HOW 96. BUYING BOOKS. OW casily one may distinguish a genuine lover of books from the worldly man! With what subdued and yet glowing enthusiasm does he gaze upon the costly front of a thousand embattled volumes! How gently he draws them down, as if they were little children! how tenderly he handles them! lle peers at the title-page, at the text, or the notes, with the nicety of a bird examining a flower. He studies the binding: the leather, Russia, English calf, morocco; the lettering, the gilding, the edging, the hinge of the cover! He opens it, and shuts it, he holds it off, and brings it nigh. It suffuses his whole body with book-magnetism. He walks up and down, in amaze at the mysterious allotments of Providence that gives so much money to men who spend it upon their appetites, and so little to men who would spend it in benevolence, or upon their refined tastes! It is astonishing, too, how one's necessities multiply in the presence of the supply. One never knows how many things it is impossible to do without till he goes to the house-furnishing stores. One is surprised to perceive, at some bazaar, or fancy and variety store, how many conveniences he needs. He is satisfied that his life must have been utterly inconvenient aforetime. And thus, too, one is inwardly convicted, at a bookstore, of having lived for years without books which he is now satisfied that one can not live without! 2. Then, too, the subtle process by which the man convinces himself that he can afford to buy. No subtle manager or broker ever saw through a maze of financial embarrassments half so quick as a poor book-buyer sees his way clear to pay for what he must have. He promises with himself marvels of retrenchment; he will eat less, or less costly viands, that he may buy more food for the mind. He will take an extra patch, and go on with his raiment another year, and buy books instead of coats. Yea, he will write books, that he may buy books. He will lecture, teach, trade-he will do any honest thing for money to buy books! 3. The appetite is insatiable. Feeding does not satisfy it. It rages by the fuel which is put upon it. As a hungry an eats first, and pays afterward, so the book-buyer purchases, and then works at the debt afterward. This paying is rather medicinal. It cures for a time. But a relapse takes place. The same longing, the same promises of self-denial. He promises himself to put spurs on both heels of his in'dustry; and then, besides all this, he will somehow get along when the time for payment comes! Ah! this SOMEHOW! That word is as big as a whole world, and is stuffed with all the vagaries and fantasies that Fancy over bred upon Hope. 4. And yět, is there not some comfort in buying books, to be paid for? We have heard of a sot, who wished his neck as lõng as the worm of a still, that he might so much the longer enjoy the flavor of the draught! Thus, it is a prolonged excitement. of purchase, if you feel for six months in a slight doubt whether the book is honestly your own or not. Had you paid down, that would have been the end of it. There would have been no affectionate and beseeching look of your books at you, every time you saw them, saying, as plain as a book's eyes can say, "Do not let me be taken from you." 5. Moreover, buying books before you can pay for them, promotes caution. You do not feel quite at liberty to take them home. You are married. Your wife keeps an account-book. She knows to a penny what you can and what you can not af ford. She has no "speculation" in her eyes. Plain figures make desperate work with airy "somehows." It is a matter of no small skill and experience to get your books home, and into their proper places, undiscovered. Perhaps the blundering Express brings them to the door just at evening. "What is it, my dear?" she says to you. "Oh! nothing-a few books that I can not do without." 6. That smile! A true housewife that loves her husband, can smile a whole arithmetic at him in one look! Of course sho insists, in the kindest way, in sympathizing with you in your literary acquisition. She cuts the strings of the bundle (and of your heart), and out comes the whole story. You have bought a complete set of costly English books, full bound in calf, extragilt! You are caught, and feel very much as if bound in calf yourself, and admirably lettered. 7. Now, this must not happen frequently. The books must be smuggled home. Let them be sent to some near place, Then, when your wife has a headache, or is out making a call, or has lain down, run the books across the frontier and threshold, hastily undo them, stop only for one loving glance as you put them away in the closet, or behind other books on the shelf, or on the topmost shelf. Clear away the twine and wrapping-paper, and every suspicious circumstance. Be very careful not to be too kind. That often brings on detection. Only the other day we heard it said, somewhere, "Why, how good you have been, lately! I am really afraid that you have been carrying on mischief secretly." Our heart smote us. It was a fact. That very day we had bought a few books which "we could not do without." 