Thinking over the losses which England has had forced upon her by steam and the ingenuity of the engineer， one is disposed to count the decay of the windmill among the first. Perhaps in the matter of pure picture squeness the most serious thing that ever happened to England was the discovery of galvanized iron roofing； but， after all， there was never anything but quiet and rich and comfortable beauty about red roofs， whereas the living windmill is not only beautiful but romantic too： a willing， man-serving creature， yoked to the elements， a whirling monster， often a thing of terror. No one can stand very near the crashing sweeps of a windmill in half a gale without a tightening of the heart a feeling comparable to that which comes from watching the waves break over a wall in a storm. And to be within the mill at such a time is to know something of sound’s very sources； it is the cave of noise itself. No doubt there are dens of hammering energy which are more shattering， but the noise of a windmill is largely natural， the product of wood striving with the good sou’ wester； it fills the ears rather than assaults them. The effect， moreover， is by no means lessened by the absence of the wind itself and the silent nonchalance of the miller and his man， who move about in the midst of this appalling racket with the quiet efficiency of vergers.

In my mill， of course， there is no such uproar； nothing but the occasional shaking of the cross-pieces of the idle sails. Everything is still； and the pity of it is that everything is in almost perfect order for the day’s work. The mill one day some score years ago was full of life； the next， and ever after， mute and lifeless， like a stream frozen in a night or the palace in Tennyson’s ballad of the “Sleeping Beauty.” There is no decay merely inanition. One or two of the apple-wood cogs have been broken from the great wheel； a few floor planks have been rotted； but that is all. A week’ s overhauling would put everything right. But it will never come， and the cheerful winds that once were to drive a thousand English mills so happily now bustle over the Channel in vain.

書　友

Companionship of Books

塞繆爾·斯邁爾斯 / Samuel Smiles

塞繆爾·斯邁爾斯（1812—1904），英國19世紀偉大的道德學家、著名的社會改革家和膾炙人口的散文隨筆作家。賽繆爾一生寫過二十多部著作，其中最受人喜愛的是有關人生成功與幸福，有關良知、信仰、道德、自由與責任等領域的隨筆作品，這方面最著名的有《自己拯救自己》《品格的力量》《金錢與人生》和《人生的職責》。

讀其書，如同讀其人；同樣，觀其朋友，也如同觀其人。書如同人，皆可成為伴侶。無論是以書為伴或以人為友，我們都應慎重選擇，與佳者為伴。

好書猶如知己。不管過去、現在，還是將來，它都始終如一。它是最有耐心、最令人愉悅的伴侶。困難之際，它也不離不棄。它總是以善意接納我們，在我們年輕時，好書能陶冶性情，增長知識；我們年老時，它又會給我們以慰藉。

好書可以使人們結為朋友，就像兩個人會因為敬慕同一個人而成為朋友一樣。古諺說“愛屋及烏”，但是，“愛我及書”這句話有更深的哲理。書是更為牢固和真實的情感紐帶。假如擁有共同喜愛的作家，人們可以借此溝通思想感情。他們可以由此和作者產生共鳴。

黑茲利特曾經說過，“書潛移默化人們的內心，詩歌熏陶人們的氣質品性。少小所習，老大不忘，恍如身歷其事。書籍價廉物美，不啻我們呼吸的空氣。”

好書猶如珍藏人一生思想精華的容器。人生的境界，主要就在于他思想的境界。所以，好書蘊藏著優美的語言、深邃的思想，倘若能銘記于心，就將成為我們忠實的伴侶和永恒的慰藉。菲利普·西德尼爵士說得好：“以高尚思想為伴的人永不孤獨。”

當我們面臨誘惑的時候，美好而純真的思想就像仁慈的天使，保衛我們的靈魂，使她依舊純潔。美好純真的思想還珍藏著行動的胚芽，因為，金玉良言總能激發善行。

書是永恒不朽的，它是迄今為止人類不懈奮斗的珍寶。寺廟會坍塌，神像會朽爛，而書經久長存。在偉大的思想面前，時間顯得微不足道。多少年前曾經感動作者的思想，今天依然清新如故。書記載了他們的言論和思想，現在看來依舊生動。時間唯一的作用是淘汰垃圾作品，只有真正的作品才能經受時間的檢驗而經久長存。

書引導我們邁入最優秀的領域，與歷代偉人為伍，使我們如聞其聲，如觀其行，如見其人，如與他們朝夕相處，同歡喜、共傷悲。我們繼承他們的感受，好似覺得在他們所描繪的舞臺上跟他們同臺獻藝。

偉大杰出的人物在這世間不會消逝，書記載著他們的思想，然后傳播開來。書是人們至今仍在聆聽的思想回聲，永遠充滿活力。因此，我們永遠都在受著歷代偉人的影響。多少年前的蓋世英才，如同在他所生活的時代，今天依然顯示著強大的生命力。

A man may usually be known by the books he reads as well as by the company he keeps； for there is a companionship of books as well as of men； and one should always live in the best company， whether it be of books or of men.

A good book may be among the best of friends. It is the same today that it always was， and it will never change. It is the most patient and cheerful of companions. It does not turn its back upon us in times of adversity or distress. It always receives us with the same kindness； amusing and instructing us in youth， and comforting and consoling us in age.

Men often discover their affinity to each other by the love they have each for a book—just as two persons sometimes discover a friend by the admiration which both have for a third. There is an old proverb， “Love me， love my dog.” But there is more wisdom in this： “Love me， love my book.” The book is a truer and higher bond of union. Men can think， feel， and sympathize with each other through their favorite author. They live in him together， and he in them.

“Books，” said Hazlitt， “wind into the heart； the poet’s verse slides in the current of our blood. We read them when young， we remember them when old. We feel that it has happened to ourselves. They are to be had very cheap and good. We breathe but the air of books.”

A good book is often the best urn of a life enshrining the best that life could think out； for the world of a man’s life is， for the most part， but the world of his thoughts. Thus the best books are treasuries of good words， the golden thoughts， which， remembered and cherished， become our constant companions and comforters. “They are never alone，” said Sir Philip Sidney， “that are accompanied by noble thoughts.”

The good and true thought may in times of temptation be as an angel of mercy purifying and guarding the soul. It also enshrines the germs of action， for good words almost always inspire to good works.

Books possess an essence of immortality. They are by far the most lasting products of human effort. Temples and statues decay， but books survive. Time is of no account with great thoughts， which are as fresh today as when they first passed through their author’s minds， ages ago. What was then said and thought still speaks to us as vividly as ever from the printed page. The only effect of time has been to sift out the bad products； for nothing in literature can long survive but what is really good.

Books introduce us into the best society they bring us into the presence of the greatest minds that have ever lived. We hear what they said and did； we see them as if they were really alive； we sympathize with them， enjoy with them， grieve with them； their experience becomes ours， and we feel as if we were in a measure actors with them in the scenes which they describe.

The great and good do not die even in this world. Embalmed in books， their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which one still listens. Hence we ever remain under the influence of the great men of old. The imperial intellects of the world are as much alive now as they were ages ago.