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University of California • Berkeley
Gift of
Chaklotte and Norman Strouse
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THE BOOK-LOVER'S ENCHIRIDION,
IRcviaeb anb Jgnlargeb,
A. IRELAND AND CO., PRINTERS,
MANCHESTER.
{Entered at Stationers' Hall.]
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lEncl^irrtrton:
THOUGHTS ON THE
Solace
AND
Companionship
OF
Books,
AND TOPICS INCIDENTAL THERETO;
GATHERED FROM THE BEST WRITERS OF
EVERY AGE, AND ARRANGED IN
CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER.
BY
^lexanbet Srelanti,
AUTHOR OP
" MEMOIR AND RECOLLECTIONS OF
RALPH WALDO EMERSON J "
"BlBLIOaRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL ACCOUNT
OF THE WRITINGS OF
WILLIAM HAZLITT AND LEIGH HUNT,
WITH A PAPER ON CHARLES AND MARY LAMB] "
ETC., ETC.
Uonlron :
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO.
W. & R. CHAMBERS.
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Infinite Riches in a little room.
Indocti discant et ameni inemi7tisse periti.
PREFACE.
One of the mottoes to this volume gives the key-note
to its contents. *' Infinite riches in a little room" —
a line from Christopher Marlowe, the dramatist —
describes aptly what the reader will find in it. My
object has been to present, in chronological order, the
summed-up testimonies of the most notable Book-
Lovers on the subject of Books, and the Habit and
Love of Reading. The writers from whom I have
made selections range from Solomon and Cicero to
Carlyle, Emerson, and Ruskin. On this bead-roll of
illustrious names —
Which down the steady breeze of honour sail,
will be found those of Horace, Seneca, Plutarch,
Richard de Bury, Petrarch, Chaucer, Erasmus,
Machiavelli, Luther, Ascham, Montaigne, Bacon,
Shakespeare, Daniel, Bishop Hall, Fuller, Milton,
Baxter, Cowley, Locke, Addison, Johnson, Gibbon,
Goethe, Wordsworth, Lamb, Southey, Hazlitt, Landor,
DeQuincey, Leigh Hunt, Bulwer, Macaulay, Herschel,
Carlyle, Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James
Russell Lowell, Ruskin, and more than two hundred
others.
The reader will find in the following pages the
deliberate utterances of the wisest and most searching
vi PREFACE.
spirits upon the subject of Books — their steadfast and
unpresuming friendship and silent counsels — the con-
solation they afford in every variety of circumstance
and fortune, and the ceaseless delights they bring us at
a trifling cost, without trouble or previous arrangement.
The writers of the present century have contributed, as
a matter of course, most largely to the general store of
thought on the subject to which this volume is specially
devoted. It will be seen that I have confined myself
to no peculiar class of authors, but have welcomed
every variety of thought, from whatever quarter it may
have come. Wherever I could find a passage suitable
to my purpose, I have not hesitated to adopt it, no
matter who was the author. No section of the
world's literature (English and American literature
more especially) which was likely to contribute to
my subject has been left unexplored. Apostles and
philosophers, archbishops, bishops, and learned doctors
of both the churches, dissenting divines, heretical
writers of every shade of unorthodoxy, legislators,
historians, biographers and men of science, novelists,
dramatists, writers on art, critics, essayists grave and
gay, and the sons and daughters of song, have been
laid under tribute to furnish material for this garner of
thought bearing upon Books.
To some readers it may appear that my selections
from certain writers occupy a disproportionate space
when compared with that assigned to others, I may
be permitted to say a word in explanation. It has
PREFACE. vii
been with regret that I have been unable to find any
passages on the subject-matter of this volume in the
works of some authors from whom I would have
been only too glad to quote. I may mention,
among others, Fielding, Goldsmith, Scott, Dickens,
Thackeray, Browning, and Tennyson. When the
reader finds only a sentence or two — perhaps not
even a line — from writers whom we know to have
beqn ardent Book-Lovers, he may conclude that they
have left no recorded thoughts exactly suitable to the
object of the present volume. Beautiful passages in
the domains of reflection, emotion, description, and
imagination I could have found in abundance in the
works of many authors who have yielded nothing to
the present store ; for it must be borne in mind that
I have had to confine myself strictly and rigidly to
what was applicable to my special subject— resolutely
rejecting matter of surpassing excellence which was
not pertinent to it, either directly or incidentally.
I may also say that I have, in the case of almost
every author, gone to the original sources for my
matter, so that the correctness of the text may be
relied upon. In a few cases only have I adopted
passages from existing collections of extracts.
It is hoped that this volume will meet some of the
special needs and moods of those earnest minds which
seek in books something more enduring than passing
amusement— something that will yield a satisfying and
tranquil joy, and beautify the hours of common daily
viii PREFACE.
life by unfolding deeply-hidden verities only revealed
to meditative souls. My desire has been to bring
together, from the reading of a life-time, a body of
thought, old and new, which will be welcomed by
those who find their highest and purest enjoyment in
contemplation — who fervently long to escape when
they can from "the fretful stir unprofitable, and the
fever of the world," and to dwell for a time in the
serene heaven of aspiration and self-communion, and
breathe its calm, restoring air. Such minds will be
refreshed and invigorated by a knowledge of the con-
solations and ennobling companionship which the most
gifted of our race have ever found in Books.
If these pages should assist the young by strengthening
good resolutions in the direction of self-culture and self-
help, and thus aid in fostering a love of literature
which may afterwards prove a resource and solace ; or,
in the case of those who have passed life's meridian,
help to beguile or brighten hours made heavy by care
or feeble health, by bringing them into closer contact
with superior souls, who in similar — perhaps even more
trying circumstances— have sought and found comfort
in communion with other men's thoughts, I shall feel
that my labour of love has been appreciated and
rewarded.
Alexander Ireland.
Ingle WOOD, Bowdon,
Cheshire,
September, 1883.
PREFACE TO THE FOURTH EDITION.
The Third Edition of this work (enlarged by
upwards of two hundred pages), consisting of
3,700 copies, was published in October last, and is
now nearly exhausted. The preparation of a Fourth
Edition has given me the opportunity of carefully
revising and improving it. I have corrected some
typographical errors, made a few excisions — substitu-
ting other extracts in place of those which have been
removed — and have, besides, enriched its contents by
the addition of sixteen pages of new matter, among
which the reader will find striking passages from an
address on Reading by Mr. John Morley, the dis-
tinguished biographer and critic, as well as some pithy
remarks from a paper on Books by the lately deceased
eminent scholar. Dr. Mark Pattison, of Lincoln College.
By the kindness of Mr. Charles Bray, of Coventry,
the venerable author of several interesting philoso-
phical works, I have been permitted to give a few
extracts, bearing on the special subject of this volume,
from his unpublished Autobiography. I now submit
the volume to the public in its improved form, in the
hope that it may continue to attract a steadily in-
creasing number of thoughtful readers.
A. I.
August, 1884.
CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF AUTHORS
QUOTED.
B.C.
Solomon 1033 — 975
Socrates 468 — 399
Plato 427— 347
Alexandrian Library .. .. .. 300 —
Cicero . . 106 — 41
Horace 65— 8
B.C. A.D.
Seneca • 58— 32
A.D.
St. Paul — 65
Quintilian .. .. .". • .. .. 42 — 115
Plutarch 46 — 120
Pliny, the Younger 61 — 105
Gospel of St. Matthew
Aulus Gellius • 117 — 180
From the Persian
Hindu Saying
, From the Persian
Bishop Richard de Bury 1287 — 1345
Francesco Petrarca , . . 1304— 1374
DoMiNico Mancini
Geoffrey Chaucer 1328 — 1400
Thomas A Kempis 1380 — 1471
J. Fortius Ringelbergius — 1536
Desiderius Erasmus 1467 — 1536
NiccoLO Machiavelli 1469 — 1527
Antonio de Guevara — 1544
Martin Luther.. .. .. .. .. 1483 — 1546
Roger Ascham 1515 — 1568
Michel de Montaigne 1537 — 1592
Joseph Scaliger 1540 — 1609
LIST OF AUTHORS. xi
John Florio 1545— 1625
Book of Common Prayer . . . . . . 1549
John Lylye 1553 — 1601
Sir Philip Sidney 1554— 1586
Lord Chandos — 1621
Lord Bacon 1561 — 1629
Samuel Daniel 1562—^1619
Joshua Sylvester 1563 — 1618
William Shakespeare . . . . . . 1564 — i'6i6
Alonzo of Arragon
Old English Song — —
A Sixteenth Century Writer .. ..
Bishop Joseph Hall . . . . . . . . 1574 — 1656
John Fletcher 1576 — 1625
Henry Peacham — 1640
Robert Burton 1576 — 1640
Sir Thomas OvERBURY 1581— 1613
John Hales . . . . 1584— 1656
Balthasar Bonifacius Rhodiginus .. 1584 — 1659
Francis Osborne — 1659
Leo Allatius 1586 — 1669
George Wither 1588—1667
James Shirley 1594 — 1666
Jean Eusebe Nierembergius .. .. 1595— 1658
Sir William Waller 1597— 1668
Rev. Antony Tuckney 1599 — 1670
Francesco Di RiojA 1600 — 1659
Peter du Moulin 1600— 1684
Dr. John Earle 1601 — 1665
Sir William Davenant 1605 — 1668
Sir Thomas Browne 1605 — 1682
Dr. Thomas Fuller .. 1608 — 1661
John Milton 1608— 1674
Earl of Clarendon ,. 1608— 1674
Sir Matthew Hale 1609 — 1676
Samuel Sorbiere . . . . . . . . 1610 — 1670
Owen Feltham 1610— 1678
Dr. Benjamin Whichcote 1610— 1683
xii CHRONOLOGICAL LIST
Early English Writer
m. toinard
Bishop Jeremy Taylor .. .. .. 1613— 1667
Due DE LA Rochefoucauld 1613— 1680
GiLLES Menage 1613 — 1692
Earl of Bedford . . . . , . . . 1613 — 1700
Urban Chevreau 1613— 1701
Rev. Richard Baxter 1615 — 1691
Dr. John Owen 1616— 1683
Abraham Cowley 1618 — 1667
Thomas V. Bartholin 1619 — 1680
Francis Charpentier 1620 — 1702
Henry Vaughan 1621— 1695
John Hall . . . . 1627 — 1656
Sir William Temple 1628 — 1698
Dr. Isaac Barrow 1630 — 1677
Charles Cotton . , 1630 — 1687
Bishop Huet 1630 — 1721
John Locke .. 1632 — 1704
Dr. Robert South .. .. ,. .. 1633 — 1716
Sir George Mackenzie 1636 — 1691
John de la Bruyere .. 1644 — 1696
Pierre Bayle 1647 — 1706
A Seventeenth Century Divine . . . .
