without interest in new books and living writers. Such a book as Carlyle's 'Reminiscences" stirs their curiosity; they like to know a man of literary distinction, they have some rudiments of literary culture-they do read books. For a truly remarkable thing has happened in this country, where more books are written, more published, and more read than in any other two countries put together: a large section of reading people have left off buying books; they do not think of buying them; they have lost the habit of buying them; it does not occur to them that they may be considered as things which may be bought. Everything else in the world that is delightful and precious and ardently to be desired, they know can only be had for money. Of such things they will, and do, buy as much as they can afford. But they do not desire to possess books, or to buy them. They read them and toss them away. If we think of it, this is a very strange result of a love of reading. Those for whom books are written do not buy them. Were there not a very large number of people who read and ask for new books, and therefore make Smith and Mudie take a great many copies, the trades of author, publisher, printer, paper-maker, and binder would quickly fall into contempt by reason of poverty. Rags, you see, cannot long continue respectable. One would like to know, if the libraries could be induced to publish statistics, how many subscribers they have upon their books out of all our thirty millions. That question may be taken to mean, how many of our population habitually read books? Next to this, one would like to know what books are in most demand; but it is an inquiry which for the sake of certain reputations must be conducted with some delicacy. Further, one would like to ask what, if any, novels of the last season are asked for? whether there is any demand for modern poets and, if so, for whom; and at what social level people cease to belong to a library ?-where, in fact, Mr. Mudie draws his line Costers, for instance, certainly do not read new books; do fruiterers, bakers, butchers? Do the ordinary tradesmen? Where, in fact, begins that immense mass of people who never read books at all, have no bookshelves, and reverence none of the great names of poets and authors? It is really an APPALLING thing to think of the people who have no books. Can we picture to ourselves a home without these gentle friends? Can we imagine a life dead to all the gracious influences of sweet thoughts sweetly spoken, of tender suggestions tenderly whispered, of holy dreams, glowing play of fancy, unexpected reminding of subtle analogies and unsuspected harmonies, and those swift thoughts which pierce the heart like an arrow and fill us with a new sense of what we are and what we may be? Yet there are thousands and tens of thousands of homes where these influences never reach, where the whole of the world is hard, cruel fact, unredeemed by hope or illusion, with the beauty of the world shut out and the grace of life destroyed. grace of life destroyed. It is only by books that most men and women can lift themselves above the sordidness of life. No books! Yet for the greater part of humanity that is the common lot. We may, in fact, divide our fellowcreatures into two branches-those who read books and those who do not. Digger Indians, Somaulis, Veddahs, Andaman Islanders, Lancashire wife-kickers, Irish landlord shooters, belong to those who do not. How few alas be those who do ! I lately saw in some paper, and was not surprised to see it, that the result of a complete Board-school course is generally that the boys and girls who have been triumphantly examined in special subjects for the sake of the grant go away without the least desire ever to read anything else for the rest of their lives. This seems a disappointing outcome of any system of education. With infinite pains and at great expense we put into a boy's hand the key to all the knowledge whereunto man hath attained, to all the knowledge whereunto he may hereafter attain, and to most of the delight of life- and he does not care to exercise that power! Perhaps it is not altogether the fault of the system. In every school, one knows there is the boy who loves reading and the boy who does not. He is found as a matter of course in the Board school as much as at Rugby. And many most respectable men, it must be confessed, have got on in the world without any love for books, with no desire at all for knowledge, and with absolutely no feeling for the beauty and force of language. One such I knew in days bygone, an excellent person who had read but one book in all his life; it was Macaulay's Essays. Nor did he ever desire to read another book; that was enough for him. On a certain evening I persuaded him to come with me to a theatre for the first time in his life. He sat out the performance with great politeness and patience; it did not touch him in the least, though the piece was very funny and very well acted. When we came away he said to me, 'Yes; it was a pleasing exhibition, but I would rather have spent my evening over Macaulay's Essays.' Another man I