What a place to be in is an old library! It seems as though all the souls of all the writers, that have bequeathed their labours to these Bodleians, were reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state. I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage; and the odour of their old moth-scented coverings is fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples which grew amid the happy orchard.--C. LAMB. _Oxford in the Vacation._ THE BODLEIAN: A DEAD SEA OF BOOKS 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._ A COLLEGE LIBRARY A churchyard with a cloister running round And quaint old effigies in act of prayer, And painted banners mouldering strangely there Where mitred prelates and grave doctors sleep, Memorials of a consecrated ground! Such is this antique room, a haunted place Where dead men's spirits come, and angels keep Long hours of watch with wings in silence furled. Early and late have I kept vigil here; And I have seen the moonlight shadows trace Dim glories on the missal's blue and gold, The work of my scholastic sires, that told Of quiet ages men call dark and drear, For Faith's soft light is darkness to the world. F. W. FABER. MERTON LIBRARY