of the Age brought within his grasp;—and in this way, indeed, it may be said that books are only printed in order that they may be reviewed; and there would no longer be any need for books, if Reviews could be fabricated without them.
Such is the portraiture of the active section of this camp of Formal Knowledge;—namely, the Authors. After their image, the passive or receptive section,—the body of Readers—fashions itself, that it may become their exact counterpart. As the former write on, without rest or intermission; so do the latter read on, without rest or intermission,—straining every nerve to keep their head above the flood of Literature, and, as they call it, to advance with the Age. Glad to have hurried through the old they eagerly grasp at the new, while the newest already makes its appearance; and not a single moment remains for them ever to revert to the old. They can by no means stop themselves in this restless career in order to consider what they read;—for their business is pressing, and time is short:—and so it is left wholly to chance what and how much of their reading may stick to them in this rapid transit, how it may influence them, and what spiritual form it may assume.
This custom of reading for its own sake is specifically different from every other habit of mind; and, having something about it in the highest degree agreeable, it soon becomes an indispensable want to those who once indulge in it. Like other narcotic remedies, it places those who use it in the pleasant condition betwixt sleeping and waking, and lulls them into sweet self-forgetfulness without calling for the slightest exertion on their part. It has always appeared to me to have the greatest resemblance to tobacco-smoking, and to be best illustrated by that habit. He who has once tasted the delights of this condition will desire continually to enjoy them, and will devote himself to nothing else: he now reads even without regard to the