once knew who made one book last through a considerable part of his life, but this was perhaps mere pretence, with craft and subtlety. Thus, for many years, if he was asked for an opinion, he invariably replied, "I have not yet had time to investigate the question. I am at present engaged upon Humboldt's' Cosmos.' The taste for A stranger thing, however, is, not that some men do not care about reading, but that those who do, those who read much, who read daily, as the principal part of the day's relaxation, have left off desiring to buy books! Can it be that even bookish boys are no longer taught to value books? That seems impossible, to begin with. A bookish boy is at first a curious and inquiring boy, who, at every step of his progress, imbibes unconsciously the love of books. He first wants to know; he reads everything that tells him anything about the world and the nations of the world; the story of the stars and the wonders of the earth; the history of mankind and the growth of arts. As he reads he begins to understand the beauty of arrangement, and so, little by little, there grows up within him a new sense, namely, the sense of form, the fine feeling for a phrase, the music of words put together by the hand of a master. When once a man has understood so much, he is separated from his fellows as much as if hands had been laid upon him, as in a sense they have been. Language has We become to him what it can never be to them-a wondrous organ upon which divine melodies may be played; perhaps he is content to listen; perhaps he may, with trembling fingers, assay to touch the charmed instrument. I cannot think that such a boy would ever cease to love books. reading, in fact, is born with one. It is the development of this other sense, the sense of style, which causes this love. It is its absence which makes people indifferent to the books themselves as well as to what they read. How can people be expected to buy that which they cannot appreciate? How many are there among educated people who are capable of appreciation ? For instance, millions of people read, quite complacently, works whose literary merits are so small that they are intolerable to any who have the least sense of style. Yet this defect does not affect their popularity. Some men write with the end of a broomstick, some with a gold pen, some with an etcher's needle. The broomstick man is, perhaps, the most popular. Then people read books just as they look at a picture, or go to the play, for the story."' That is all they care about. The story read, they dismiss it from their thoughts. There was once a French dramatist, Alexander Hardy by name, who understood this so well that when he constructed a new play he contented himself with devising story, situation, and tableaux, leaving his actors to supply the words. Who cared about the words? Of course the heroine screamed, and the villain swore, and the funny man dropped the platesall in the right place. What more did the people want? And what more, in deed, do they want now? Overmuch reading and promiscuous reading are great hindrances to the formation of a critical habit. The critic does not gulp; he tastes; he discriminates between Hamburg sherry and the true wine of Xeres by the aid of a wineglass, not a tumbler. But the omnivorous reader is like unto one who takes his draught from a quart pot. Fancy a city dinner at which pea-soup, tripe and onions, fried fish, roast pork and stuffing, raw onions, and such viands were served up side by side with the most delicate preparations, the sole à la maître d'hôtel, the côtelette, the ris de veau, the mayonnaise; where thick sugared stout was handed round with Johannisberg, Château Yquem, and Piper très sec; fancy the guests indiscriminately taking one after the other without discernment, enjoying one quite as much as the other, with a leaning in the direction of roast pork and stout-that, if you please, is a fair example of the intellectual meals taken continually by the all-devouring reader. He reads everything; he reads whatever is set before him; he reads without consideration; he reads without criticism; all styles are alike to him; he is never greatly delighted, and seldom offended. Another, and perhaps a more power. ful cause why books are not valued as possessions is, without doubt, the great facility with which they may be borrowed. This brings upon them the kind of contempt which always attaches to a thing which is cheap. Such a thing, to begin with, must be bad; who can expect good wine, good cigars, good gloves, at a low price? What sort of books, one feels, are those which can be shovelled into the circulating libraries as fast as they are asked for? The ease with which a thirsty reader is supplied destroys the value of a book. Young people, especially, no longer feel the old sweet delight of buying a book and possessing it. Therefore, the preciousness of books is going out. I believe they will before long substitute for prize books, prize bats, prize footballs, prize rifles. Yet, asks Ruskin, "is not a book of mine worth at least a physician's fee?" One evening at the We do not sufficiently