#vintage literature

[helena-bottom-farter]

The Complete Cannabis Cultivator, 1969

[firwoods]

“If you can sit in silence with a person for half an hour and yet be entirely comfortable, you and that person can be friends. If you cannot, friends you'll never be and you need not waste time in trying.” - Lucy Maud Montgomery, Blue Castle

[1five1two]

But the state of public morality was

universally at a low ebb. The growth and

diffusion of luxury had engendered exorbi-

tant speculation. In the commercial world,

crash succeeded crash ; and godless wor-

shippers of Mammon were snatched from

banquets and opera-boxes to the Bank-

ruptcy Court, or Penitentiary, till the “ pro-

bity of the British merchant," long proverbial, became a jest.

Literature was at a low ebb. In the

sunshine of universal education, millions

of ephemeral writers had sprung to light.

But as the over- dressing of a parterre pro-

duces leaves instead of blossoms, in the

multitude of our authors was anything but

wisdom. Popular poets seemed to aspire to

the strait waistcoat, rather than the tunic

of Apollo ; and for works of fiction,

readers were so hard to find, that novels

were served up to them, in portions,

illustrated by pictures, like slices of un-

wholesome Twelfth- cake, enhanced by " Cha-racters." One or two remarkable historians and discerning critics stood high above the crowd. But the faces of the latter were as closely veiled as that of the Diana of

the Ephesians ; while the former, like

the statues of great men usually set

up in England, were so bespattered with

mud by hands profane, that their lineaments were scarcely distinguishable.

The arts, too, were under a cloud. The

most popular artist was a first-rate painter

of third-class subjects . In portrait, a few

feeble-handed amateurs had pushed the

R.A.s from their stools ; while the pictures

best adapted to the size of English houses

and predilections of English minds, were

perverted by mannerism and affectation.

For this, we were indebted to the rhapsodies

of a writer whose eloquence, gaudy as the

promiscuous overflow of a colourbox, had

burst like a deluge over the public taste ; an

explosion of verbosity, full of foam and fury,

signifying nothing, or worse than nothing

Of sculptors, the less said the better.

When a public monument was in request,

a foreigner was sure to be selected for its

execution ; and the tomb of a British Prin-

cess, bespoken by a British Queen, bore on

the plinth the name of an alien !

Pictorial art, of inferior character, as dif-

fused by wood-cuts and photographs, had

obtained great popular influence. It

was formerly proverbial that " those who

run may read." But people who travel at

railroad speed, are only able to instruct

themselves by pictures. The two most

popular journals- ( for the Times '

more than a newspaper-one of the un-

anointed sovereigns of modern Europe, ) were

' Punch ' and the Illustrated News.

But though the wit of the one and intelligence

of the other was eminently remarkable,

few readers perused more than the plates.

High art enjoyed of course its fits and

starts of patronage, as well as low. The

rich and great took a craze for refining the

mind of the nation, instead of preparing it

for refinement ; and away went the lords

and millionnaires to work, sewing their

Honiton sprigs upon hopsack. The Indus-

trial Exhibition of 1851, projected chiefly

with a view to the improvement of our

manufactures, having fully succeeded in a

mercantile and moral point of view, it

seemed impossible to have enough of a good

thing ; and lo ! the miraculous structure

of the Crystal Palace, which had no fault

but that in summer it could not keep out the

sun, or in winter the rain, was both per-

petuated and emulated-a mart for the busy

idleness of lounging London. When, like all

overgrowths, this monstrous excrescence of

civilisation began to languish, even the

patronage of the Court was propitiated with

a view to invigorate its decline.

From 'The Comet'. By a Anonymous Tartar. 1857.

[p3arlsandcoff3]

I was walking down the main street of my town when I came by my favourite vintage book shop - it was closed, but they have a little free section outside of the shop (it's just books lying on the pavement...) And I found THIS. I am feeling blessed.

(added the Prada perfume as an ironic little detail, and it's even more ironic that the fragrance is awful.)

[landsccape]

[cansu-m]

[whereshadowslive]

Source: Pinterest

[poempoetryandmore]

[lovesdaya]

@lovesdaya

[flowersforfrancis]

[liesandnights]

My version of flirting is looking at someone I find attractive multiple times and hoping they're braver than me.

[dumblr]

“Oh, to be loved by a writer.”

[macrolit]

Giveaw@y: We’re giving away these 12 vintage paperback classics! Won’t these look lovely on your shelf? =) Enter to win these classics by: 1) following macrolit on Tumblr (yes, we will check. :P), and 2) reblogging this post. We will choose a random winner on 28 February 2025. Good luck!

Follow our IG account to be eligible for our IG giveaw@ys. For full rules to all of our giveaw@ys, click here.

[isaiahpadams]

[logophilist1982]

Old library

[stone-cold-groove]

Cover illustration from H. G. Wells’ The Invisible Man - 1912.