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your dear old book, and forget them all in dream. land. It shall be a friend that shall be always at hand; that shall never try you by caprice, or pain you by forgetfulness, or wound you by distrust.— Fern Leaves.

ANTHONY TROLLOPE.

1815-1882.

Now, my young friends, to whom I am addressing myself, with reference to this habit of reading, I make bold to tell you that it is your pass to the greatest, the purest, and the most perfect pleasures that God has prepared for his creatures. Other pleasures may be more ecstatic. When a young man looks into a girl's eye for love, and finds it there, nothing may afford him greater joy for the moment; when a father sees a son return after a long absence, it may be a great pleasure for the moment; but the habit of reading is the only enjoyment I know, in which there is no alloy. It lasts when all other pleasures fade. It will be there to support you when all other recreations are gone. It will be present to you when the energies of your body have fallen away from you. It will last you until your death. It will make your hours pleasant to you as long as you live. But, my friends, you cannot acquire that habit in your age. You cannot acquire it in middle age; you must do it now, when you are young. You must learn to read and to like reading now, or you cannot do so when you are old.-Speech at the Opening of the Art Exhibition at the Bolton Mechanics' Institution, Dec. 7, 1868.

GEORGE SEARLE PHILLIPS (JANUARY SEARLE).

b. about 1816, d. ?

Books are our household gods; and we cannot prize them too highly. They are the only gods in all the Mythologies that are ever beautiful and unchangeable; for they betray no man, and love their lovers. I confess myself an Idolator of this literary religion, and am grateful for the blessed ministry of books. It is a kind of heathenism which needs no missionary funds, no Bible even, to abolish it; for the Bible itself caps the peak of this new Olympus, and crowns it with sublimity and glory. Amongst the many things we have to be thankful for, as the result of modern discoveries, surely this of printed books is the highest of all; and I for one, am so sensible of its merits that I never think of the name of Gutenberg without feelings of veneration and homage.

I no longer wonder, with this and other instances before me, why in the old days of reverence and worship, the saints and benefactors of mankind were exalted into a kind of demi-gods, and had worship rendered to their tombs and memories; for this is the most natural, as well as the most touching, of all human generosities, and springs from the profoundest depths of man's nature. Who does not love John Gutenberg? -the man that with his leaden types has made the invisible thoughts and imaginations of the Soul visible and readable to all and by all, and secured for the worthy a double immortality? The birth of this person was an era in the world's history second to none save that of the Advent of Christ. The dawn of printing

was the outburst of a new revelation, which, in its ultimate unfoldings and consequences, are alike inconceivable and immeasurable.

I sometimes amuse myself by comparing the condition of the people before the time of Gutenberg, with their present condition; that I may fix the idea of the value and blessedness of books more vividly in my mind. It is an occupation not without profit, and makes me grateful and contented with my lot. In these reading days one can hardly conceive how our good forefathers managed to kill their superfluous time, or how at least they could be satisfied to kill it as they did. A life without books, when we have said all we can about the honour and nobility of labour, would be something like heaven without God; scarcely to be endured by an immortal nature. And yet this was the condition of things before Gutenberg made his far sounding metallic tongues which reach through all the ages that have since past away, and make us glad with their eloquence.

Formerly, the Ecclesiastics monopolized the literature of the world; they were indeed in many cases the Authors and Transcribers of books; and we are indebted to them for the preservation of the old learning. Now, every Mechanic is the possessor of a Library, and may have Plato and Socrates, as well as Chaucer and the Bards, for his companions. I call this a heavenly privilege, and the greatest of all known miracles, notwithstanding it is so cheap and common. Plato died above two thousand years ago, yet in these printed books he lives and speaks for ever. There is no death to thought; which though it may never be

imprisoned in lettered language, has nevertheless an existence and propagative vitality as soon as it is uttered, and endures from generation to generation, to the very end of the world. I think we should all of us be grateful for books; they are our best friends and most faithful companions. They instruct, cheer, elevate, and ennoble us; and in whatever mood we go to them, they never frown upon us, but receive us with cordial and loving sincerity: neither do they blab, or tell tales of us when we are gone, to the next comer; but honestly, and with manly frankness, speak to our hearts in admonition or encouragement. I do not know how it is with other men, but I have so much reverence for these silent and beautiful friends that I feel in them to have an immortal and divine possession, which is more valuable to me than many estates and kingdoms. The noise and babble of men disturb me not in my princely domain, enricht by the presence of so many high and royal souls. What can our foolish politicians, and long-winded teachers of less profane things, have to say to me, when Socrates speaks, or Shakspeare and Milton sing? I like to be alone in my chamber, and obey the muse or the spirit. We make too little of books, and have quite lost the meaning of contemplation. Our times are too busy; too exclusively outward in their tendency; and men have lost their balance in the whirlpools of commerce and the fierce tornadoes of political strife. I want to see more poise in men, more self-possession; and these can only be obtained by communion with books. I lay stress on the word communion, because although reading is common enough, communion is but little known as a

modern experience. If an author be worth anything, he is worth bottoming. It may be all very well to skim milk, for the cream lies on the top; but who could skim Lord Bacon?

The choice of books is not the least part of the duty of a Scholar. If he would become a man, and worthy to deal with manlike things, he must read only the bravest and noblest books; books forged at the heart and fashioned by the intellect of a godlike man. A clever interesting writer, is a clever interesting fool; and is no Master for the scholar I speak of. Our literature abounds with such persons, and will abound with them so long as the public mind remains diseased with this morbid love of "light reading." We have exchanged the martial tramp of the Commonwealth's men, for the nimble foot of the lamplighter and the thief-taker. This comes from the false culture of men, and the consequent false tendencies of their minds and aims. We have had enough of this inane, unmanly discipline, and need a higher and truer one. I am not, however, for any Monkish exclusion of men from the world in their study of books; for the end of all study is action; and I would not cheat the Master by any bye-laws in favour of the Scholar. But a certain kind of exclusion is necessary for culture in the first instance, and for progressive developments of that culture afterwards. The human mind will not be played with, or the Player will find it out to his cost. For the laws of the intellect, and of man's Spiritual nature, are as stern and binding as those of matter, and you cannot neglect or violate them without loss or suffering. Hence books should be our constant com

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