BOOKS AND READING: OR, WHAT BOOKS SHALL I READ, AND HOW SHALL I READ THEM? CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY. WERE a South-sea Islander to be suddenly taken up from his savage home and set down in one of the great cities of Europe,-among the many strange objects which he would see, one of the most incomprehensible would be a public library. A cathedral he would at once understand. Its vast area would suggest a counterpart in the inclosure which from his childhood onward he had known and feared as a place of worship. Its clustered pillars and lofty arches would bring to mind a well-remembered grove of old and stately trees, "with sounding walks between;" the dreaded dwelling of some cruel deity, or the fit arena for some "abhorre‹l rite." The altar, the priests, the reverent worshipers, would speak to his mind their own meaning. A military parade he might comprehend without an interpreter's aid. The measured tread of gathered legions, would, indeed, differ not a little from the wild rush of his own barbarous clan; the inspiring call of trumpet and horn, 1 of fife and drum, blending with all those nameless instruments which make the music of war so splendid and so spirit-stirring, would be unlike the horrid, dissonant noises, with which the savage sounds out his bloody errand; but the object and purpose of the show would be seen at a glance, and would wake up all the warrior in his bosom. A festive gathering of lords and ladies gay would be quite an intelligible affair, and the more closely he should look into the particulars of the transaction, the more numerous, it is possible, might be the points of resemblance between the barbaric and the fashionable assembly. A gallery of paintings, adorned with the proudest trophies of genius, might not be altogether without meaning; for though the savage would look upon the creations of Raphael or Titian with somewhat such an eye as that with which Caliban looked upon Miranda, yet the uses of such a collection, which the price of his own kingdom could not buy, would not be entirely beyond his comprehension. But a public library would be too much for him. It would prove a mystery quite beyond his reach. Its design and its utility would be alike incomprehensible. The front of the edifice within which the library was placed, might indeed command his admiration: and within, the lofty arches, the lengthened aisles and the labyrinthine succession of apartments, might attract and bewilder him. The books even, rising one above another in splendid lines, and dressed in gilt and purple and green, might seem to his savage eye a very pretty sight; though they would please that eye just as well if carved and colored upon the solid wall, or if, as has been the fancy of certain owners of libraries, the volumes had been wrought from solid wood-fit books for the wooden heads that owned them. The mystery of the library to the savage, would be the books in it,-what they were, what they were for, and why they were thought worthy to be lodged in a building so imposing, and watched with such jealous care. If he should linger among the apartments for reading, and watch the movements of the inmates, his wonder would be likely to increase. His eye might rest upon Dr. Dryasdust, the antiquarian, as with anxious look and bustling air he rushes into one closet after another, takes volume after volume from its dusty retreat, looks into each as the conjuring priest at home looks into a trce or a stone to see the spirit within, and after copying from each in strange characters, stuffs the manuscript into his pocket, and walks off as proudly as though, like the self-same priest, he had caught and bagged the spirit in some fetish, amulet, or medicine-bag. The man of science sits for hours unconscious of the presence of the wondering savage, and grows more and more bewildered as he gazes upon a single page. The savage watches the poet reading a favorite author, and marvels at the mysterious influence that dilates his eye and kindles his cheek, and sends madness through his frame. He is astonished at the reader of fiction, looking upon what seems to him a vacant page, and yet seeming to see in its enchanted lines a world of spirits, living, moving, talking, walking, loving, hating, fighting, dying. Should he seek an explanation of the mystery, the explanation would rather deepen than solve the enigma. Here is a volume, his interpreter might say, by the aid of whose characters the shipmaster can guide his vessel to your island-home as easily as you can follow a forest path. From this volume you can learn the story of that famous white captain who first landed upon your shores, in the days of your great-grandfather, and was there killed and buried; and mystery above mystery-in this little book which gives an account of the discovery of your country by the white man, will be found the sufficient reason why his majesty, our king, has a right to burn your towns, to shoot |