Rev. Jeremy Collier 1650 — 1726
Archbishop Fenelon 1651 — 1715
Charles Blount 1654 — 1697
Thomas Fuller, M.D 1654— 1734
Edmund Halley 1656 — 1742
Rev. John Norris of Bemerton .. .. 1657 — 1711
Jonathan Swift . . . .' . . . . 1667 — 1745
William Congreve 1670 — 1729
Sir Richard Steele 1671 — 1729
Roger Gale 1672— 1744
Joseph Addison 1672 — 1719
Dr. Isaac Watts 1674— 1748
Rev. Conyers Middleton 1683— 1750
Alexander Pope .. 1688— 1744
OF AUTHORS. xiii
Baron Montesquieu 1689— 1755
Ladv Mary Wortley Montagu . . . . 1690 — 1762
Lord Chesterfield . . . . . . . . 1694 — 1773
FRAN901S M. A. de Voltaire .. .. 1694— 1778
Matthew Green 1696 — 1737
James Thomson 1700 — 1748
John Wesley 1703 — 1791
Henry Fielding .. .... .. 1707 — 1754
Samuel Johnson . . 1709 — 1784
David Hume 1712 — 1776
Jean Jacques Rousseau 1712— 1778
Laurence Sterne 1713 — 1768
Denys Diderot 1713 — 1789
William Shenstone 1714 — 1763
Horace Walpole 1717 — 1797
Oliver Goldsmith 1728—1774
Rev. William Dodd 1729—1777
GOTTHOLD EpHRAIM LeSSING .. ., 1729 — 1781
Edmund Burke 1729 — 1797
Dr. John Moore 1730 — 1802
William Cowper 1731— 1800
Edward Gibbon 1737 — 1794
J. G. VON Herder 1744 — 1803
Sir William Jones 1746 — 1794
Daniel Wyttenbach .. • 1746 — 1820
Countess de Genlis 1746— 1830
Dr. John Aikin 1747 — 1822
Richard Cecil 1748— 1816
J. Wolfgang von Goethe 1749 — 1832
ToMAS de Yriarte 1750 — 1791
Elizabeth Inchbald 1753— 1821
William Roscoe 1753 — 1831
George Crabbe 1754— 1832
William Godwin 1756 — 1836
Friedrich Schiller 1759 — 1805
William Cobbett 1762 — 1835
Sir S. Egerton Brydges 1762 — 1837
Jean Paul F. Richter 1763— 1825
xiv CHRONOLOGICAL LIST
Dk. John Ferriar 1764-
IsAAC Disraeli 1767-
JoHN Foster .. 1770 — :
William Wordsworth 1770 — :
James Montgomery 1771-
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772-
Robert Southey 1774 — :
Charles Lamb 1775 — :
Walter Savage Lai^dor 1775-
C. Frognall Dibdin 1776-
WiLLiAM Hazlitt- 1 778 — :
Lord Brougham 1778-
■ Rev. Charles C. Colton 1780-
Dr. William Ellery Channing . . . . 1780-
John Kenyon 1783-
Washington Irving 1783-
Leigh Hunt 1784 — :
Thomas Love Peacock 1785
Thomas de Quincey 1786 — :
Archbishop Whately . . .. .. .. 1787 — :
Isaac Taylor . . . . 1787-
Bryan W. Procter (Barry Cornwall) . . 1787 — :
Lord Byron 178
Dr. Arnott 178
Arthur Schopenhauer 178
Charles Knight 1791 — :
Lord Mahon 1791
Sir John Herschel 1792 — :
Dr. Arnold 1795-
Judge Talfourd i795-
Rev. Julius C. Hare 1795 — :
Thomas Carlyle 1795 — :
Hartley Coleridge 1796 — :
Bishop Thirl wall . . .... . . 1797 — :
A. Bronson Alcott i799(li'
Lord Macaulay 1800 — :
William Chambers .. 1800 — :
James Crossley 1800 — :
OF AUTHORS.
Earl of Shaftesbury
Robert Chambers
Chief Justice CocKBURN
Victor Hugo
Hugh Miller . .
Lord Lytton (E. L. Bulwer)
Ralph Waldo Emerson
Richard Cobden
Rev. Frederick Denison Maurice
Samuel Palmer
Lord Beaconsfield
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow ..
Mrs. Caroline Norton
George S. Hillard
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Rev. Robert Aris Willmott
Dr. John Hill Burton
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes
William Ewart Gladstone
Lord Houghton (R. M. Milnes) . .
Rev. Theodore Parker
Dr. John Brown .. ..
W. M. Thackeray
John Bright
Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe)
Charles Bray . . . . . .
Francis Bpnnoch
Rev. George Gilfillan
Rev. Henry Ward Beecher
Mark Pattison..
Sara P. Parton (Fanny Fern) ..
Anthony Trollope
John Cameron . .
Rev. Frederick William Robertson
George S. Phillips (January Searle)
John G. Saxe
Philip James Bailey
Sir Arthur Helps
80 1 (living)
802 — I 87 I
802—1880
8o2(liyiAgl Lt^-O^X (tiS
802—1856
803—1873
803—1882
804—1865
805 — 1872
805— .1881
805—1881
807—1882
808—1877
808— (?)
809—1861
809 — 1862
809—1881
8o9(Uving)
810—1860
810—1882
811— 1863
8ii(Uving)
811 „
811 „
812 „
813—1878
813 (living)
813—1884
8i4-(?)
815—1882
(Living)
816—1853
8i6-(?)
816—
816 (living)
817—1875
xvi LIST OF AUTHORS.
Eliza Cook i8i8(living)
Rev. Charles Kingsley 1819— 1875
John Ruskin iSigOiving)
James Russell Lowell .. .. .. 1819 ,,
Walt Whitman 1819 ,,
Marian Evans (George Eliot) .. .. 1820— 1881
George Dawson.. 1821 — 1876
Robert Leighton 1822 — 1869
Charles Buxton 1822 — 1871
J. A. Langford i823(living)
Rev. Robert Collyer 1823 ,,
James Hain Friswell 1827 — 1878
C. Kegan Paul i828(living)
Alexander Smith 1830 — 1867
W. H. Rands (Matthew Browne) . . — 1882
Frederic Harrison 1831 (living)
Earl Lytton (Owen Meredith) .. .. 1831 ,,
Philip Gilbert Hamerton 1834 ,,
Frank Carr (Launcelot Cross) .. .. 1834 ,,
Frances R. Havergal 1836— 1879
William Blades (Living)
William Freeland .. ,,
John Morley ,,
Edwin P. Whipple ,,
William E. A. Axon .. ,,
Andrew Lang „
Rev. James Freeman Clarke .. .. ,,
Austin Dobson • ,,
Robert Louis Stevenson ,,
Charles F. Richardson ,,
John Cameron ,, '
Anonymous Authors.
A Woman's Tribute to Books.
Remarks on Book-Borrowers.
PRELUDE OF MOTTOES.
Solomon.
He that walketh with wise men shall be wise.
St. Paul.
Give attendance to reading.
Seneca.
If you devote your time to study, you will avoid all the
irksomeness of this life ; nor will you long for the approach of
night, being tired of the day; nor will you be a burden to
yourself, nor your society insupportable to others.
Petrarch.
Books never pall on us. . . . They discourse with us,
they take counsel with us, and are united to us by a certain living
familiarity. It is easy to gain access to these friends, for they
are always at my service, and I admit them to my company, or
dismiss them from it, whenever I please. They are never
troublesome, but immediately answer every question I ask them.
Montaigne.
To divert myself from a troublesome fancy, 'tis but to run to
my books. They always receive me with the same kindness.
The sick man is not to be lamented, who has his cure in his sleeve.
In the experience and practice of this sentence, which is a very
true one, all the benefit I reap from books consists. For it is not
to ba imagined to what degree I please myself, and rest content
in this consideration, that I have them by me, to divert myself
with them when I am so disposed, and to call to mind what an
ease and assistance they are to my life. 'Tis the best viaticum
I have yet foimd out for this human journey, and I very much
lament those men of understanding who are unprovided of it.
Bacon.
For Friends, although your lordship be scant, yet I hope yoit.
are not altogether destitute ; if you be, do but look upon good
books : they are true friends, that will neither flatter nor dis-
semble : be you but true to yourself, applying that which they
teach unto the party grieved, and you shall need no other com-
fort, nor counsel. To them and to God's holy Spirit, directing
you in the reading of them, I commend your lordship. — Letter
to Chief Justice Coke.
Milton.
For Books are not absolutely dead things, but do contain a
potencie of life in them to be as active as that soul was whose
progeny they are ; nay, they do preserve as in a violl the purest
efficacie and extraction of that living intellect that bred them.
. . . A good book is the precious life-blood of a master spirit,
embalm'd and treasur'd up on purpose to a life beyond life.
Sir Thomas Browne.
They do most by books, who could do much without them ;.
and he that chiefly owes himself unto himself, is the substantial
Pope.
At this day, as much company as I have kept, and as much as
I love it, I love reading better. I would rather be employed in
reading than in the most agreeable conversation.
Gibbon.
A taste for books is the pleasure and glory of my life. It is a
taste which I would not exchange for the wealth of the Indies. The
miseries of a vacant life are never known to a man whose hours
are insufficient for the inexhaustible pleasure of study.
Wordsworth.
. . . Books, we know,
Are a substantial world, both pure and good ;
Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood.
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
Charles Lamb.
I must confess that I dedicate no inconsiderable portion of my
time to other people's thoughts. I dream away my life in others'
speculations. I love to lose myself in other men's minds. When
I am not walking, I am reading ; I cannot sit and think. Books
think for me. I have no repugnances. ... I can read any-
thing which I call a book. There are things in that shape,
however, which I cannot allow for such. . . . With these
exceptions, I can read almost anything. I bless my stars for a
taste so catholic, so unexcluding.
William Hazlitt.
Books wind into the heart. . . . We read them when
young, we remember them when old. We read there of what has
happened to others ; we feel that it has happened to ourselves.
We owe everything to their authors, on this side barbarism. . . .
Even here, on Salisbury Plain, with a few old authors, I can
manage to get through the summer or winter months, without
ever knowing what it is to feel ennui. They sit with me at break-
fast ; they walk out with me before dinner — and at night, by the
blazing hearth, discourse the silent hours away.
Books let us into the souls of men, and lay open to us the
secrets of our own. They are the first and last, the most home-
felt, the most heart-felt of all our enjoyments.
Leigh Hunt.
How pleasant it is to reflect that the greatest lovers of Books
have themselves become books. . . . The little body of thought
that lies before me in the shape of a book has existed thousands
of years ; nor, since the invention of printing, can anything, short
of an universal convulsion of nature, abolish it. . . . May I
hope to become the meanest of these existences ? I should like
to remain visible in this shape. The little of myself that pleases
myself, I could wish t® be accounted worth pleasing others.. I
should like to survive so, were it only for the sake of those who
love me in private, knowing as I do what a treasure is the posses-
sion of a friend's mind, when he is no more. • At all events,
nothing, while I live and think, can deprive me of my value for
such treasures. I can help the appreciation -of them while I last,
and love them till I die ; and perhaps, if fortune turns her face
once more in kindness upon me before I go, I may chance, some
quiet day, to lay my over-beating temples on a book, and so have
the death I most envy.
Carlyle.
It is lawful for the solitary wight to express the love he feels
for those companions so stedfast and unpresuming, that go or come
without reluctance, and that, when his fellow-animals are proud, or
stupid, or peevish, are ever ready to cheer the languor of his soul,
and gild the barrenness of life with the treasures of bygone times.
If a Book come from the heart, it will contrive to reach
other hearts; all art and author-craft are of small account to
that. ... In Books lies the soul of th« whole Past Time ; the
articulate audible voice of the Past, when the body and material
substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. . .
All that Mankind has done, thought, gained, or been ; it is lying
as in magic preservation in the pages of Books.
Emerson.
In the highest civilization the book is still the highest delight.
He. who has once known its satisfactions is provided with a
resource against calamity. Angels they are to us of entertain-
ment, sympathy, and provocation. With them many of as spend
the most of our life, — these silent guides, these tractable prophets,
historians, and singers, whose embalmed life is the highest feat of
art ; who now cast their moonlight illumination over solitude,
weariness, and fallen fortunes. . . . Consider what you have in
the smallest chosen library. A company of the wisest and wittiest
men picked out of all civil countries, in a thousand years, have set
in best order the results of their learning and wisdom. . . .
I hold that we have never reached the best use of books until
cur own thought rises to such a pitch that we cannot afford to
read much. I own this loftiness is rare, and we must long be
thankful to our silent friends before the day comes when we can
honestly dismiss them.
RUSKIN.
Will you go and gossip with your housemaid, or your stable boy^
when you may talk with kings and queens, while this eternal court is
open to you, with its society wide as the world, multitudinous as its
days, the chosen, and the mighty, of every place and time ? Into
that you may enter always j in that you may take fellowship and rank
according to your wish ; from that, once entered into it, you can never
be outcast but by your own fault ; by your aristocracy of companion-
ship there, your own inherent aristocracy will be assuredly tested,
and the motives with which you strive to take high place in the society
of the living, measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in
them, by the place you desire to take in this company of the Dead.
