the
human race ere sin had corrupted all their godlike seeming; ere
sorrow--the bequeathed and inherited sorrows of ages--had quite seared
the "human face divine;" ere sloth, and luxury, and corruption, and
decay, had altered features formed in the similitude of heaven to the
gross semblance of earth; and we walk step by step over the new fresh
earth as yet untrodden by foot of man, and behold the ancient
solitudes gradually invaded by his advancing steps.

Most gentle, most soothing, most faithful companions are books. They
afford amusement for the lonely hour; solace perchance for the
sorrowful one: they offer recreation to the light-hearted; instruction
to the inquiring; inspiration to the aspiring mind; food for the
thirsty one. They are inexhaustible in extent as in variety: and oh!
in the silent vigil by the suffering couch, or during the languor of
indisposition, who can too highly praise those silent friends--silent
indeed to the ear, but speaking eloquently to the heart--which
beguile, even transiently, the mind from present depressing care,
strengthen and elevate it by communion with the past, or solace it by
hopes of the future!

Listen how sweetly one of the first of modern men apostrophises his
books:--

"My days among the dead are past;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

"With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd,
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

"My thoughts are with the dead; with them
I live in long past years;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears,
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with a humble mind.

"My hopes are with the dead; anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust."[126]

Yet how little are we of the present day, who have books poured into
our laps, able to estimate their real value! Nor is it possible that
they can ever again be estimated as they once were. The universal
diffusion of them, the incalculable multiplication of them, seems to
render it impossible that the world can ever b