lenge" of Churchyard, the poems of Verstegan, and the Satire of Roy on Cardinal Wolsey, in particular, are of such unusual occurrence, that they may be deemed almost inaccessible. The memorial of these, at least, therefore, and others of the same sort, will, I trust, be considered as a grateful service to all minds embued with a spirit of liberal investigation.

In studying the varieties of the human intellect, every one who reflects deeply, will open old books with the most poignant interest, as the registers of the movements of departed minds. And what a superiority does this circumstance give to authors above all other votaries of Fame! When their bodies are mouldering in the dust, when the eye can no longer beam intelligence, nor the tongue speak, their thoughts still survive; their language yet lives; and their eloquence still exalts our understandings, or melts our hearts!

It is however well-known, that books not unfrequently become first neglected, and then scarce, from causes totally unconnected with want of merit. It is indeed notorious, that the extent, to which a work is originally circulated, too often depends more on the mechanical means used to push

it abroad, than its own intrinsic worth. What is most calculated to be popular, is commonly superficial; and unless where authority supersedes the real taste of the generality, many a curious and many a profound work is first unnoticed, and then lost.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

But the flowers of the mind, the gems of fancy and sentiment, which lie buried in the gloom and dust of ancient libraries, or entombed in the sepulchral pages of BlackLetter Printers, it is my humble, though perhaps Quixotic, endeavour to rescue from undeserved obscurity.

Yet let it not be suspected, that I am so prejudiced as to think that all wisdom, and all genius, were exhausted with the ages that have past away. Every year exhibits proofs, that both Imagination and Learning are still in full vigour in this country. And if I feel a strong delight in discovering to the world the merit of some rare piece of literary antiquity, I open and peruse with at least equal avidity, and zest, the compositions of my cotemporaries, which almost every month pro duces.

I think Gibbon has said he would not exchange his love of reading, for all the riches of the East. The sentiment is not only noble, but just. What pleasure is so pure, so cheap, so constant, so independent, so worthy a rational being? But we cannot mingle much with mankind, without meeting, among a large proportion of those, with whom we are conversant, an opinion expressed, or implied, that books are, for the most part, an useless incumbrance upon our time and our faculties. They value nothing which does not increase, what they call, practical wisdom, and which does not tend to advance them in life, by rendering them expert in the common affairs of daily occur

rence.

It must be admitted that books, more especially with those, who are much occupied by them, seldom produce these effects. They rather abstract the mind, and absorb those minute attentions to surrounding trifles, which are momentarily necessary for one, who would obtain the credit of the mob, for possessing what they are pleased to denominate "good common sense."

There have been various definitions of common sense. It appears to me, to mean nothing

nothing more than an uneducated judgment, arising from a plain and coarse understanding, exercised upon common concerns, and rendered effective rather by experience, than by any regular process of the intellectual powers. If this be the proper meaning of that quality, we cannot wonder that books are little fitted for its cultivation. Nor is the deficiency at all discreditable to them. The persons, who thus censure them, have but very superficially estimated the capacities, or the purposes of our mental endowments. They little conceive the complicated duties of society, and indescribable variety of stations, for which the human faculties require to be adapted. If the most numerous portion of mankind, are only called on to move in a narrow circle, and to perform their limited part with (what I shall venture to call) a selfish propriety, there are others, to whom higher tasks are assigned; whose lot it is to teach rather than to act; and to contribute to that acuteness, enlargement, and elevation of intellect, by which morals and legislation are improved, and the manners and habits of a kingdom refined and exalted.

It will surely be unnecessary to use any arguments in favour of a truth so obvious, as A 4

that

that these purposes must be principally effected by books. In books, the powers of the mind are carried farthest, and exhibited to most advantage. How indigested, how tautologous, how imperfect, but above all how fugitive, is oral information! The same luminous arrangement, the same rejection of superfluities, the same cohesion of parts, nay the same depth of thought, the same extent of comprehension, and richness and perspicuity of detail, is impossible.

Through books we converse with the dead; bring remote ages to communicate with each other; and impel the selected wisdom of distant periods into collision. Through books, we preserve memorials of the progress of language, the gradual refinements of sentiment, and the changes of time. If it would gratify us to call up those who have slept. for centuries in the cold tomb, that we might listen to their opinions, and be instructed by their information, do not old books produce to us much of the same effect? By a recovered volume of ancient date we often draw back the veil of oblivion, and unfold the secrets of the grave. find the record of some name, that has long been buried; some proof of intellectual vigour; some animated touch of the heart;

We

and