THE
v5
Book^Xovcr's jEncbiriMon*
Solomon, b.c. 1033 — 975.
He that walketh with wise men shall be wise. —
Proverbs xiii. 20.
A word spoken in due season, how good is it ! —
Proverbs xv. 23.
Apply thine heart unto instruction, and thine ears to
the words of knowledge. — Proverbs xxiii. 12.
Socrates, b.c. 468 — 399.
Employ your time in improving yourself by other
men's writings ; so you shall come easily by what
others have laboured hard for. Prefer knowledge to
wealth, for the one is transitory, the other perpetual.
Plato, b.c. 427 — 347.
Books are the immortal sons deifying their sires.
s CICERO,
Inscription on the Library at Alex-
andria. Founded about 300 b.c.
The Nourishment of the Soul ; or, according
to Diodorus, The Medicine of the Mind.
Cicero, b.c. 106 — 41.
Nam ceterse neque temporum sunt, neque setatum
omnium, neque locorum ; at hoec studia adolescentiam
alunt, senectutem oblectant, secundas res ornant,
adversis perfugium ac solatium praebent ; delectant
domi, non impediunt foris ; pernoctant nobiscum,
peregrinantur, rusticantur. — Pro Archid Poetd^ cap. 7.
Trans. For other occupations are not for all times,
or all ages, or all places. But these studies are the ali-
ment of youth, the comfort of old age ; an adornment
of prosperity, a refuge and a solace in adversity ; a
delight in our home, and no incumbrance abroad ;
companions in our long nights, in our travels, in our
country retirement. \_Translated by R. R. D."]
Remember not to give up your books to anybody ;
but keep them, as you say, for me. I entertain the
strongest affection for them, as I do now disgust for
everything else.
Keep your books and do not despair of my being
able to make them mine ; which, if I accomplish, I
shall exceed Croesus in riches, and look down with
contempt upon the houses and lands of all the world. —
Epistles to Attiais, vii. ix. \_HeherderC s TransIatio7i.'\
HORA CE— SENECA . 3
I have at all times free access to my books ; they
are never occupied. — De Rep.^ i.
Horace, b.c. 65 — 8.
Lectio, quae placuit, decies repetita placebit. — De
Arte Poet., line 365.
Trans. The reading which has pleased, will please
when repeated ten times.
O rus, quando ego te aspiciam ? quandoque licebit.
Nunc veterum libris, nunc somno et inertibus horis,
Ducere solicitae jucunda oblivia vitae? c / tt
Trans. O country, when shall I behold thee? When
shall I be permitted to enjoy a sweet oblivion of the
anxieties of life, sometimes occupied with the writings
of the men of old, sometimes in slumbrous ease, or
tranquil abstraction ? \1 r an slated by R. R. D.\
Seneca, b.c. 58 — a.d. 32.
The reading of many authors, and of all kinds of
works, has in it something vague and unstable. —
Epist. 2.
The multitude of books distracts. — Id. 2.
It does not matter how many, but how good, books
you have. — Id. 15.
Definite reading is profitable ; miscellaneous reading
is pleasant. — Id. 45.
Leisure without study is death, and the grave of a
living man. — Id. 82.
If you devote your time to study, you will avoid all
the irksomeness of this life ; nor will you long for the
4 SENECA.
approach of night, being tired of the day ; nor will
you be a burden to yourself, nor your society insup-
portable to others. — Id. 82.
Reading nourishes the mind, and, when it is wearied
with study, refreshes it, but not without study. —
Id. 84.
We ought to imitate the bees, and to separate all the
materials which we have gathered from multifarious
reading, for they keep best separate; and then, by
applying the study and ability of our own minds, to
concoct all those various contributions into one flavour.
—Id. 84.
He that is well employed in his study, though he
may seem to do nothing, yet does the greatest things
of all others. — Id. 84.
What is the use of countless books and libraries
whose owner hardly reads through their titles in his
whole life ? — De Tranq. An. 9.
The crowd of teachers is burdensome and not in-
struetive ; and it is much better to trust yourself to a
few good authors than to wander through several. —
Id. 9.
Procure a sufficient number of books, but not for
show. — Id. 9.
As long as the aliments of which we have partaken
retain their own nature and float as solids in our
stomach, they are burdensome ; but when they have
changed from their former state, then, and not till
then, they enter into our strength and blood. Let us
do the same with the foods which nourish our minds,
so that we do not suffer the things we have taken in
PLUTARCH— ST. MATTHEW-QUINTILIAN. 5
to remain whole and foreign. Let us digest them !
otherwise they enter our memory, but not our mind. —
Id. 84. [Translated by /. N.^
Plutarch, a.d. 46 — 120.
We ought to regard books as we do sweetmeats,
not wholly to aim at the pleasantest, but chiefly to
respect the wholesomest ; not forbidding either, but
approving the latter most.
AuLUS Gellius. cir. 117 — 180 a.d.
The things which are well said do not improve the
disposition of the young so much as those which are
wickedly said corrupt them. — Noct. Att. 12, 2.
Gospel of St. Matthew.
A good man out of the good treasure of the heart
bfingeth forth good things.
By thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy
words thou shalt be condemned. — St. Matthew xii.
35 «^^ 37.
QUINTILIAN. A.D. 42 — II5.
Reading is free, and does not exhaust itself with the
act, but may be repeated, in case you are in doubt, or
wish to impress it deeply on the memory. Let us
repeat it; and — just as we swallow our food masti-
cated and nearly fluid, in order that it may be more
easily digested — so our reading should not be delivered
to the memory in its crude state, but sweetened and
worked up by frequent repetition. — Inst. Or at. 10, i.
6 PLINY— ST. PAUL.
Every good writer is to be read, and diligently ; and,
when the volume is finished, is to be gone through
again from the beginning. — Id. lo.
The reader should not at once persuade himself that
all things that the best writers have said are absolutely
perfect. — Id. lo. {Translated by J. N.'\
Pliny, the Younger, a.d. 6i.
d. AFTER 105.
The elder Pliny used to say that no Book was so
bad but that some part of it might be profitable. —
Epist. 3.
They say we should read much, not many things.—
Id. 7.
St. Paul. a.d. 65.
For whatsoever things were written aforetime were
written for our learning. — Romans xv. 4.
All may learn, and all may be comforted. — I Corin-
thians xiv. 31.
From the Persian.
A wise man knows an ignorant one, because he has
been ignorant himself ; but the ignorant cannot recog-
nise the wise, because he has never been wise.
Hindu Saying.
The words of the good are like a staff in a slippery
place.
persian sa ying-richard de bury 7
From the Persian.
They asked their wisest man by what means he had
attained to such a degree of knowledge ? He replied :
"Whatever I did not know, I was not ashamed 10
inquire about. Inquire about everything that you do
not know ; since, for the small trouble of asking, you
will be guided in the road of knowledge."
Richard de Bury. 1287 — 1345.
In Books we find the dead as it were living ; in
Books we foresee things to come ; in Books warlike
affairs are methodized ; the rights of peace proceed
from Books. All things are corrupted and decay with
time. Saturn never ceases to devour those whom he
generates ; insomuch that the glory of the world would
be lost in oblivion if God had not provided mortals
with a remedy in Books. Alexander t«he ruler of the
world ; Julius the invader of the world and of the city,
the first who in unity of person assumed the empire in
arms and arts ; the faithful Fabricius, the rigid Cato,
would at this day have been without a memorial if
the aid of Books had failed them. Towers are razed
to the earth, cities overthrown, triumphal arches
mouldered to dust; nor can the King or Pope be
found, upon whom the privilege of a lasting name can
be conferred more easily than by Books. A Book
made, renders succession to the author : for as long as
the Book exists, the author remaining a^amTo?, im-
mortal, cannot perish. . . . The holy Boetius
attributes a threefold existence to Truth, — in the mind.
8 RICHARD DE BURY.
in the voice, and in writing ; it appears to abide most
usefully and fructify most productively of advantage in
Books. For the Truth of the voice perishes with the
sound. Truth latent in the mind, is hidden wisdom
and invisible treasure ; but the Truth which illuminates
Books desires to manifest itself to every disciplinable
sense, to the sight when read, to the hearing when
heard : it, moreover, in a manner commends itself to
the touch, when submitting to be transcribed, collated,
corrected and preserved. Truth confined to the mind,
though it may be the possession of a noble soul, while
it wants a companion and is not judged of, either by
the sight, or the hearing, appears to be inconsistent
with pleasure. But the Truth of the voice is open to
the hearing only, and latent to the sight (which shows
us many differences of things fixed upon by a most
subtle motion, beginning and ending as it were simul-
taneously). But the Truth written in a Book, being not
fluctuating, but permanent, shows itself openly to the
sight, passing through the spiritual ways of the eyes,
as the porches and halls of common sense and imagi-
nation ; it enters the chamber of intellect, reposes
itself upon the couch of memory, and there congene-
frates the eternal Truth of the mind.
Lastly, let us consider how great a commodity of
doctrine exists in Books, how easily, how secretly,
how safely they expose the nakedness of human igno-
rance without putting it to shame. These are the
masters who instruct us without rods and ferules,
without hard words and anger, without clothes or
money. If you approach them, they are not asleep ;
if investigating you interrogate them, they conceal
RICHARD DE B UR Y—PE TRA RCH. 9
nothing ; if you mistake them, they never grumble ;
if you are ignorant, they cannot laugh at you.
You only, O Books, are liberal and independent.
You give to all who ask, and enfranchise all who
serve you assiduously. . . . Truly you are the
ears filled with most palatable grains. . . ' . You
are golden urns in which manna is laid up, rocks
flowing with honey, or rather indeed honeycombs ;
udders most copiously yielding the milk of life, store-
rooms ever full ; the four-streamed river of Paradise,
where the human mind is fed, and the arid intellect
moistened and watered ; . . . fruitful olives, vines
of Engaddi, fig-trees knowing no sterility; burning
lamps to be ever held in the hand.
The library, therefore, of wisdom is more precious
than all riches, and nothing that can be wished for is
worthy to be compared with it. Whosoever, therefore,
acknowledges himself to be a zealous follower of truth,
of happiness, of wisdom, of science, or even of the
faith, must of necessity make himself a Lover of Books.
— Philobiblon, a Treatise on the Love of Books : written
in Latin in 1344, and translated fro7?i the first edition ,
1473, by J. B. Inglis. (London^ 1832.^
Francesco Petrarca. 1304 — 1374.
Books never pall on me. . . . They discourse
with us, they take counsel with us, and are united to
us by a certain living chatty familiarity. And not
only does each book inspire the sense that it belongs
to its readers, but it also suggests the name of others,
and one begets the desire of the other. — Epistolce
de Rebus Familiarihiis (Jos. FrancasettC s Edition).
lo PETRARCH.
Epistle viii., Book xvii., is devoted to shewing "how
contemptible is the lust of wealth when compared with
the noble thirst for learning."
Joy \loquitu7'\ : I consider Books aids to learning.
Reason : But take care lest they are rather hin-
drances ; some have been prevented from conquering
by the numbers of their soldiers, so many have found
the multitude of their books a hindrance to learning,
and abundance has bred want, as sometimes happens.
But if the many Books are at hand, they are not to be
cast aside, but to be gleaned, and the best used ; and
care should be taken that those which might have
proved seasonable auxiliaries,'do not become hindrances
out of season. — De Reinediis utritisque Fortunes^
Edition of 1613, p. 174. {Translated by /. N.'\
The friends of Petrarch apologized to him for the
length of time between their visits :
*' It is impossible for us to follow your example : the
life you lead is contrary to human nature. In winter,
you sit like an owl, in the chimney corner. In summer,
you are running incessantly about the fields."