8. After a while, you can bring out one volume, accidentally, and leave it on the table. "Why, my dear, what a beautiful book! Where did you borrow it?" You glance over the newspaper, with the quietest tone you can command: "That! oh! that is mine. Have you not seen it before? It has been in the house these two months;" and you rush on with anecdote and incident, and point out the binding, and that peculiar trick of gilding, and every thing else you can think of: but it all will not do; you can not rub out that roguish, ărithmět ́ical smile. People may talk about the equality of the sexes! They are not equal. The silent smile of a sensible, loving woman, will vanquish ten men. Of course you repent, and in time form a habit of repenting. 9. Another method, which will be found peculiarly effective, is, to make a present of some fine work to your wife. Of course, whether she or you have the name of buying it, it will go into your collection and be yours to all intents and purposes. But, it stops remark in the presentation. A wife could not reprove you for so kindly thinking of her. No matter what she suspects, she will say nothing. And then if there are three or four more works, which have come home with the gift-book-they will pass, through the favor of the other. 10. These are pleasures denied to wealth and old bachelors. Indeed, one can not imagine the peculiar pleasure of buying books, if one is rich and stupid. There must be some pleasure, or so many would not do it. But the full flavor, the whole rel ish of delight only comes to those who are so poor that they must engineer for every book. They set down before them, and besiege them. They are captured. Each book has a secret history of ways and means. It reminds you of subtle devices by which you insured and made it yours, in spite of poverty! H. W. BEECHER.' O'ER 97. THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET. I. 'ER a low couch the setting sun had thrown its latest ray, Where, in his last strong agony, a dying warrior lay,The stern old Baron Rudiger, whose frame had ne'er been bent By wasting pain, till time and toil its iron strength had spent. II. 'They come around me here, and say my days of life are o'er,— That I shall mount my noble steed and lead my band no more; They come, and, to my beard, they dare to tell me now that I, Their own liege lord and master born, that I--ha! ha!--must die III. And what is death? I've dared him oft, before the Painim spear; ye Think he's enter'd at my gate-has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him, when the fight was raging hot; I'll try his might, I'll brave his power!—defy, and fear him not! IV. "Ho! sound the tocsin' from my tower, and fire the cul'verin, V. A hundred hands were busy then: the banquet forth was spread, rung the heavy oaken floor with many a martial tread; And 'See Biographical Sketch, p. 71.- Pài' nim, pagan; infidel.-' Toc'sin, a bell for giving alarm.- Cål' ver in, a long, slender cannon, to carry a ball a great distance. While from the rich, dark tracery, along the vaulted wall, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, o'er the proud old Gothic hall. VI. Fast hurrying through the outer gate, the mail'd retainers pour'd, On through the portal's frowning arch, and throng'd around the board; While at its head, within his dark, carved, oaken chair of state, Arm'd cap-à-pie, stern Rudiger, with girded falchion, sate. VII. "Fill every beaker up, my men!-pour forth the cheering wine! There's life and strength in every drop,-thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?--mine eyes are waxing dim: Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, each goblet to the brim! VIII. "Ye're there, but yet I see you not!-draw forth each trusty sword, And let me hear your faithful steel clash once around my board! I hear it faintly: Louder yet! What clogs my heavy breath? Up, all!—and shout for Rudiger, 'DEFIANCE UNTO DEATH!'" IX. Bowl rang to bowl, steel clang'd to steel, and rose a deafening cry, That made the torches flare around, and shook the flags on high: "Ho! cravens! do ye fear him? Slaves! traitors! have ye flown? Ho! cowards, have ye left me to meet him here alone? X. "But I defy him!-let him come!" Down rang the massy cup, While from its sheath the ready blade came flashing half-way up; And, with the black and heavy plumes scarce trembling on his head, There, in his dark, carved, oaken chair, old Rudiger sat-dead! ALBERT G. GREENE. MR. GREENE was born at Providence, Rhode Island, February 10, 1802. He was a graduate at Brown University in 1820, practiced law in his native city until 1834, since which time he has held office under the city goverument. One of |