Men are ashamed of satisfaction. So soon as they have
exhausted the honey, they condemn the comb; it will do to wax an old
wife's thread;--they forget that the cells whose sides break the usual
uniformity contain the royal embryos. Humdrum read these little novels
through and through, laughed and cried over them in secret, then pulled
a long face, stepped forth and denounced--the typography. Now we admit
that the page presents a fairer appearance with single punctuations,
unblurred by Italics, and its smooth surface unbroken by strings of
capitals;--but let us ask these criticasters for what purpose types were
cast at all. To assist the author in the expression of his ideas, and to
elucidate subtile shades of meaning? or to prove his let and hindrance,
and to wrap his expression in mystery? Whether or no, it is patent that
Charles Reade makes an exclamation--and an interrogation-point together
say as much as many novelists can dibble over a whole page.
Nevertheless, in his latest work these eccentricities are greatly
modified; yet who would forego in the sea-fight that almost inaudible,
breathless whisper of "Our ammunition is nearly done"? or again the
moment when Skinner pokes Mr.
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