Petrarch smiled at these observations :
"These people," said he, "consider the pleasures
of the world as the supreme good, and cannot bear
the idea of renouncing them. I have Friends,
whose society is extremely agreeable to me : they are
of all ages, and of every country. They have dis-
tinguished themselves both in the cabinet and in the
field, and obtained high honours for their knowledge
of the sciences. It is easy to gain access to them ;
PETRARCH— MANCINL it
for they are always at my service, and I admit them
to my company, and dismiss them from it, whenever I
please. They are never troublesome, but immediately
answer every question I ask them. Some relate to me
the events of past ages, while others reveal to me the
secrets of nature. Some teach me how to live, and
others how to die. Some, by their vivacity, drive
away my cares and exhilarate my spirits, while others
give fortitude to my mind, and teach me the important
lesson how to restrain my desires, and to depend
wholly on myself. They open to me, in short, the
various avenues of all the arts and sciences, and upon
their information I safely rely, in all emergencies. In
return for all these services, they only ask me to ac-
commodate them with a convenient chamber in some
corner of my humble habitation, where they may
repose in peace : for these friends are more delighted
by the tranquillity of retirement, than with the tumults
of society."
DoMiNico Mancini (a contemporary
OF Petrarch).
In vain that husbandman his seed doth sow,
If he his crop not in due season mow.
A general sets his army in array
In vain, unless he fight, and win the day.
'Tis virtuous action that must praise bring forth.
Without which slow advice is little worth.
Yet they who give good counsel, praise deserve,
Though in the active part they cannot serve ;
12 MANCINI—CHA UCER.
In action, learned counsellors their age,
Profession, or disease, forbids t' engage.
Nor to philosophers is praise deny'd.
Whose wise instructions after-ages guide ;
Yet vainly most their age in study spend ;
No end of writing books, and to no end :
Beating their brains for strange and hidden things,
Whose knowledge, nor delight nor profit brings :
Themselves with doubt both day and night perplex.
Nor gentle reader please, or teach, but vex.
Books should to one of these four ends conduce,
For wisdom, piety, delight, or use.
Then seek to know those things which make us blest,
And having found them, lock them in thy breast.
In vain on study time away we throw.
When we forbear to act the things we know.
God, who to thee reason and knowledge lent,
Will ask how these two talents have been spent.
Libellus de quattuor Virtutibus, Paj-iSy 1484.
Translated by Sir John Denham. Chal-
mers* English Poets y vol. vii. /. 255.
Geoffrey Chaucer. 1328 — 1400.
A Gierke ther was of Oxenford also,
That unto logik hadde long i-go
For him was lever have at his beddes head
Twenty bookes, clothed in blak and reed,
Of Aristotil, and of his philosophic.
CHAUCER— THOMAS A KEMP IS, 13
But al though he were a philosophre,
Yet hadde he but litul gold in cofre ;
But al that he might of his frendes hente,
On bookes and his lernyng he it spente.
Prologue to the Canterbury. Tales,
And as for me, though that I konne but lyte,
On bokes for to rede I me delyte, "
And to hem yeve I feyth and ful credence,
And in myn herte have hem in reverence
So hertely, that ther is game noon,
That fro my bokes maketh me to goon,
But yt be seldome on the holy day,
Save, certeynly, whan that the monethe of May
Is comen, and that I here the foules synge,
And that the floures gynnen for to sprynge,
Farwel my boke; and my devocion !
Prologue to the Legende of Goode Women.
For out of old fieldes, as men saithe,
Cometh all this new come fro yere to yere,
And out of old bookes, in good faithe,
Cometh al this new science that men lere.
The Assefnbly of Foules.
Thomas a Kempis. 1380 — 1471.
If thou wilt receive profit, read with humility, sim-
plicity, and faith ; and seek not at any time the fame
of being learned. — Book I. chap. v.
Verily, when the day of judgment comes, we shall
not be examined what we have read, but what we have
14 RINGELBERGIUS.
done ; nor how learnedly we have spoken, but how
religiously we have lived. — Book I. chap. vi.
JoACHiMUS Fortius Ringelbergius.
d. 1536.
Let no one be dejected, if he is not conscious of any
great advantage in study at first. For as we know,
that the hour-hand of a timepiece moves progressively
onward, notwithstanding we cannot discern its mo-
mentary motion; and as we see trees and herbs
increase and grow to maturity, although we are not
able to perceive their hourly progress ; so do we know
that learning and study, although their transitions be
imperceptible at the moment of observation, are sure in
their advancement. The merchant thinks himself happy
if after a ten years voyage, after a thousand dangers, he
at length improves his fortune ; and shall we, like poor-
spirited creatures, give up all hopes after the first
onset ? No ! let us rather adopt this as our maxim,
that whatever the mind has commanded itself to do,
it is sure of obtaining its purpose.
To those who are accustomed to spend more time in
slumber than the nature of their studies, and these our
admonitions will admit of; an alarum clock, which
might be set to any hour they chose, would be found
highly serviceable. I myself, when I have been upon
a journey, or sojourning in any place where a machine
of this kind could not be obtained, have actually slept
upon two flat pieces of wood, laid transversely upon
RINGELBERGIUS. 15
my bed, lest I should slumber too long. Nor have I
felt any inconvenience from this, for I have uniformly
found by experience, that when weary, I have slept
soundly, notwithstanding the hardness of my couch,
and when sufficiently refreshed, the hardness of my
couch has compelled me to quit it. But this to most
men would be a harsh experiment, and one which per-
haps few, however attached they may be to literary
pursuits, would care to try. I therefore recommend
the alarum in preference ; or what is infinitely better
than either, a firm resolution not to continue to
slumber after a certain hour of the morning.
Let us detach ourselves from things trifling and
insignificant, and give ourselves up to the study
of things worthy our nature and capacity. We
all value our possessions, much more ought we to
estimate our time. Yet such is the irrationality of our
conduct, that if we should happen by some mischance
to lose a portion of our property, which by industry
may be easily recovered, we fill the air with our
lamentations ; but we not only bear the loss of time,
which can never be recovered, with equanimity, but
with manifest indications of joy and satisfaction.
He who aspires to the character of a man of
learning, has taken upon himself the performance of
no common task. The ocean of literature is without
limit. How then will he be able to perform a voyage,
even to a moderate distance, if he waste his time in
dalliance on the shore ? Our only hope is in exertion.
i6 ERASMUS.
Let our only reward be that of industry. Unless
we are vigilant to gather the fruit of time, whilst the
autumn of life is yet with us ; we shall, at the close of
its winter, descend into the grave as the beasts which
perish, without having left a record behind us to in-
form posterity that we ever existed. — "Z>^ Ratione
Studii;" translated by G. B, Earp^from the Edition of
Erpenius [1619], who gave it the title of ^^ Liber vere
Aureus,'''' or " The truly Golden Treatise.''^
Desiderius Erasmus. 1467 — 1536.
At the first it is no great Matter how much you
Learn ; but how well you learn it. And now take a
Direction how you may not only learn well, but easily
too ; for the right Method of Art qualifies the Artist to
perform his Work not only well and expeditiously, but
easily too. Divide the Day into Tasks, as we read
Pliny the Second, and Pope Pius the Great did, Men
worthy to be remember'd by all Men. In the first
Part of it, which is the chief Thing of all, hear the
Master interpret, not only attentively, but with a Sort
of Greediness, not being content to follow him in his
Dissertations with a slow Pace, but striving to out-strip
him a little. Fix all his Sayings in your Memory, and
commit the rnost material of them to Writing, the
faithful Keeper of Words. And be sure to take Care
not to rely upon them, as that ridiculous rich Man that
Seneca speaks of did, who had form'd a Notion, that
whatsoever of Literature any of his Servants had, was
his own. By no Means have your Study furnish'd
with learned Books, and be unlearned yourself. Don't
ERASMUS. 17
sufferwhat you hear to slip out of your Memory, butrecite
it either with yourself, or to other Persons. Nor let this
suffice you, but set apart some certain Time for Medita-
tion ; which one Thing as St. Aurelius writes does most
notably conduce to assist both Wit and Memory. An
Engagement and combating of Wits does in an extraor-
dinary Manner both shew the Strength of Genius's, rouzes
them, and augments them. If you are in Doubt of any
Thing, don't be asham'd to ask ; or if you have committed
an Error, to be corrected. Avoid late and unseasonable
Studies, for they murder Wit, and are very prejudicial to
Health. The Muses love the Morning, and that is a fit
Time for Study, After you have din'd, either divert
yourself at some Exercise, or take a Walk, and discourse
merrily, and Study between whiles. As for Diet, eat
only as much as shall be sufficient to preserve Health,
and not as much or more than the Appetite may crave.
Before Supper, take a little Walk, and do the same
after Supper. A little before you go to sleep read some-
thing that is exquisite, and worth remembring ; and
contemplate upon it till you fall asleep ; and when you
awake in the Morning, call yourself to an Account for
it. Alwa)^ keep this Sentence of Pliny's in your Mind,
All that time is lost that you donH bestow on Study,
Think upon this, that there is nothing more fleeting
than Youth, which, when once it is past, can never
be recall'd. But now I begin to be an Exhorter, when
I promis'd to be a Director. My sweet Christian,
follow this Method, or a better, if you can ; and so
farewell.— "C^//^^«/>j; Of the Method of Study ; To
Chrisiianus of Ltibeck.^^ [Fj^om the Latin text of
P. Scriver's Edition, printed by the Elzevirs, 1643.]
C
1 8 MA CHI A VEL L I—L U THER .
NiccoLo Machiavelli. 1469 — 1527.
When evening has arrived, I return home, and go
into my study. ... I pass into the antique courts
of ancient men, where, welcomed lovingly by them, I
feed upon the food which is my own, and for which I was
hjorn. Here, I can speak with them without show, and
can ask of them the motives of their actions ; and
they respond to me by virtue of their humanity. For
hours together, the miseries of life no longer annoy
me ; I forget every vexation ; I do not fear poverty ;
and death itself does not dismay me, for I have
altogether transferred myself to those with whom I
hold converse. — Opere di Machiavelli^ Editione Italia,
1813, z/^/. viii. {Translated by E. H.^
Martin Luther. 1483 — 1546.
Every great book is an action, and every great
action is a book.
All who would study with advantage in any art what-
soever, ought to betake themselves to the reading of
some sure and certain books oftentimes over ; for to
read many books produceth confusion, rather than
learning, like as those who dwell everywhere are not
anywhere at home. — Table Talk,
Roger Ascham. 15 15 — 15'68.
Before I went into Germany, I came to Broadgate
in Leicestershire, to take my leave of that noble lady
Jane Grey, to whom I was exceeding much beholding.
ROGER AS CHAM. xg
Her parents, the duke and duchess, with all the house-
hold, gentlemen and gentlewomen, were hunting in
the park. I found her in her chamber, reading Phado
Platonis in Greek, and that with as much delight as
some gentlemen would read a merry tale in Boccace.
After salutation, and duty done, with some other talk,
I asked her, why she would leese such pastime in the
park? Smiling, she answered me; "I wist, all their
sport in the park is but a shadow to that pleasure that I
find in Plato. Alas ! good folk, they never felt what true
pleasure meant. " * * And how came you, madam, " quoth
I, "to this deep knowledge of pleasure? and what did
chiefly allure you into it, seeing not many women, but
very few men, have attained thereunto?" "I will tell
you," quoth she, "and tell you a truth, which perchance
ye will marvel at. One of the greatest benefits that
ever God gave me, is, that he sent me so sharp and
severe parents, and so gentle a schoolmaster. For
when I am in presence either of father or mother ;
whether I speak, keep silence, sit, stand, or go, eat,
drink, be merry, or sad, be sewing, playing, dancing,
or doing anything else ; I must do it, as it were, in
such weight, measure, and number, even so perfectly,
as God made the world ; or else I am so sharply
taunted, so cruelly threatened, yea presently sometimes
•with pinches, nips, and bobs, and other ways (which
I will not name for the honour I bear them) so
without measure misordered, that I think myself in
hell, till time come that I must go to Mr. Elmer ;
who teacheth me so gently, so pleasantly, with such
fair allurements to learning, that I think all the time
nothing whiles I am with him. And when I am called
20 ROGER ASCHAM.
from him, I fall on weeping, because whatsoever I do
else but learning, is full of grief, trouble, fear, and
whole misliking unto me. And thus my book hath
been so much my pleasure, and bringeth daily to me
more pleasure and more, that in respect of it, all other
pleasures, in very deed, be but trifles and troubles
unto me."