realize what is meant by this cheapness of literature. It means that the most delightful amusement, the chief recreation of the civilized world-the pursuit which raises the mind above the sordid conditions of life, gives ideas, unfolds possibilities, inspires noble thoughts, or presents pleasing images is a thing which may be procured in sufficient quantity for a whole household for three, four, or five guineas a year-judiously managed, and by arrangement with other families, for three guineas a year. Compare this with other amusements. Lyceum with the girls costs as much; a dinner at the club to one or two friends costs as much; sittings at church cost very little more. Three guineas will take one man to the seaside from Saturday to Monday; it will buy just one dozen of champagne; it will pay the butcher's bill for a fortnight; it will pay for one new coat or one new dress. From whatever point of view one looks at three guineas it is a trifling and evanescent sum-it is gone as soon as looked at; it is quickly eaten up, and the memory of the banquet almost as quickly departs with it; it is a day's pleasure, an evening's amusement; yet, administered in the way of a subscription, it represents nothing less than the recreation of a whole family for a twelvemonth. an investment ! What What an investment, indeed! It causes books to rain upon the house like the manna of the desert; so that-alas ! it seems to the younger members as if they came spontaneously, and it prevents boys of the bookish kind from looking upon individual books with that passionate love which comes partly from the delight of reading and partly from the difficulties of acquisition. Who has not read with admiration and joy, how the lover of books has hovered day after day over a stall where lay a treasure which he cannot buy until he has denied himself a few more dinners? Who has not sympathized with him when he marches home in triumph, bearing the book with him; though he is fain to tighten his waistband for hunger? All that is over, because any book may be had by any boy for the asking. To sum up. Let us try at least to be just, if not generous. Few among us can buy all the books which we like to read, but let us recognize literature as so great an essential, such an absolute necessary for our comfort and happiness, that since it must be had it ought to be paid for, just as much as protection from rogues, as much as dress and food. Then come the questions-how much should we pay for it? and how. As for the latter, it is easy to answer: we must buy the books which please us most. As for the former, if the principle be conceded that it is the plain and clear duty of every one to buy such books as he can afford out of those which have given him pleasure, then the proportion to his expenditure must be settled by himself. But let us be practical; let us make a suggestion; let us estimate literature as a rateable thing. For my own part, I should be disposed to measure the amount by rental, which seems to rule everything. A lover of books would spontaneously tax himself a good fifteen shillings in the pound. The general reader will perhaps be startled at first at being called upon for five shillings. Yet I would not let him off for one farthing less. Five shillings in the pound is the lowest rate that can be levied for literature. In better times, when the public taste is cultivated, when a good book will not only be read but bought, when a good writer will be as greatly rewarded as a successful barrister, a physician of repute, or a bishop, the rate will of course be higher. But for the moment I think that authors will be satisfied with a simple five shillings.—Temple Bar. A PEEP AT FRENCH SCHOOLS. JOHN BULL is ceasing to be a good hater. The very Russians are no longer an abomination to him; and, in spite of Tunis, the very hero of Trafalgar could hardly persuade him to regard the French as "dangerous and even devilish individuals.' Curiosity has conquered prejudice. But, though it is now fashionable for us to gather honey from foreign weeds, the judgments we pass on the sweet spoil seem seldom to rise above a patriotic half-truth: "Our own institutions are the best for us; those of the French are 'good enough for them,'" the conclusive proof being that the first produce Englishmen and the second Frenchmen. Read schools" for "institutions,' and no impartial jury could give us a verdict. Our own test fails us, for our schools do not always produce "Englishmen" in the best sense of the word. Ubi qui post vota perierunt? How many have been retarded by their school training, and how many have only made progress in spite of it? A nation like ours that has no national system of secondary schools to stand between its board schools and its universities is making the best blessings of civilization a matter of privilege. The word "national" does not apply either to Eton School or to Oxford University, in the same sense in which it applies to the Board and Church Schools of our primary system of education. Philanthropists may induce all School Boards to copy London, and found scholarships to carry