people in general, but only by the select few. Whereas now, reading is
not only one of the luxuries, but absolutely one of the necessaries of
life, and we now no more think of going without our book than without
our breakfast; lunch consists now of veal-pies and Venetian
Bracelets--we still dine on Roast-beef, but with it, instead of
Yorkshire pudding, a Scotch novel--Thomas Campbell and Thomas Moore
sweeten tea for us--and in "Course of Time" we sup on a Welsh rabbit
and a Religious Poem.

We have not time--how can we?--to trace the history of the great
revolution. But a great revolution there has been, from nobody's reading
anything, to every body's reading all things; and perhaps it began with
that good old proser Richardson, the father of Pamela, Clarissa, and
Sir Charles Grandison. He seems to have been a sort of idiot, who had
a strange insight into some parts of human nature, and a tolerable
acquaintance with most parts of speech. He set the public a-reading, and
Fielding and Smollett shoved her on--till the Minerva Press took her in
hand--and then--the Periodicals. But such Periodicals! The Gentleman's
Magazine--God bless it then, now, and for ever!--the Monthly Review,
the Critical and the British Critic! The age had been for some years
literary, and was now fast becoming periodical. Magazines multiplied.
Arose in glory the Edinburgh, and then the Quarterly Review--Maga,
like a new sun, looked out from heaven--from her golden urn a hundred
satellites drew light--and last of all, "the Planetary Five," the
Annuals, hung their lamps on high; other similar luminous bodies emerged
from the clouds, till the whole circumference was bespangled, and
astronomy became the favourite study with all ranks of people, from the
King upon the throne to the meanest of his subjects. Now, will any one
presume to deny, that this has been a great change to the better, and
that there is now something worth living for in the world? Look at our