I remember this talk gladly, both because it is so
worthy of memory, and because also it was the last
talk that ever I had, and the last time that ever I saw
that noble and worthy lady.
And I do not mean by all this my talk, that young
gentlemen should always be poring on a book, and by
using good studies should leese honest pleasure, and
haunt no good pastime : I mean nothing less. For it
is well known that I both like and love, and have
always, and do yet still use all exercises and pastimes
that be fit for my nature and ability: and beside
natural disposition, in judgment also I was never
either stoic in doctrine or anabaptist in religion, to
mislike a merry, pleasant, and playful nature, if no
outrage be committed against law, measure, and good
order. Therefore I would wish, that beside some good
time fitly appointed, and constantly kept, to increase by
reading the knowledge of the tongues and learning;
young gentlemen should use, and delight in all courtly
exercises, and gentlemanlike pastimes. And good cause
why: for the self same noble city of Athens, justly
commended of me before, did wisely, and upon great
consideration, appoint the Muses, Apollo and Pallas, to
ROGER ASCHAM. 21
be patrons of learning to their youth. For the Muses,
besides learning, were also ladies of dancing, mirth,
and minstrelsy : Apollo was god of shooting, and author
of cunning playing upon instruments ; Pallas also was
lady mistress in wars. Whereby was nothing else
meant, but that learning should be always mingled
with honest mirth and comely exercises ; and that war
also should be governed by learning and moderated
by wisdom.
Indeed books of common places be very necessary to
induce a man into an orderly general knowledge, how
to refer orderly all that he readeth, ad certa rerum
capita, and not wander in study. But to dwell in
Epitomes, and books of common places, and not to
bind himself daily by orderly study, to read with all
diligence principally the holiest Scripture, and withal the
best doctors, and so td learn to make true difference
betwixt the authority of the one and the counsel of the
other, maketh so many seeming and sun-burnt ministers
as we have ; whose learning is gotten in a summer
heat, and washed away with a Christmas snow again.
And this exercise is not more needfully done in a
great work, than wisely done in your common daily
writing either of letter or other thing else ; that is to
say, to peruse diligently, and see and spy wisely, what
is always more than needeth. For twenty to one
offend more in writing too much than too little : even
as twenty to one fall into sickness, rather by overmuch
fulness, than by any lack or emptiness. And there-
fore is he always the best English physician, that best
22 ROGER ASCHAM.
can give a purgation : that is by way of Epitome to cut
all over-much away. And surely men's bodies be not
more full of ill humours, than commonly men's minds
(if they be young, lusty, proud, like and love them-
selves well, as most men do) be full of fancies, opinions,
errors, and faults, not only in inward invention, but
also in all their utterance, either by pen or talk.
And of all other men, even those that have the
inventivest heads for all purposes,' and roundest
tongues in all matters and places (except they learn
and use this good lesson of Epitome)^ commit com-
monly greater faults than dull, staying, silent men
do. For quick inventors, and fair ready speakers,
being boldened with their present ability to say more,
and perchance better too, at the sudden for that
present, than any other can do, use less help of
diligence and study, than they ought to do ; and so
have in them commonly less learning, and weaker
judgment for all deep considerations, than some duller
heads and slower tongues "have.
In every separate kind of learning, and study
by itself, ye must follow choicely a few, and
chiefly some one, and that namely in our school of
eloquence, either for pen or talk. And as in por-
traiture and painting, wise men choose not that
workman that can only make a fair hand, or a well-
fashioned leg; but such a one as can furnish up fully
all the features of the whole body of a man, woman,
and child ; and withal is able too, by good skill, to
give to every one of these three, in their proper kind,
the right form, the true figure, the natural colour,
that is fit and due to the dignity of a man, to the
ROGER ASCHAM. 23
beauty of a woman, to the sweetness of a young babe :
even likewise do we seek such one in our school to
follow ; who is able always in all matters to teach
plainly, to delight pleasantly, and to carry away by
force of wise talk, all that shall hear or read him.
But for ignorance men cannot like, and for idleness
men will not labour, to come to any perfectness at
all. For as the worthy poets in Athens and Rome
were more careful to satisfy the judgment of one
learned, than rash in pleasing the humour of a rude
multitude ; even so, if men in England now had the
like reverend regard to learning, skill, and judgment,
and durst not presume to write, except they came with
the like learning, and also did use like diligence in
searching out, not only just measure in every metre
(as every ignorant person may easily do), but also true
quantity in every foot and syllable (as only the learned
shall be able to do, and as the Greeks and Romans
were wont to do), surely then rash ignorant heads,
which now can easily reckon up fourteen syllables, and
easily stumble on every rhyme, either durst not, for
lack of such learning, or else would not, in avoiding
such labour, be so busy, as every where they be ; and
shops in London should not be so full of lewd and
rude rhymes, as commonly they are. But now the
ripest of tongue be readiest to write. And many
daily in setting out books and ballads, make great
show of blossoms and buds ; in whom is neither root
of learning nor fruit of wisdom at all. — The Schole-
master^ Book i., Aschain^s Works ^ by Dr. Giles. 1864.
Vol. iii.
24 michel de montaigne.
Michel de Montaigne. 1537— -1592.
The Commerce of Books is much more certain, and
much more our own. It yields all other Advantages
to the other two ; but has the Constancy and Facility
of it's Service for it's own Share : it goes side by side
with me in my whole Course, and everywhere is
assisting to me. It comforts me in my Age and Soli-
tude ; it eases me of a troublesome Weight of Idleness,
and delivers me at all Hours from Company that I
dislike ; and it blunts the Point of Griefs, if they are
not extreme, and have not got an entire Possession of
my Soul. To divert myself from a troublesome
Fancy, 'tis but to run to my Books ; they presently fix
me to them, and drive the other out of my Thoughts ;
and do not mutiny to see that I have only* recourse to
them for want of other more real, natural and lively
Conveniences ; they always receive me with the same
Kindness. . . . The sick Man is not to be la-
mented, who has his Cure in his Sleeve. In the
Experience and Practice of this Sentence, which is a
very true one, all the Benefit I reap from Books
consists ; and yet I make as little use of it almost as
those who know it not ; I enjoy it as a Miser does his
Money, in knowing that I may enjoy it when I please;
my Mind is satisfied with this Right of Possession. I
never travel without Books, either in Peace or War ;
and yet sometimes I pass over several Days, and
sometimes Months, without looking into them ; I will
read by and by, say I to myself, or to Morrow, or
when I please, and Time steals away without any
InGonvenience. For it is not to be imagin'd to what
MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE. 25
Degree I please my self, and rest content in this
Consideration, that I have them by me, to divert my self
with them when I am so dispos'd, and to call to mind
what an Ease and Assistance they are to my Life.
'Tis the best Viaticum I have yet found out for this
human Journey, and I very much lament those Men
of Understanding who are unprovided of it. And yet I
rather accept of any sort of diversion, how light soever,
because this can never fail me. When at Home, I a
little more frequent my Library, from whence I at once
survey all the whole Concerns of my Family : As I enter
it, I from thence see under my Garden, Court, and Base-
court, and into all the parts of the Building. There I
turn over now one Book, and then another, of various
Subjects without Method or Design : One while I
meditate, another I record, and dictate as I walk to
and fro, such Whimsies as these with which I here
present you. 'Tis in the third Story of a Tower, of
which the Ground-Room is my Chapel, the second
Story an Apartment with a withdrawing Room and
Closet, where I often lie to be more retired. Above
it is a great Wardrobe, which formerly was the most
useless part of the House. In that Library I pass away
most of the Days of my Life, and most of the Hours of
the Day. In the Night I am never there. There is
within it a Cabinet handsom and neat enough, with a
very convenient Fire-place for the Winter, and Windows
that afford a great deal of light, and very pleasant
Prospects. And were I not more afraid of the Trouble
than the Expence, the Trouble that frights me from all
Business, I could very easily adjoin on either Side, and
on the same Floor, a Gallery of an hundred Paces long,
26 MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE.
and twelve broad, having found Walls already rais'd
for some other design, to the requisite height. Every
Place of Retirement requires a Walk. My Thoughts
sleep if I sit still ; my Fancy does not go by it self,
my legs must move it ; and all those who study without
a Book are in the same Condition. The Figure of my
Study is round, and has no more flat Wall than what
is taken up by my Table and Chairs ; so that the
remaining parts of the Circle present me a View of all
my Books at once, set upon five Degrees of Shelves
round about me. It has three noble and free Prospects,
and is sixteen Paces Diameter. I am not so continually
there in Winter ; for my House is built upon an Emi-
nence, as it's Name imports, and no part of it is so
much expos'd to the Wind and Weather as that, which
pleases me the better, for being of a painful Access,
and a little remote, as well upon the account of Exercise,
as being also there more retir'd from the Crowd. 'Tii
there that I am in my Kingdom, as we say, and there
I endeavour to make my self an absolute Monarch, and
to sequester this one Corner from all Society, whether
Conjugal, Filial, or Civil. Elsewhere I have but
verbal Authority only, and of a confus'd Essence. That
Man, in my Opinion, is very miserable, who has not
at home, where to be by himself, where to entertain
himself alone, or to conceal himself from others. . . .
I think it much more supportable to be always alone
than never to be so. If any one shall tell me, that it
is to under-value the Muses, to make use of them only
for Sport, and to pass away the Time ; I shall tell him,
that he does not know the value of Sport and Pastime
so well as I do ; I can hardly forbear to add further,
MONTAIGNE-yOHN FLO RIO. 27
that all other end is ridiculous. I live from Hand to
Mouth, and, with Reverence be it spoken, I only live
for my self; to that all my Designs do tend, and in .
that terminate. I studied when young for Ostentation ;
since to make my self a little wiser ; and now for my
Diversion, but never for any Profit. A vain and
prodigal Humour I had after this sort of Furniture,
not only for supplying my own needs and defects, but
moreover for Ornament and outward show; I have
since quite abandon'd it. Books have many charming
Qualities to such as know how to choose them. But
every Good has it's 111 ; 'tis a Pleasure that is not pure
and clean, no more than others : It has it's Inconve*
niences, and great ones too. The Mind indeed is
exercised by it, but the Body, the care of which I must
withal never neglect, remains in the mean time without
Action, grows heavy and melancholy. I know no
Excess more prejudicial to me, nor more to be avoided
in this my declining Age. — Of Three Commerces,
{Charles Cotton's Translation, 1685.)
John Florio. 1545 — 1625.
Concerning the Honour of Books,
Since honour from the honourer proceeds,
How well do they deserve, that memorize
And leave in books for all posterities
The names of worthies and their virtuous deeds ;
When all their glory else, like water-weeds
Without their element, presently dies.
And all their greatness quite forgotten lies.
And when and how they flourished no man heeds !
88 JOHN FLO RIO-SIR PHILIP SIDNEY,
How poor remembrances are statues, tombs
And other monuments that men erect
To princes, which remain in closed rooms,
Where but a few behold them, in respect
Of Books, that to the universal eye
Show how they lived ; the other where they lie !
Prefixed to the second edition of John Florid' $
Translation ofMo7itaigne\ Essays, 1 6 1 3 . — ■
[ Vide Notes to D. M, Main's Treasury of
English Sonnets^ p, 248, in reference to
this Sonnet. ]
Book of Common Prayer. 1549.
Read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest. — Collect
for Second Sunday in Advent,
John Lylye [or Lilly]. 1553 — 1601.