the best boys from the lower schools to the secondary. But these are a favored few; and the middle-class schools into which they are drafted are good or bad, according to the luck of the locality. For the masses, there is practically an infinite distance to divide an Oxford College, or even a public school," with its multitudinous fees and strait exclusiveness, from a city board school, with its nominal charges and indiscriminate admission of all comers. The Scotch College, which is too often a public school and a university in one unhappy combination, is by no means at an infinite distance from the Scotch peasant. It is still sufficiently democratic to be national, and simply needs to be " differentiated" in order to serve its purpose properly in the educational system. But in England, if we put ourselves in the position of a peasant's son leaving school and aspiring to higher things, we must feel that there are few facilities for him. His guidance ends in the board school; and, if he stands and sees and looks for the old paths to guide him farther, he finds their traces so indistinct that he can hardly guess whither they ever tended--was it to South Kensington or only to Dotheboys' Hall? There is no such doubt about the public schools of the minority. They have strongly-marked features, unmistakably English, which give a sharp point to the contrast with their nearest French counterpart. The contrast applies to letter as well as to spirit. Dryasdust might discern the different genius of the French and English nations by their different ways of marking their school time. The Eton or Harrow boy goes as the bell invites" him; the pupils of Lycée St. Louis or Charlemagne obey the tuck of drum. If this does not mean a different genius, it means at least a different history. The English public school rings the ecclesiastical bell in unconscious gratitude to its pious founders and benefactors, who were nothing if not churchmen. The French lycée is the handiwork of a soldier, and fitly beats the martial drum. There is much crystallized history in the lycée. Napoleon's drum is by no means the only contribution which the past has made to the present in the making of it. The Revolution, the First Empire, and the irrepressible Jesuits have all left their mark here. It was Bonaparte who turned the Catholic colleges into "lyceums'' in 1804, and plaited them into the network of his "University of France,' in 1808. That grandiose body, which for half a century “monopolized education, in the same sense as the law courts monopolize justice, and the army monopolizes public force, was certainly of Napoleon's creating: but the general plan of his educational institutions had little originality in it. He paid a tacit compliment to the Jesuits by modelling his new lycées on their colleges, which had survived not only the exodus of their founders in 1764, but the Great Revolution of a generation later, and were little the worse for wear in the interval. But besides the impress of priests and emperors, the lycée shows the footprints of democracy. By a kind of political irony, conservatism has guarded the results of that Revolution which seemed to destroy all conservatism. The very Bourbons learned to preserve the substance of its changes, and forgot to restore the old landlords and the old privileges. If we wish, however, to see the influence of the Revolution on society, as well as on politics, we find it nowhere more conspicuous than at school. If an English public school is very apt to become a junior Conservative club, an average lycée will have the opposite tendency. Of course we do not need to go to France to find schoolboys who scoff at titles. The new-comer at Eton who boasted of his birth was rewarded with one kick for your father the marquis, and another for your uncle the duke. French equality could not go further. But there is more in a French lycée than a disregard of titles, which seldom after all outlives school-life, either in England or elsewhere. There is a disregard of fortune. The instinctive English disrespect for a man who is as poor as a church-mouse is not entirely absent at English schools. The same boy who kicked the aristocratic new-comer would probably prefer his society to that of a plebeian new-comer out at elbows, even if he were the son of a Faraday or a Coleridge. It is indeed too probable that the threadbare person would be spared humiliation by being denied admission. But let a stranger visit a large Parisian school like Lycée Fontanes or Charlemagne, when the afternoon drum has released the boys and they are crowding to the entrance; he cannot shut his eyes to the fusion of ranks there. The most causual glance shows him the rich and the poor meeting together; and the masters will tell him there is a fusion of sects as well as of fortunes. There is perhaps only one single case in which a man's religion is known by his face; and the English spectator would soon pick out the boys of this recognisable" persuasion." But in addition he would find Protestant, Catholic, and nondescript, arm-in-arm. Charlemagne and Fontanes happen to be the only two |