TOMAS DE YRIARTE. 1750-1791.

For every man of real learning

Is anxious to increase his lore,
And feels, in fact, a greater yearning,

The more he knows, to know the more.

ELIZABETH INCHBALD.

1753-1821.

Here, in the country, my books are my sole occupation; books my sure solace, and refuge from frivolous Books are the calmers as well as the instructors

cares.

of the mind.-Letters.

WILLIAM ROSCOE.

1753-1831.

To my Books on Parting with Them.
As one who, destined from his friends to part,
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile,
And tempers as he may affliction's dart,—
Thus, loved associates! chiefs of elder Art!
Teachers of wisdom! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you: nor with fainting heart;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold,
And all your sacred fellowship restore;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers,
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.

GEORGE CRABBE.

1754-1832.

But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
Others more wretched, more undone than we?
This, Books can do ;—nor this alone; they give
New views to life, and teach us how to live;
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise,
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise :
Their aid they yield to all: they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone :
Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But show to subjects, what they show to kings.
Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene,
Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;
Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,

The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold!
Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find
And mental physic the diseased in mind;
See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;
See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;
Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees control
The chronic habits of the sickly soul;

And round the heart and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,
And view composed this silent multitude :-
Silent they are-but, though deprived of sound,
Here all the living languages abound;

Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.

Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind To stamp a lasting image of the mind!

Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,
Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring;
But Man alone has skill and power to send
The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;
'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise

Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.

Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find ; The curious here to feed a craving mind;

Here the devout their peaceful temple choose; And here the poet meets his favouring muse. With awe, around these silent walks I tread; These are the lasting mansions of the dead :"The dead!" methinks a thousand tongues reply; "These are the tombs of such as cannot die !

66

Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime, "And laugh at all the little strife of time."

The Library. 1781.

WILLIAM GODWIN.

1756-1836.

Books are the depositary of everything that is most honourable to man. Literature, taken in all its bearings, forms the grand line of demarcation between the human and the animal kingdoms. He that loves reading, has everything within his reach. He has but to desire; and he may possess himself of every species of wisdom to judge, and power to perform. Books

gratify and excite our curiosity in innumerable ways. They force us to reflect. They hurry us from point to point. They present direct ideas of various kinds, and they suggest indirect ones. In a well-written book we are presented with the maturest reflections, or the happiest flights, of a mind of uncommon excellence. It is impossible that we can be much accustomed to such companions, without attaining some resemblance of them. When I read Thomson, I become Thomson; when I read Milton, I become Milton. I find myself a sort of intellectual cameleon, assuming the colour of the substances on which I rest. He that revels in a well-chosen library, has innumerable dishes, and all of admirable flavour. His taste is rendered so acute, as easily to distinguish the nicest shades of difference. His mind becomes ductile, susceptible to every impression, and gaining new refinement from them all. His varieties of thinking baffle calculation, and his powers, whether of reason or fancy, become eminently vigorous.-The Enquirer: Of an Early Taste for Reading.

FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 1759-1805.

There is no more implacable enemy, no more envious colleague, no more zealous inquisitor, than the man who has set his talents and knowledge to sale. . Not in the deep and hidden treasures of his own thoughts does such an one seek his reward; he seeks it in external applause, in titles and posts of honour or authority. In vain has he searched for truth, if he cannot barter her in exchange for gold, for newspaper applause, for court favour.

How far different is the philosophical spirit! Just as sedulously as the trader in knowledge severs his own peculiar science from all others, does the lover of wisdom strive to extend its dominion and restore its connexion with them. I say, to restore; for the boundaries which divide the sciences are but the work of abstraction. What the empiric separates, the philosopher unites. He has early come to the conviction that in the territory of intellect, as in the world of matter, every thing is enlinked and commingled, and his eager longing for universal harmony and agreement cannot be satisfied by fragments. All his efforts are directed to the perfecting of his knowledge; his noble impatience cannot be tranquillized till all his conceptions have arranged themselves into one harmonious whole; till he stands at the central point of arts and sciences, and thence overlooks the whole extent of their dominion with satisfied glance. New discoveries in the field of his activity, which depress the trader in science, enrapture the philosopher. The philosophical mind passes on through new forms of thought, constantly heightening in beauty, to perfect, consummate excellence; while the empiric hoards the barren sameness of his school attainments in a mind eternally stationary.

Whatever one conquers in the empire of truth, the philosopher shares with all; while the man whose only estimate of wisdom is profit, hates his contemporaries and grudges them the light and sun which illumine them; he guards with jealous care the tottering barriers which feebly defend him from the incursions of victorious truth; for whatever he undertakes, he is