. . . far more seemely were it for thee to have
ihy Studie full of Bookes, than thy Purses full of
Mony. — Euphues ; the Anatomy of Wit,
Sir Philip Sidney. 1554 — 1586.
It is manifest that all government of action is to be
gotten by knowledge, and knowledge, best, by gather-
ing many knowledges, which is reading.
Lord Bacon. 1561 — 1629.
Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for
abiUty. Their chief use for delight is in privateness
and retiring ; for ornament is in discourse ; and for
LORD BACON. 29
ability is in the judgment and disposition of business.
. . . Read not to contradict and confute, nor to
believe and take for granted, nor to find talk and dis-
course, but to weigh and consider. Some books are
to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to
be chewed and digested ; that is, some books are to
be read only in parts ; others to be read, but not
curiously ; and some few to be read wholly, and with
diligence and attention. . . . Reading maketh a
full man ; conference a ready man ; and writing an
exact man ; and, therefore, if a man write little, he
had need have a great memory : if he confer little, he
had need have a present wit : and if he read little,
he had need have much cunning to seem to know that
he doth not.
The images of men's wits and knowledge remain in
books, exempted from the worry of time and capable
of perpetual renovation. Neither are they fitly to be
called images, because they generate still, and cast their
seeds in the minds of others, provoking and causing
infinite actions and opinions in succeeding ages.
We enter into a desire of knowledge sometimes from
a natural curiosity and inquisitive appetite ; sometimes
to entertain our minds with variety and delight ;
sometimes for ornament and reputation ; sometimes to
enable us to victory of wit and contradiction, and most
times for lucre and profession ; and seldom sincerely
to give a true account of our gift of reason, for the
benefit and use of man : — as if there were sought in
knowledge a couch whereupon to rest a searching and
restless spirit ; or a terrace for a wandering and
30 LORD BACON.
variable mind to walk up and down, with a fair pros-
pect ; or a tower of state for a proud mind to raise
itself upon ; or a fort or commanding ground for strife
and contention ; or a shop for profit or sale ; and not
a rich storehouse for the glory of the Creator and the
relief of man's estate.
As the eye rejoices to receive the light, the ear to
hear sweet music; so the mind, which is the man,
rejoices to discover the secret works, the varieties and
beauties of nature. The inquiry of truth, which is the
love-making or wooing it ; the knowledge of truth,
which is the presence of it ; and the belief of truth,
which is the enjoying it, is the sovereign good of our
nature. The unlearned man knows not what it is to
descend into himself or to call himself to account, or
the pleasure of that "suavissima vita indies sentire se
fieri meliorem." The mind of man doth wonderfully
endeavour and extremely covet that it may not be
pensile ; but that it may light upon something fixed
and immoveable, on which, as on a firmament, it may
support itself in its swift motions and disquisitions.
Aristotle endeavours to prove that in all motions of
bodies there is some point quiescent ; and very
elegantly expounds the fable of Atlas, who stood fixed
and bore up the heavens from falling, to be meant of
the poles of the world whereupon the conversion is
accomplished. In like manner, men do earnestly
seek to have some Atlas or axis of their cogitations
within themselves, which may, in some measure,
moderate the fluctuations and wheelings of the under-
standing, fearing it may be the falling of their heaven.
LORD BACON—SAMUEL DANIEL. 31
In studies whatsoever a man commandeth upon
himself let him set hours for it ; but whatsoever is
agreeable to his nature, let him take no care for any
set hours, for his thoughts will fly to it of themselves.
Such letters as are written from wise men are of all
the words of men, in my judgment, the best ; for they
are more natural than orations, public speeches, and
more advanced than conference or present speeches.
Samuel Daniel. 1562 — 1619.
O blessed Letters ! that combine in one
All Ages past, and make one live with all.
By you we do confer with who are gone,
And the Dead-living unto Council call ;
By you th' unborn shall have Communion
Of what we feel and what doth us befal.
Soul of the World, Knowledge without thee ;
What hath the Earth that truly glorious is ?
. . . What Good is like to this,
To do worthy the writing, and to write
Worthy the Reading, and the World's Delight?
Mtisophilus ; containing a General Defence
of Leai'ning.
And tho' books, madam, cannot make this Mind,
Which we must bring apt to be set aright ;
Yet do they rectify it in that Kind,
And touch it so, as that it turns that Way
Where Judgment lies. And tho' we cannot find
The certain Place of Truth ; yet do they stay,
And entertain us near about the same :
32 SHA KESPEA R E.
And give the Soul the best Delight that may
Enchear it most, and most our Spirits enflame
To Thoughts of Glory, and to worthy Ends.
To the Lady Lucy, Countess of Bedfoi'd,
William Shakespeare. 1564 — 1616.
Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough.
Tempest, i. 2.
Knowing I loved my books, hre furnished me,
From my own library, with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
Tempest, i. 2.
Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred
in a book.
Love's Labour Lost, iv. 2.
The books, the arts, the academes.
That show, contain, and nourish all the world.
Lovers Labour Lost, iv, 3.
Come, and take a choice of all my library ;
And so beguile thy sorrow.
Titus Andronicus, iv. I.
Alonzo of Arragon.
Alonzo of Arragon was wont to say in commen-
dation of Age, that Age appeared to be best in four
things : old wood best to burn ; old wine to drink ;
old friends to trust ; and old authors to read. — Bacoti^s
Apophthegms, No. 1 01.
GUEVARA. 33;
Antonio de Guevara, d. 1544.
He that lives in his own fields and habitation, which
God hath given him, enjoys true peace. . . . The
very occasion of ill-doing is by his presence taken away.
He busieth not himself in a search of pleasures, but in
regulating and disposing of his family ; in the education
of his children and domestick discipline. No violent
tempestuous motions distract his rest, but soft gales and a
silent aire, refresh and breath upon him. He doth all
things commodiously, ordereth his life discreetly, not
after the opinion of the people, but by the rules of his own
certain experience. He knows he must not live here
for ever, and therefore thinks frequently of dissolution
and the day of death. . . . He that lives in the country,
hath Time for his servant, and whatsoever occasions
offer themselves — if he be but a discreet observer of
his hours — he can have no cause to complaine that
they are unseasonable. Nothing will hinder him from
the pleasure of books, from devotion, or the fruition
of his friends.
More happy then, yea by m.uch more happy than
any king, if not nearer to a divine felicitie, is that
person who lives and dwels in the country upon the
rents and profits of his own grounds. There without
danger he may act and speake as it becomes simplicity
and naked truth. He hath liberty and choice in all
his imployments. ... In the country we can
have a harmelesse and cheerfull conversation with Qur
familiar friends, either in our houses or under some
shade ; whereas in publick company there are many
D
34 GUEVARA.
things spoken at randome, which bring more of weari-
nesse than of pleasure to the hearers. But the quiet
retyr'd liver, in that calme silence, reads over some
profitable histories or books of devotion, and very often
— stird up by an inward and holy joy — ^breaks out into
divine praises and the singing of hymnes and psalms ;
with these sacred recreations — more delightfull than
romances, and the lascivious musick of fidlers, which
only cloy and weary the ears — doth he feed his soule
and refresh his body.
The day it self — in my opinion — seems of more
length and beauty in the country, arwi can be better
enjoyed than any where else. There the years passe
away calmly, and one day gently drives on the other,
insomuch that a man may be sensible of a certaine
satietie and pleasure from every houre, and may be
said to feed upon Time it self, which devours all other
things. O who can never fully expresse the pleasures
and happinesse of the country-life ! . . , what oblec-
tation and refreshment it is, to behold the green
shades, the beauty and majesty of the tall and ancient
groves, to be skill'd in planting and dressing of
orchards, flowres, and pot-herbs, to temper and allay
these harmlesse imployments with an innocent merry
song, to ascend sometimes to the fresh and healthfull
hils, to descend into the bosome of the valleys, and
the fragrant, deawy meadows, to heare the musick of
birds, the murmurs of bees, the falling of springs, and
the pleasant discourses of the old plough-men, where
without any impediment or trouble a man may walk,
SCALIGER—OLD SONG. 35
and — as Caio Censorius. us'd to say— discourse with
the dead, that is, read the pious works of learned men,
who departing this life, left behind them their noble
thoughts for the benefit of posterity and the preserva-
tion of their own worthy names. — The Praise and
Happinesse of the Cotmtrie-Life ; wjHiten origmally in
Spanish by Don Antonio de Guevara, Bishop of
Carthagena, and Counsellour of Estate to Charts the
Fifth Emperour of Germany. Put into English by
H, Vaughan, Silurist, 1 65 1.
Joseph Scaliger. 1540 — 1609.
I wish I were a skilful grammarian. No one can
understand any author, without a thorough knowledge
of grammar. Those who pretend to undervalue learned
grammarians, are arrant blockheads without any ex-
ception. From whence proceed so many dissensions
in religious matters, but from ignorance of grammar ? —
Scaligerana.
Old English Song.
O for a Booke and a shadie nooke,
eyther in-a-doore or out ;
With the grene leaves whisp'ring overhede,
or the Streete cryes all about.
Where I male Reade all at my ease,
both of the Newe and Okie ;
For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke,
is better to me than Golde.
I
36 SIXTEENTH CENTURY WRITER.
A Sixteenth Century Writer.
*' Bookes lookt on as to their Readers or Authours,
do at the very first mention, challenge Preheminence
above the Worlds admired fine things. Books are the
Glasse of Counsell to dress ourselves by. They are
iifes best business : Vocation to these hath more
Emolument coming in, than all the other busie Termes
of life. They are Feelesse Counsellours, no delaying
Patrons, of easie Accesse, and kind Expedition, never
sending away empty any Client or Petitioner. They
are for Company, the best Friends; in doubts, Coun-
sellours ; in Damp, Comforters ; Time's Perspective ;
the home Traveller's Ship, or Horse, the busie man's
best Recreation, the Opiate of Idle weariness ; the
mind's best Ordinary ; Nature's Garden and Seed-plot
of Immortality. Time spent (needlessly) from them,
is consumed, but with them, twice gain'd. Time cap-
tivated and snatched from thee, by Incursions of busi-
ness. Thefts of Visitants, or by thy own Carelessnesse
lost, is by these, redeemed in life ; they are the soul's
Viaticum ; and against death its Cordiall. In a true
verdict, no such Treasure as a Library." — Fro77i the
Introduction toAllibone^s Critical Dictionary of English
Literature, Name of Author not given,
Joseph Hall. 1574 — 1656.
I can wonder at nothing more than how a man can
be idle ; but of all others, a scholar ; in so many im-
provements of reason, in such sweetness of knowledge,
in such variety of studies, in such importunity of
JOSEPH HALL. 37
thoughts : other artizans do but practice, we still learn ;
others run still in the same gyre to weariness, to
satiety ; our choice is infinite ; other labours require
recreations ; our very labour recreates our sports ; we
can never want either somewhat to do, or somewhat
that we would do. How numberless are the volumes
which men have written of arts, of tongues ! How
endless is that volume which God hath written of the
world ! wherein every creature is a letter ; every day
a new page. Who can be weary of either of these? To
find wit in poetry; in philosophy, profoundness; in
mathematics, acuteness ; in history, wonder of events ;
in oratory, sweet eloquence; in divinity, supernatural
light, and holy devotion ; as so many rich metals in their
proper mines ; whom would it not ravish with delight ?
After all these, let us but open our eyes, we cannot
look beside a lesson, in this universal book of our
Maker, worth our study, worth taking out. What
creature hath not his miracle ? what event doth not
challenge his observation ?
