CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH

NEAR IT.

THE Library at Windygates was the largest and the handsomest room in
the house. The two grand divisions under which Literature is usually
arranged in these days occupied the customary places in it. On the
shelves which ran round the walls were the books which humanity in
general respects--and does not read. On the tables distributed over
the floor were the books which humanity in general reads--and does not
respect. In the first class, the works of the wise ancients; and
the Histories, Biographies, and Essays of writers of more modern
times--otherwise the Solid Literature, which is universally respected,
and occasionally read. In the second class, the Novels of our own
day--otherwise the Light Literature, which is universally read, and
occasionally respected. At Windygates, as elsewhere, we believed History
to be high literature, because it assumed to be true to Authorities
(of which we knew little)--and Fiction to be low literature, because it
attempted to be true to Nature (of which we knew less). At Windygates as
elsewhere, we were always more or less satisfied with ourselves, if
we were publicly discovered consulting our History--and more or less
ashamed of ourselves, if we were publicly discovered devouring our
Fiction. An architectural peculiarity in the original arrangement of the
library favored the development of this common and curious form of human
stupidity. While a row of luxurious arm-chairs, in the main thoroughfare
of the room, invited the reader of solid literature to reveal himself
in the act of cultivating a virtue, a row of snug little curtained
recesses, opening at intervals out of one of the walls, enabled the
reader of light literature to conceal himself in the act of indulging