ton by the usual road from Hawkshead or Ambleside seem, as they come upon the blank left by the removal of this hostelry,

to miss the expected greeting of an old friend, a feeling that is scarcely removed by the more splendid accommodation and,

K

as regards scenery, superior site of the new Waterhead Inn, which stands about half a mile from the head of the lake and the same distance from the centre of the village, out upon the fair and fertile plain that with the lake itself forms the appropriate floor of this exquisite valley; and there, assured that I could not leave my friends in better quarters, I must close this section of my subject.

PICKINGS UP AND JOTTINGS DOWN

CONCERNING BOOKS AND THEIR AUTHORS.

By David Buxton, F.R.S.L.

(READ 9TH MAY, 1867.)

How many chapters have been written, and how many more might be written, on the "Curiosities of Literature!" And when we come to consider them, how numerous and how various these Curiosities of Literature are! Perhaps no more striking instances can be found to illustrate this subject than in the history of literary works. In their inception, their progress, and their completion, how strange and curious are the facts which relate to many of those works, which, for their rare merits, or for their author's fame, have now become familiar or renowned !

What is a "new work?" Suppose it to be written by a popular or accredited author; or to be upon a subject which has present attractions for public attention: what interest it excites! If there be any mystery as to its authorship; or any history relating to its subject, how eagerly is its appearance looked for, how closely is every feature scanned! And yet when the book comes before us-when we look upon it as new-with a life and a career before it-the inviter of criticism (be it favourable or unfavourable, fair or unfair) all new and fresh as to its appearance before the worldwhat a life it has lived already! To its author its life is finished, before to the reader it has yet begun. Books just published are just born. At their birth their author has done with them. Their life, and their figure in the world,

are all matters which pertain to the uncertain Future. The child just born is born merely to become a man and play his part and do his duty in the world, he has now to live. The ship just built is as yet a dead, useless hull: to do what it was intended to do-to go whither it was intended to go, it must be launched and sailed. Else, all thus far done is so much lost and wasted. So with literary work. It is designed, modified and written-often little like at last to the form it was at first intended to give it but it is finished, for better or worse-fulfilling its author's wish and intention, with more or less success.

And there is yet a life antecedent even to that we have just alluded to. Before the first page is penned; before its opening words are written; how much of thought and attention; of search and research; of facts and illustrations entertained and weighed-some to be received, others to be rejected, as irrelevant, redundant, or superfluous-some to figure largely on the canvas, in the foreground, to be leading characteristics of the picture, others to be subordinate and accessory, glanced at rather than examined ;-how much of all this has passed through the author's mind-occupied his time-furnished the engrossing employment of the “la"borious days" which men give to literary work, not only before the world sees a word of the book, but before the printer sees a page of the manuscript. And while we may hope, in all great works aiming at permanent success and at high influence, the potency of the highest and best hopes is never absent, surely it is permissible to think of the present, and the worldly fame which they may bring to their authors: and then recurs the thought so well expressed by the author of the Minstrel :

"O who shall tell how hard it is to climb

"The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar?"

But all this is matter of uncertainty. The author may

hope, but he must fear. A future Paradise Lost may live for ever but it may be little thought of and have a tardy sale in its author's life-time, while it is reserved for a future Addison to make it known and popular, only when its author has passed from the scene altogether. Doubtful as is the future career of the child just born-whether he shall live on, or die speedily; whether he shall have a healthy and vigorous life, or a painful, sickly one; whether he win a good name, or miss and mar all the chances of prosperity and distinction; whether life, long or short, be prosperous or otherwise- these contingencies are not a whit more doubtful in the case of the child than of literary progeny-of the Book which has just received the final punctuation of the author's pen. In this spirit Wordsworth says

"Go forth, my little book! pursue thy way;
“Go forth, and please the gentle and the good."*

And in another authority, seldom quoted, and probably not much known, there is what has always struck me as an admirable valediction for an author laying down his pen :"And here I will make an end. And if I have done well,

and as is fitting the story, it is that which I desired but "if slenderly and meanly, it is that which I could attain 'unto." (2 Maccabees, xv, 37, 38.)

I said a little while ago that a book when finished is often little like at last to the form it was intended to give it at the first. This is a statement to which no thoughtful student of literary history will for a moment demur. The fact is so. It arises from a variety of causes. In some of its aspects it induces sad reflections; but in every aspect it is well worthy of note. Where Death comes to arrest the active hand and stop the fertile brain, and to change the intended work into a monumental "Fragment," then the instance is sad enough.

• Memorials, A.D. 1820, p. 142.