And, if, weary of foreign employment, we list to
look home into ourselves, there we find a more
private world of thoughts which set us on work
anew, more busily and not less profitably: now our
silence is vocal, our solitariness popular ; and we are
shut up, to do good unto many ; if once we be
cloyed with our own company, the door of conference
is open; here interchange of discourse (besides pleasure)
benefits us ; and he is a weak companion from whom
we return not wiser. I could envy, if I could believe
that anchoret, who, secluded from the world, and pent
up in his voluntary prison walls, denied that he thought
38 JOSEPH HALL.
the day long, whiles yet he wanted learning to vary his
thoughts. Not to be cloyed with the same conceit is diffi-
cult, above human strength ; but to a man so furnished
with all sorts of knowledge, that according to his disposi-
tions he can change his studies, I should wonder that
ever the sun should seem to pass slowly. How many
busy tongues chase away good hours in pleasant chat,
and complain of the haste of night ! What ingenious
mind can be sooner weary of talking with learned
authors, the most harmless and sweetest companions ?
What a heaven lives a scholar in, that at once in one
close room can daily converse with all the glorious
martyrs and fathers ? that can single out at pleasure,
either sententious Tertullian, or grave Cyprian, or
resolute Hierome, or flowing Chrysostome, or divine
Ambrose, or devout Bernard, or, (who alone is all
these) heavenly Augustine, and talk with them and
hear their wise and holy counsels, verdicts, resolutions ; '
yea, (to rise higher) with courtly Esay, with learned
Paul, with all their fellow-prophets, apostles; yet
more, like another Moses, with God himself, in them
both?
Let the world contemn us ; while we have these
delights we cannot envy them ; we cannot wish
ourselves other than we are. Besides, the way to
all other contentments is troublesome ; the " only
recompense is in the end. To delve in the mines,
to scorch in the fire for the getting, for the fining of
gold is a slavish toil ; the comfort is in the wedge to
the owner, not the labourers ; where our very search
of knowledge is delightsome . Study itself is our life ;
from which we would not be barred for a world.
JOSEPH HALL. 3^,
How much sweeter then is the fruit of study, the
conscience of knowledge? In comparison whereof
the soul that hath once tasted it, easily contemns all
human comforts. Go now, ye worldlings, and insult
over our paleness, our neediness, our neglect. Ye
could not be so jocund if you were not ignorant ; if you
did not want knowledge, you could not overlook him
that hath it ; for me, I am so far from emulating you,
that I profess I had as lieve be a brute beast, as an
ignorant rich man. How is it then, that those gallants,
which have privilege of blood and birth, and better
education, do so scornfully turn off these most manly,
reasonable, noble exercises of scholarship? a hawk
becomes their fist better than a book ; no dog but is a
belter company : any thing or nothing, rather than
what we ought. O minds brutishly sensual ! Do they
think that God made them for disport, -who even in
his paradise, would not allow pleasure without work ?
And if for business, either of body or mind : those of
the body are commonly servile, like itself. The mind
therefore, the mind only, that honourable and divine part,
is fittest to be employed of those which would reach to
the highest perfection of men, and would be more than
the most. And what work is there of the mind but the
trade of a scholar, study? Let me therefore fasten
this problem on our school gates, and challenge
all comers, in the defence of it ; that no scholar,
cannot but be truly noble. And if I make it not
good let me never be admitted further then to the
subject of our question. Thus we do well to con-
gratulate to ourselves our own happiness ; if others will
come to us, it shall be our comfort, but "more theirs ;.
40 JOSEPH HALL,
if not, it is enough that we can joy in ourselves,
and in him in whom we are that we are. — Epistle
to Mr, Milward.
Every day is a little life : and our whole is but a day
repeated. . . . Those therefore that dare lose a day,
are dangerously prodigal ; those that dare misspend it,
desperate. We can best teach others by ourselves ;
let me tell your lordship, how I would pass my days,
whether common or sacred. . . . All days are
his, who gave time a beginning and continuance ; yet
some he hath made ours, not to command, but to use.
In none may we forget him ; in some we must forget
all, besides him. First, therefore, I desire to awake
at those hours, not when I will, but when I must ;
pleasure is not a fit rule for rest, but health ; neither
do I consult so much with the sun, as mine own
necessity, whether of body or in that of the mind. If
this vassal could well serve me waking, it should never
sleep ; but now it must be pleased, that it must be
serviceable. Now when sleep is rather driven away
than leaves me, I would ever awake with God ; my
first thoughts are for him, who hath made the night for
rest, and the day for travel ; and as he gives, so blesses
both. If my heart be early seasoned with his presence,
it will savour of him all day after. While my body is
dressing, not with an effeminate curiosity, nor yet with
rude neglect ; my mind addresses itself to her ensuing
task, bethinking what is to be done, and in what
order ; and marshalling (as it may) my hours with my
work ; that done, after some whiles meditation, I walk
ifp to my masters and companions, my books ; and
JOSEPH HALL. 41
-sitting down amongst them, with the best contentment,
I dare not reach forth my hand to salute any of them,
till I have first looked up to heaven, and craved favour
of him to whom all my studies are duly referred :
without whom, I can neither profit, nor labour. After
this, out of no over great variety, I call forth those
which may best fit my occasions ; wherein I am not
too scrupulous of age ; sometimes I put myself
to school, to one of those ancients, whom the
church hath honoured with the name of Fathers ;
whose volumes I confess not to open, without a
sacred reverence of their holiness and gravity ;
sometimes to those Utgr doctors, which want nothing
but age to make them classical ; always to God's
book.
That day is lost, whereof some hours are not improved
in those divine monuments : others I turn over out of
choice : these out of duty. Ere I can have sate unto
weariness, my family, having now overcome all house-
hold distractions, invites me to our common devotions ;
not without some short preparation. These heartily per-
formed, send me up with a more strong and cheerful
. appetite to my former work, which I find made easy
to me by intermission, and variety ; now therefore can
I deceive the hours with change of pleasures, that is,
of labours. One while mine eyes are busied, another
while my hand, and sometimes my mind takes the
burthen from them both ; wherein I would imitate the
skilfullest cooks, which make the best dishes with
manifold mixtures ; one hour is spent in textual
divinity, another in controversy ; histories relieve
them both. Now, when the mind is weary of other
42 JOSEPH HALL.
labours, it begins to undertake her own ; sometimes it
meditates and winds up for future use ; sometimes it
lays forth her conceits into present discourse ; some-
times for itself, ofter for others. Neither know I
whether it works or plays in these thoughts ; I am
sure no sport hath more pleasure, no work more use :
only the decay of a weak body makes me think these
dehghts insensibly laborious.
Thus could I all day (as ringers use) make myself
music with changes, and complain sooner of the
day for shortness, than of the business for toil ;
were it not that this faint monitor interrupts me
still in the midst of my busy pleasures, and en-
forces me both to respite and repast ; I must
yield to both ; while my body and mind are joined
together in unequal couples, the better must follow the
weaker. Before my meals, therefore, and after, I let
myself loose from all thoughts ; and now, would forget
that I ever studied ; a full mind takes away the body's
appetite no less than a full body makes a dull and un-
unwieldy mind ; company, discourse, recreations, are
now seasonable and welcome : these prepare me for a
diet, not gluttonous, but medicinal ; the palate may
not be pleased, but the stomach ; nor that for its own
sake; neither would I think any of these comforts
worth respect in themselves but in their use, in their
end ; so far as they may enable me to better things.
If I see any dish to tempt my palate, I fear a serpent
. in that apple, and would please myself in a wilful
denial ; I rise capable of more, not desirous ; not now
immediately from my trencher to my book ; but after
some intermission. Moderate speed is a sure help tO'
JOSEPH HALL. 4 J
all proceedings; where those things which are
prosecuted with violence of endeavour or desire, either
succeed not, or continue not.
After my later meal, my thoughts are slight ; only
my memory may be charged with her task, of recalling
what was committed to her custody in the day ; and
my heart is busy in examining my hands and mouth,
and all other senses, of that day's behaviour. And
now the evening is come, no tradesman doth more
carefully take in his wares, clear his shopboard, and
shut his windows, than I would shut up my thoughts,
and clear my mind. That student shall live miserably,
which like a camel lies down under his burden. All
this done, calling together my family, we end the day
with God. — "How a day shozild be spent,''' In an
Epistle to My Lord Den7iy.
What a world of wit is here packed up together !
I know not whether this sight doth more dismay or
comfort me ; it dismays me to think, that here is so
much that I cannot know ; it coniforts me to think
that this variety yields so good helps to know what I
should. There is no truer word than that of Solomon —
there is no end of making many books ; this sight
verifies it — there is no end ; indeed, it were pity there
should. God hath given to man a busy soul, the
agitation whereof cannot but through time and expe-
rience work out many hidden truths ; to suppress these
would be no other than injurious to mankind, whose
minds, like unto so many candles, should be kindled
by each other. The thoughts of our deliberation are
most accurate ; these we vent into our papers ; what
44 JOHN FLETCHER.
a happiness is it, that without all offence of necromancy,
I may here call up any of the ancient worthies of
learning, whether human or divine, and confer with
them of all my doubts ! — that I can at pleasure summon
whole synods of reverend fathers, and acute doctors,
from all the coasts of the earth, to give their well-
• studied judgments in all points of question which I
propose ! Neither can I cast my eye casually upon any
of these silent masters, but I must learn somewhat : it
is a wantonness to complain of choice. No law binds
me to read all ; but the more we can take in and
digest, the better liking must the mind's needs be.
Blessed be God that hath set up so many clear lamps
in his church. Now, none but the wilfully blind can
plead darkness ; and blessed be the memory of those
his faithful servants, that have left their blood, their
spirits, their lives, in these precious papers, and have wil-
lingly wasted themselves into these during monuments,
to give light unto others. — Occasional Meditations.
John Fletcher. 1576 — 1625.
Give me
Leave to enjoy myself. That place, that does
Contain my books, the best companions, is
To me a glorious court, where hourly I
Converse with the old sages and philosophers.
And sometimes for variety, I confer
With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels ;
Calling their victories, if unjustly got,
-Unto a strict account : and in my fancy.
Deface their ill-planed statues. Can I then
H. PEACH AM— ROBERT BURTON. 45,
Part with such constant pleasures, to embrace
Uncertain vanities ? No : be it your care
To augment a heap of wealth ; it shall be mine
To increase in knowledge. Lights there for my study !-
If all thy pipes of wine were fill'd with books,
Made of the barks of trees, or mysteries writ
In old moth-eaten vellum, he would sip thy cellar
Quite dry, and still be thirsty. Then, for's diet.
He eats and digests more volumes at a meal.
Than there would be larks (though the sky should fall)
Devour'd in a month in Paris.
The Elder Brother, Act i. Scene 2.
Henry Peacham. d. 1640.
Affect not, as some do, that bookish ambition, to be
stored with books, and have well-furnished libraries,
yet keep their heads empty of knowledge. To desire
to have many books, and never to use them, is. like a
child tha^ will have a candle burning by him all the
while he is sleeping. — The Complcat Gentleman,
Robert Burton. 1576 — 1640.
But amongst those exercises or recreations of the
mind within doors, there is none so general, so aptly
to be applied to all sorts of men, so fit and proper to
expel idleness and melancholy, as that of study.
[Here Cicero is quoted, the passage from whom is
given ante p. 2.] What so full of content, as to read,
walk, and see maps, pictures, statues, &c. . . .
Who is he that is now wholly overcome with idleness,
or otherwise encircled in a labyrinth of worldly care,
46 ' ROBERT BURTON.
troubles, and discontents, that will not be much
lightened in his mind by reading of some enticing
story, true or feigned, where as in a glass he shall
observe what our forefathers have done, the beginnings,
ruins, falls, periods of commonwealths, private men's
actions displayed to the life, &c. Plutarch therefore
calls them, secundas mensas et bellaria, the second
course and junkets, because they were generally read
at noblemen's feasts. Who is not earnestly affected
with a passionate speech, well penned, an eloquent
poem, or some pleasant bewitching discourse, like
that of Heliodorus (Melancthon de Heliodoro), uhi
ohlectatio qucedam placide Jiuit cum hilaritate con-
jimcta? ... To most kind of men it is an
extraordinary delight to study. For what a world of
books offers itself, in all subjects, arts, and science, to
the rival contest and capacity of the reader ! . . .
What is there so sure, what so pleasant? . . .
