Few places affected me more than the Libraries, and especially the
Bodleian Library, reputed to have half a million printed books and
manuscripts. I walked solemnly and reverently among the alcoves and
through the halls, as if in the pyramid of embalmed souls. It was their
life, their heart, their mind, that they treasured in these book-urns.
Silent as they are, should all the emotions that went to their creation
have utterance, could the world itself contain the various sound? They
longed for fame? Here it is--to stand silently for ages, moved only to
be dusted and catalogued, valued only as units in the ambitious total,
and gazed at, occasionally, by men as ignorant as I am, of their name,
their place, their language, and their worth. Indeed, unless a man can
link his written thoughts with the everlasting wants of men, so that
they shall draw from them as from wells, there is no more immortality to
the thoughts and feelings of the soul than to the muscles and the bones.
A library is but the soul's burial-ground. It is the land of shadows.
Yet one is impressed with the thought, the labour, and the struggle,
represented in this vast catacomb of books. Who could dream, by the
placid waters that issue from the level mouths of brooks into the lake,
all the plunges, the whirls, the divisions, and foaming rushes that had
brought them down to the tranquil exit? And who can guess through what
channels of disturbance, and experiences of sorrow, the heart passed
that has emptied into this Dead Sea of books?--HENRY WARD BEECHER. _Star
Papers._