersmagazin16newy (find matches)
Title: Scribner's magazine
Year: 1887 (1880s)
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Publisher: New York : C. Scribner's Sons
Contributing Library: Robarts - University of Toronto
Digitizing Sponsor: University of Toronto

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ent, perhaps rather more to CharlesReades position than to Flauberts. Themost scrupulous forbearer from romancingis under more or less urgency to be dramat-ic, to have his people do something. Andwhen people in real life do nothing buttalk, the illusion is easy that talk is in it-self dramatic. Urging the novelist further in the samedirection is that quickening of the con-science which all artists have experiencedlately with re/erence to truth and reality.So much talk that is entirely characteristicis still not defining. Instead of taking thespeaker out of the crowd, it puts him in it.Under the ardor of a pursuit of reality,some novelists have allowed their jieople tobe blunt and copious in talk of this sort.Thus novels have seemed to be giowing oflate, not only more talkative, but talkativein a much smaller way : so that one won-ders whether the shameless reader formere pleasure will not be driven to revereehis wonted order and. skipping the dia-logue, read only the direct narrative.
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I- 5ui o LlI Q- O - O SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE Vol. XVI SEPTEMBER 1894 No. 3 TRUMPETS IN LOHENGRIN By Harriet Prescott Spofford Hark ! Tis the golden trumpets of the dawnSounding the day! Music, O Music fain! From rosy reaches drawn, And fall of silver rain,Along the call how swift the sunrise streams ! Sound, sound again, O magical refrain !Peal on peal winding through the dewy air,Peal on peal answering far off and fair.Peal on peal bursting in victorious blare ! Sound, sound again. With your delicious pain, O wild sweet haunting strain.Till the sky swell with hint of heavenly gleamsAnd the heart break with gladness loosed from dreams! What buoyant spirit breathes the breath of mornAnd earths delight. Trumpets, O trumpets blest!Great voices, born Of consecrated gest,Across the ramparts ring and faint and fail ! O echoes, pressed On some ethereal quest,Touch all the joj^ance to a tearful dew.With melancholy gathering oer the blue—Infinite hope, infinite sorrow, too ! And, heard, or guess

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