He resolved now that all these books should be _read_, all except perhaps the 'Encyclopædia Britannica;' for Mr. Ogden was not then aware of the fact, which a successful man has recently communicated to his species, that a steady reading of that work according to its alphabetical arrangement _may_ be a road to fortune, though it must be admitted to be an arduous one. He would begin with Macaulay's History; and he _did_ begin one evening in the parlor at Twistle Farm after Sarah had removed the tea-things. He took down the first volume, and began to cut the leaves; then he read a page or two, but, in spite of the lucid and engaging style of the historian, he felt a difficulty in fixing his attention,--the difficulty common to all who are not accustomed to reading, and which in Mr. Ogden's case was perhaps augmented by the peculiar condition of his nervous system. So he read the page over again, but could not compel his mind to follow the ideas of the author: it _would_ wander to matters of everyday interest and habit, and then there came an unutterable sense of blankness and dulness, and a craving--yes, an all but irresistible craving--for the stimulus of drink. There could be no harm in drinking a glass of wine,--everybody, even ladies, might do that,--and he had always allowed himself wine at Twistle Farm. He would see whether there was any in the decanters. What! not a drop? No port in the port decanter, and in the sherry decanter nothing but a shallow stratum of liquid which would not fill a glass, and was not worth drinking. He would go and fill both decanters himself: there ought always to be wine ready in case any one should come. Mr. Prigley might walk up any day, or the Doctor might come, and he always liked a glass or two of port.