Hours in a Library, Volume I | Page 3

society of all the centuries to which they and theirs can be admitted for the asking?--LOWELL, Speech at Chelsea.
On all sides are we not driven to the conclusion that of all things which men can do or make here below, by far the most momentous, wonderful, and worthy are the things we call books? For, indeed, is it not verily the highest act of man's faculty that produces a book? It is the thought of man. The true thaumaturgic virtue by which man marks all things whatever. All that he does and brings to pass is the vesture of a book.--CARLYLE, Hero Worship.
Yet it is just That here in memory of all books which lay Their sure foundations in the heart of man, ... That I should here assert their rights, assert Their honours, and should, once for all, pronounce Their benediction, speak of them as powers For ever to be hallowed; only less For what we are and what we may become Than Nature's self, which is the breath of God, Or His pure word by miracle revealed.
WORDSWORTH, Prelude.
Take me to some lofty room, Lighted from the western sky, Where no glare dispels the gloom, Till the golden eve is nigh; Where the works of searching thought, Chosen books, may still impart What the wise of old have taught, What has tried the meek of heart; Books in long dead tongues that stirred Loving hearts in other climes; Telling to my eyes, unheard, Glorious deeds of olden times: Books that purify the thought, Spirits of the learned dead, Teachers of the little taught, Comforters when friends are fled.
BARNES, Poems of Rural Life.
A library is like a butcher's shop; it contains plenty of meat, but it is all raw; no person living can find a meal in it till some good cook comes along and says, 'Sir, I see by your looks that you are hungry; I know your taste; be patient for a moment and you shall be satisfied that you have an excellent appetite!'--G. ELLIS, Lockhart's 'Scott.'
A library is itself a cheap university.--H. SIDGWICK, Political Economy.
O such a life as he resolved to live Once he had mastered all that books can give!
BROWNING.
I will bury myself in my books and the devil may pipe to his own.--TENNYSON.
Words! words! words!--SHAKESPEARE.
HOURS IN A LIBRARY

DE FOE'S NOVELS
According to the high authority of Charles Lamb, it has sometimes happened 'that from no inferior merit in the rest, but from some superior good fortune in the choice of a subject, some single work' (of a particular author) 'shall have been suffered to eclipse, and cast into the shade, the deserts of its less fortunate brethren.' And after quoting the case of Bunyan's 'Holy War' as compared with the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' he adds that, 'in no instance has this excluding partiality been exerted with more unfairness than against what may be termed the secondary novels or romances of De Foe.' He proceeds to declare that there are at least four other fictitious narratives by the same writer--'Roxana,' 'Singleton,' 'Moll Flanders,' and 'Colonel Jack'--which possess an interest not inferior to 'Robinson Crusoe'--'except what results from a less felicitous choice of situation.' Granting most unreservedly that the same hand is perceptible in the minor novels as in 'Robinson Crusoe,' and that they bear at every page the most unequivocal symptoms of De Foe's workmanship, I venture to doubt the 'partiality' and the 'unfairness' of preferring to them their more popular rival. The instinctive judgment of the world is not really biassed by anything except the intrinsic power exerted by a book over its sympathies; and as in the long run it has honoured 'Robinson Crusoe,' in spite of the critics, and has comparatively neglected 'Roxana' and the companion stories, there is probably some good cause for the distinction. The apparent injustice to books resembles what we often see in the case of men. A. B. becomes Lord Chancellor, whilst C. D. remains for years a briefless barrister; and yet for the life of us we cannot tell but that C. D. is the abler man of the two. Perhaps he was wanting in some one of the less conspicuous elements that are essential to a successful career; he said, 'Open, wheat!' instead of 'Open, sesame!' and the barriers remained unaffected by his magic. The secret may really be simple enough. The complete success of such a book as 'Robinson' implies, it may be, the precise adaptation of the key to every ward of the lock. The felicitous choice of situation to which Lamb refers gave just the required fitness; and it is of little use to plead that 'Roxana,' 'Colonel Jack,' and others might have done the same trick if only they had received a little filing, or some slight change in shape: a shoemaker might