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.
书 友
Companionship of Books
塞缪尔·斯迈尔斯 / Samuel Smiles
塞缪尔·斯迈尔斯（1812—1904），英国19世纪伟大的道德学家、著名的社会改革家和脍炙人口的散文随笔作家。赛缪尔一生写过二十多部著作，其中最受人喜爱的是有关人生成功与幸福，有关良知、信仰、道德、自由与责任等领域的随笔作品，这方面最著名的有《自己拯救自己》《品格的力量》《金钱与人生》和《人生的职责》。
读其书，如同读其人；同样，观其朋友，也如同观其人。书如同人，皆可成为伴侣。无论是以书为伴或以人为友，我们都应慎重选择，与佳者为伴。
好书犹如知己。不管过去、现在，还是将来，它都始终如一。它是最有耐心、最令人愉悦的伴侣。困难之际，它也不离不弃。它总是以善意接纳我们，在我们年轻时，好书能陶冶性情，增长知识；我们年老时，它又会给我们以慰藉。
好书可以使人们结为朋友，就像两个人会因为敬慕同一个人而成为朋友一样。古谚说“爱屋及乌”，但是，“爱我及书”这句话有更深的哲理。书是更为牢固和真实的情感纽带。假如拥有共同喜爱的作家，人们可以借此沟通思想感情。他们可以由此和作者产生共鸣。
黑兹利特曾经说过，“书潜移默化人们的内心，诗歌熏陶人们的气质品性。少小所习，老大不忘，恍如身历其事。书籍价廉物美，不啻我们呼吸的空气。”
好书犹如珍藏人一生思想精华的容器。人生的境界，主要就在于他思想的境界。所以，好书蕴藏着优美的语言、深邃的思想，倘若能铭记于心，就将成为我们忠实的伴侣和永恒的慰藉。菲利普·西德尼爵士说得好：“以高尚思想为伴的人永不孤独。”
当我们面临诱惑的时候，美好而纯真的思想就像仁慈的天使，保卫我们的灵魂，使她依旧纯洁。美好纯真的思想还珍藏着行动的胚芽，因为，金玉良言总能激发善行。
书是永恒不朽的，它是迄今为止人类不懈奋斗的珍宝。寺庙会坍塌，神像会朽烂，而书经久长存。在伟大的思想面前，时间显得微不足道。多少年前曾经感动作者的思想，今天依然清新如故。书记载了他们的言论和思想，现在看来依旧生动。时间唯一的作用是淘汰垃圾作品，只有真正的作品才能经受时间的检验而经久长存。
书引导我们迈入最优秀的领域，与历代伟人为伍，使我们如闻其声，如观其行，如见其人，如与他们朝夕相处，同欢喜、共伤悲。我们继承他们的感受，好似觉得在他们所描绘的舞台上跟他们同台献艺。
伟大杰出的人物在这世间不会消逝，书记载着他们的思想，然后传播开来。书是人们至今仍在聆听的思想回声，永远充满活力。因此，我们永远都在受着历代伟人的影响。多少年前的盖世英才，如同在他所生活的时代，今天依然显示着强大的生命力。
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.
