great account.

He went to that account-how did he
This is no vain revery.

meet and pass through it?
He, the man who bore and wrote this name, did go,
at a particular time, though unrecorded, to surrender
himself to his Judge. But I, who handle the book
that was his, and observe his name, and am thus
directing my thoughts into the dark after the man, I
also am in progress toward the same tribunal, when it
will be proved to my joy or sorrow, whether I have
learned true wisdom from my books, and from my
reflections on those who have possessed and read them
before.

But it may be that the observer's eye fixes on a volume which instantly recalls to his mind a person whom he well knew-a revered parent perhaps, or a valued friend, who is recollected to have approved and inculcated the principles of the book, or perhaps to have given it to the person who is now looking at it as a token of regard, or an inoffensive expedient for drawing attention to an important subject. He may have the image of that relative or friend, as in the employment of reading that volume, or in the act of presenting it to him. This may awaken a train of remembrances leading away from any relation to the book, and possibly of salutary tendency; but also, such an association with the book may have an effect, whenever he shall consult it, as if it were the departed friend, still more than the author, that uttered the sentiments. The author spoke to any one indifferently— to no one in particular; but the sentiments seem to be especially applied to me, when they come in this connection with the memory of one who was my friend.

Thus he would have spoken to me; thus in effect he does speak to me, while I think of him as having read the book, and regarded it as particularly adapted to me; or seem to behold him, as when reading it in my hearing, and sometimes looking off from the page to make a gentle enforcement of the instruction. He would have been happy to anticipate, that, whenever I might look into it, my remembrance of him would infuse a more touching significance, a more applying principle, into its important sentiments; thus retaining him, though invisibly, and without his actual presence, in the exercise of a beneficent influence. But indeed I can, at some moments, indulge my mind to imagine something more than this mere ideal intervention to reinforce the impression of truth upon me, insomuch that, supposing it were permitted to receive intimations from those who have left the world, it will seem to me possible that I might, when looking into some parts of that book, in a solitary hour of night, perceive myself to be once more the object of his attention, signified by a mysterious whisper from no visible form; or by a momentary preternatural luminousness pervading the lines, to intimate that a friendly intelligence that does not forget me, would still and again enforce on my conscience the dictates of piety and wisdom which I am reading. .. Is all influential relation dissolved by the withdrawment from mortal intercourse; so that let my friends die, and I am as loose from their hold upon me as if they had ceased to exist, or even never had existed?—Introductory Essay to Doddridge's Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

1770-1850.

Wings have we, and as far as we can go We may find pleasure: wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood Which with the lofty sanctifies the low,

Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know,

Are a substantial world, both pure and good:

Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store;
Matter wherein right voluble I am :

To which I listen with a ready ear;

Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear-
The gentle lady married to the Moor;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.

Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine; for thus I live remote
From evil speaking; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not: malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
thought:

And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them-and eternal praise,
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares-
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
Oh! might my name be numbered among theirs,
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.

Within whose silent chambers treasure lies
Preserved from age to age; more precious far
Than that accumulated store of gold

And orient gems, which for a day of need,
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs,
These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 1772-1834.

With no other privilege than that of sympathy and sincere good wishes, I would address an affectionate exhortation to the youthful literati, grounded on my own experience. It will be but short; for the beginning, middle, and end converge to one charge: never pursue literature as a trade. With the exception of one extraordinary man, I have never known an individual, least of all an individual of genius, healthy or happy without a profession, that is, some regular employment, which does not depend on the will of the moment, and which can be carried on so far mechanically that an average quantum only of health, spirits, and intellectual exertion are requisite to its faithful discharge. Three hours of leisure, unannoyed by any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with delight as a change and recreation, will suffice to realise in literature a larger product of what is truly genial, than weeks of compulsion. Money, and immediate reputation form only an arbitrary and accidental end of literary labour. The hope of increasing them by any given exertion will often prove a stimulant to industry; but the necessity of acquiring them will in

all works of genius convert the stimulant into a narcotic. Motives by excess reverse their very nature, and instead of exciting, stun and stupify the mind. For it is one contradistinction of genius from talent, that its predominant end is always comprised in the means; and this is one of the many points, which establish an analogy between genius and virtue. Now though talents may exist without genius, yet as genius cannot exist, certainly not manifest itself, without talents, I would advise every scholar, who feels the genial power working within him, so far to make a division between the two, as that he should devote his talents to the acquirement of competence in some known trade or profession, and his genius to objects of his tranquil and unbiassed choice; while the consciousness of being actuated in both alike by the sincere desire to perform his duty, will alike ennoble both. "My dear young friend," (I would say) "suppose yourself established in any honourable occupation. From the manufactory or counting house, from the law-court, or from having visited your last patient, you return at evening,

Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home Is sweetest

to your family, prepared for its social enjoyments, with the very countenances of your wife and children brightened, and their voice of welcome made doubly welcome, by the knowledge that, as far as they are concerned, you have satisfied the demands of the day by the labour of the day. Then, when you retire into your study, in the books on your shelves you revisit so many venerable friends with whom you can con