ilege of throwing a bouquet in the path of a princess, or of arresting the kind glance of a queen.

3. And yet, these momentary chances we covet; and spend our years, and passions, and powers, in pursuit of little more than these; while, meantime, there is a society continually open to us, of people who will talk to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or occupation; talk to us in the best words they can choose, and with thanks, if we listen to them.

4. And this society, because it is so numerous and so gentle, and can be kept waiting round us all day, not to grant audience, but to gain it, — kings and statesmen, lingering patiently in those plainly furnished and narrow anterooms, our book-case shelves, we make no account of that company; perhaps, never listen to a word they would say, all day long!

5. You may tell me, perhaps, or think within yourselves, that the apathy with which we regard this company of the noble, who are praying us to listen to them, and the passion with which we pursue the company, probably, of the ignoble, who despise us, or who have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this, that we can see the faces of the living men, and it is themselves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to become familiar; but it is not so.

6 Suppose you never were to see their faces; suppose you could be just behind a screen in the statesman's cabinet, or the prince's chamber, would you not be glad to listen to their words, though you were forbidden to advance beyond the screen? And when the screen is only a little less, folded in two, instead of four, and you can be hidden behind the cover of the two boards that bind a book, and listen, all day long, not to the casual talk, but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of the wisest of men; this station of audience, and honorable privy counsel, you despise!

7. But perhaps you will say that it is because the living people talk of things that are passing, and are of immediate interest to you, that you desire to hear them. Nay; that cannot be so, for the living people will themselves tell you about passing matters, much better in their writings than in their careless talk. But I admit that this motive does influence you, so far as you prefer those rapid and ephemeral writings to slow and enduring writings, books, properly so called. For all books are divisible into two classes, the books of the hour, and the books of all time.

8. The good book of the hour is simply the useful or pleasant talk of some person with whom you cannot otherwise converse, printed for you. Very useful, often, telling you what you need to know; very pleasant, often, as a sensible friend's present talk would be.

9. These bright accounts of travels, good-humoured and witty discussions of questions, lively or pathetic story-telling in the form of a novel, firm fact-telling by the real agents concerned in the events of passing history, all these books of the hour, multiplying among us as education becomes more general, are a peculiar characteristic and possession of the present age. We ought to be entirely thankful for them, and entirely ashamed of ourselves, if we make no good use of them; but we make the worst possible use, if we allow them to usurp the place of true books; for, strictly speaking, they are not books at all, but merely letters or newspapers in good print.

10. A book is essentially, not a talked thing, but a written thing; and written, not with the view of mere communication, but of permanence. The book of talk is printed only because its author cannot speak to thousands of people at once; if he could, he would; the volume is mere multiplication of his voice. You cannot talk to

your friend in India; if you could, you would; you write instead: that is mere conveyance of voice. But a book is written, not to multiply the voice merely, not to carry it merely, but to preserve it.

11. The author has something to say which he perceives to be true and useful, or helpfully beautiful. So far as he knows, no one has yet said it; so far as he knows, no one else can say it. He is bound to say it, clearly, and melodiously if he can; clearly, at all events. In the sum of his life, he finds this to be the thing, or group of things, manifest to him; this the piece of true knowledge, or sight, which his share of sunshine and earth has permitted him to seize.

12. He would fain set it down forever, engrave it on rock, if he could; saying, "This is the best of me; for the rest, I ate, and drank, and slept, loved, and hated, like another; my life was as the vapor, and is not; but this I saw and knew; this, if anything of mine, is worth your memory." That is his "writing;" it is, in his small human way, and with whatever degree of true inspiration is in him, his inscription, or scripture. That is a "Book."

13. Now books of this kind have been written in all ages by their greatest men; by great leaders, great statesmen, and great thinkers. These are all at your

choice; and life is short. You have heard as much before; yet have you measured and mapped out this short life and its possibilities? Do you know, if you read this, that you cannot read that; what you lose today, you cannot gain to-morrow?

14. Will you go and gossip with your house-maid, or your stable-boy, when you may talk with kings and queens; or flatter yourselves that it is with any worthy consciousness of your own claims to respect, that you jostle with the common crowd for entrée here, and audi

ence there, when all the while this eternal court is open to you, with its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its days, the chosen and the mighty of every place and time?

15. Into that you may enter always; in that you may take fellowship and rank according to your wish; from that, once entered into it, you can never be outcast but by your own fault. By your aristocracy of companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly tested, and the motives with which you strive to take a high place in the society of the living, measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in them, by the place you desire to take in this company of the Dead. John Ruskin.

5. Of perfumed lamps1 on the Ganges,

Which are launched in the twilight hour;

And the dark and silent Brahmins,

Who worship the lotus flower;

6. Of the wretched dwarfs of Lapland,
Broad-headed, wide-mouthed, and small,

1 The Brahmins regarded the river Ganges and the lotus flower as sacred, and worshiped them. One of the offerings to the Ganges was a lighted, perfumed lamp.