What vast tomes are extant in law, physic, and divinity,
for profit, pleasure, practice, speculation, in verse or
prose ! Their names alone are the subject of whole
volumes ; we know thousands of authors of all sorts,
many great libraries full well furnished, like so many
dishes of meat, served out for several palates ; and he
is a very block that is affected with none of them.
. , . Such is the excellency of these studies that
all those ornaments, and childish bubbles of wealth,
are not worthy to be compared to them ; I would even
live and die with such meditations, and take more
delight, true content of mind in them, than thou hast
in all thy wealth and sport, how rich soever thou art.
And as Cardan well seconds me — **it is more honour-
ROBERT BURTON. 47
able and glorious to understand these truths, than to
govern provinces, to be beautiful, or to be young."
The like pleasure there is in all other studies, to such
as are truly addicted to them ; the like sweetness, which,
as Circe's cup bewitcheth a student, he cannot leave off.
Julius Scahger . . . brake out into a
pathetical protestation, he had rather be the author of
twelve verses in Lucan, or such an Ode in Horace, than
Emperor of Germany. , . . King James (1605),
when he came to see our University of Oxford, and
amongst other edifices now went to view that famous
Library renewed by Sir Thomas Bodley, in imitation of
Alexander, at his departure brake out into that noble
speech : " If I were not a king, I would be a University
man ; and if it were so that I must be a prisoner, if I
might have my wish, I would desire to have no other
prison than that library, and to be chained together
with so many good authors." So sweet is the delight ^
of study, the more learning they have (as he that hath
a dropsy, the more he drinks, the thirstier he is) the
more they covet to learn ; harsh at first learning is,
radices amarce, but fructus dukes, according to
Isocrates, pleasant at last; the longer they live, the
more they are enamoured with the Muses. Heinsius,
the keeper of the library at Leyden, in Holland, was
mewed up in it all the year long ; and that which to
thy thinking should have bred loathing, caused in him
a greater liking. *'I no sooner (saith he) come into
the library, but I bolt the doors to me, excluding lust,
ambition, avarice, and all such vices, whose nurse is
idleness, the mother of ignorance, and melancholy
herself; and in the very lap of eternity amongst so
48 ROBERT BURTON.
many divine souls, I take my seat with so lofty a spirit
and sweet content, that I pity all our great ones and
rich men that know not this happiness." . . .
Whosoever he is therefore that is overrun with solitari-
ness, or carried away with pleasing melancholy and
vain conceits, and for want of employment knows not
how to spend his time ; or crucified with worldly care,
I can prescribe him no better remedy than this of
study . . . provided always that this malady pro-
ceed not from overmuch study; for in such case he
adds fuel to the fire, and nothing can be more per-
nicious; let him take heed he do not overstretch his
wits, and make a skeleton of hiiliself. . . . Study
is only prescribed to those that are otherwise idle,
troubled in mind, or carried headlong with vain
thoughts and imaginations to distract their cogitations
(although variety of study, or some serious subject,
would do the former no harm), and direct their con-
tinual meditations another way. ■ Nothing in this case
better than study. . . . Read the Scriptures,
which HyiDerius holds available of itself; " the mind
is erected thereby from all worldly cares, and hath
much quiet and tranquillity." For as Austin well hath
it, 'tis scientia scientiarum^ 077ini inelle dulcior, omni
pane stiavior, omni vino hilar ior: 'tis the best
nepenthe, surest cordial, sweetest alterative, presentest
diverter; for neither, as Chrysostom well adds, "those
boughs and leaves of trees which are plashed for cattle
to stand under, in the heat of the day, in summer, so
much refresh them with their acceptable shade, as the
reading of .the Scripture doth recreate and comfort a
distressed soul, in sorrow and afflictior." . . . qtiod
SIR THOMAS OFERBURV. 49
cibus corpori, lectio ani?ncs facit, saith Seneca, ** as
meat is to the body, such is reading to the soul."
, . . Cardan calls a library the physic of the soul ;
*' divine authors fortify the mind, make men bold and
constant; and (as Hyperius adds) godly conference
will not permit the mind to be tortured with absurd
cogitations." Rhasis enjoins continual conference to
such melancholy men, perpetual discourse of some
history, tale, poem, news, &c., which feeds the mind
as meat and drink doth the body, and pleaseth as
much. . . . Saith Li psius, ** when I read Seneca,
methinks I am beyond all human fortune, on the top
of a hill above mortality. "... I would for these
causes wish him that is melancholy to use both human
and divine authors, voluntarily to impose some task
upon himself to divert his melancholy thoughts. , . .
Or let him demonstrate a proposition in Euclid, in his
last five books, extract a square root, or study algebra ;
than which, as Clavius holds, "in all human dis-
ciplines nothing can be more excellent or pleasant, so
abstruse, and recondite, so bewitching, so miraculous,
so ravishing, so easy withal and full of delight." — The
Anatomy of Melancholy, Part ii., Sec. 2, Memb. 4.
Sir Thomas Overbury. 1581 — 1613.
Books are a part of man's prerogative,
In formal ink they Thoughts and Voices hold.
That we to them our Solitude may give.
And make Time Present travel that of Old. .
Our Life Fame pieceth longer at the End,
And Books it farther backward do extend.
The Wife,
50 john hales.
John Hales. 1584 — 1656.
From the order of Reading, and the matters in
Reading to be observed, we come to the method of
observation. What order we are for our best use to
keep in entring our Notes into our Paper- Books.
The custom which hath most prevailed hitherto, was
common placing a thing at the first Original very plain
and simple ; but by after-times much increased, some
augmenting the number of the Heads, others inventing
quainter forms of disposing them : till at length
Common-place-books became like unto the Roman
Breviarie or Missal. It was a great part of Clerk-
ship to know how to use them. The Vastness of the
Volumes, the multitude of Heads, the intricacy of dis-
position, the pains of committing the Heads to memory,
and last, of the labour of so often turning the Books
to enter the observations in their due places, are things
so expensive of time and industry, that although at
length the work comes to perfection, yet it is but like
the Silver Mines in Wales, the profit will hardly quit
the pains. I have often doubted with my self, whether
or no there were any necessity of being so exactly
Methodical. First, because there hath not yet been
found a Method of that Latitude, but little reading
would furnish you with some things, which would fall
without the compass of it. Secondly, because men of
confused, dark and clowdy understandings, no beam
or light of order and method can ever rectifie ; whereas
men of clear understanding, though but in a mediocrity,
if they read good Books carefully, and note diligently,
it is impossible but they should find incredible profit,
JOHN HALES. 51
though their Notes lie never so confusedly. The
strength of our natural memory^ especially if we help
it, by revising our own Notes ; the nature of things
themselves^ many times ordering themselves, and tantum
non, telling us how to range them ; a mediocrity of
care to see that matters lie not too Chaos-like ^ will with
very small damage save us this great labour of being
over-superstitiously methodical. And what though perad-
venture something be lost, Exilis domus est, dfc. It
is a sign of great poverty of Scholarship, where every
thing that is lost, is missed ; whereas rich and well
accomplished learning is able to lose many things with
. little or no inconvenience.
In your reading excerpe, and note in your Books such
things as you like : going on continually without any
respect unto order ; and for the avoiding of confusion,
it shall be very profitable to allot some time to the
reading again of your own Notes ; which do as much
and as oft as you can. For by this means your Notes
shall be better fixt in your memory, and your memory
will easily supply you of things of the like nature, if
by chance you have dispersedly noted them ; that so
you may bring them together by marginal references.
But because your Notes in time must needs arise to
some bulk, that it may be too great a task, and too
great loss of time to review them, do thus. Cause a
large Index to be fram'd according to Alphabetical
order, and Register in it your Heads, as they shall offer
themselves in the course of your reading, every Head
under his proper Letter. For thus, though your Notes
lie confused in your Papers, yet are they digested in
52 RHODIGINUS—LORD CHANDOS.
your Index, and to draw them together when you are
to make use of them, will be nothing so great pains as
it would be, to have ranged them under their several
Heads at their first gathering. A little experience of
this course will show you the great profit of it, especially
if you did compare it with some others that are in use. —
Golden Remains of The Ever Memorable Mr. John
Hales, of Eaton Colledge, 1673. ^^Miscellanies: The
Method of Reading Profane History, "^y
Balthasar Bonifacius Rhodiginus.
1584— 1659.
But how can I live here without my books ? I really
seem to myself crippled and only half myself ; for if,
as the great Orator used to say, arms are a soldier's
members, surely books are the limbs of scholars.
Corasius says : Of a truth, he who would deprive me
of books, my old friends, would take away all the
delight of my life, nay, I will even say all desire of
living. — Historia Ludicra, Lib. ix. cap. ii. p. 148.
Edition of Brussels, 1656, d^o. {Translated by J . A^.\
Lord Chandos. d. 162 1.
As in the choise, and reading of good bookes,
principally consists the enabling and aduancement of a
mans knowledge, and learning ; yet if it be not mixed
with the conuersation, of discreet, able, and vnder-
standing men, they can make little vse of their reading,
either for themselues, or the Commonwealth where
they Hue. There is not a more common Prouerb,
LEO ALL AT I US. 53
then this, That the greatest Clerkes bee not alwayes the
wisest men^ and reason for it, being a very vneuen
rule, to square all actions, and consultations, onely by
booke precedents. Time hath so many changes, &
alterations, and such varietie of occasions, and oppor-
tunities, interuening, and mingled, that it is impossible
to goe new wayes, in the old paths ; so that though
reading doe furnish, and direct a mans iudgement, yet
it doth not wholly gouerne it. Therefore the necessitie
of knowing the present time, and men, wherein we
Hue, is so great, that it is the principall guide of our
actions, and reading but supplementall. — Hoi'cb Sub-
secivcB : Observations and Discovrses : Of a Country
Life, 1620.
[The authorship of this work is assigned to Grey
Bridges, Lord Chandos, — vide Brydges' Censura
Literaria, and Park's Edition of Lord Oxford's Royal
and Noble Author s.'\
Leo Allatius. 1586 — 1669.
For it is wonderful how constantly the mind craves
novelty, and succumbs to no fatigue, to no want of
sleep. I know that there is another happiness provided
for men, for which each of us ought to strive with his
whole energy ; but, if I did not know that, I should
think it was only to be found in the perusal of the
most excellent writers ; and I should consider the
office of preserving them the highest felicity. It is
the most delightful, and the most worthy thing that
all our industry and indulgence should be expended
on them. To me, indeed, the light of the sun, the
54 GEORGE WITHER.
day, and life itself, would be joyless and bitter, if I
had not something to read : if I lacked the works of
the most illustrious men ; for, in comparison with their
preciousness and delight, wealth and pleasure, and all
the things that men prize, are mean and trifling. This
thirst, then, or madness (I may so call the insatiable
passion of the mind for literature), while it continually
inspires me with the desire to investigate new authors,
constantly offers the mind something new ; and, when
I have acquired it, I am grieved that I have been so
long deprived of it. Hence I am evermore driven
on by more urgent stimuli. — fo. Alberti Fab7'icii
BibliotheccB GraeccB, Liber v., Mich, Pselli, Jtinioris,
Scripta Inedita^ p. ^O. Hajfiburg, l'j2'j. \_'^'ranslaled
byJ.N.]
George Wither. 1588 — 1667.
She [The Muse] doth tell me where to borrow
Comfort in the midst of sorrow :
Makes the desolatest place
To her presence be a grace :
And the blackest discontents
To be pleasing ornaments.
In my former days of bliss.
Her divine skill taught me this,
That from everything I saw,
I could some invention draw :
And raise pleasure to her height.
Through the meanest object's sight,
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustleing ;
J, E. NIEREMBERGIUS. 55
By a daisy, whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed ;
Or a shady bush or tree,
She could more infuse in me,
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man.
She hath taught me by her might
To draw comfort and delight.
Therefore, thou best earthly bliss,
I will cherish thee for this.
Poesy ! thou sweet'st content
That e'er heaven to mortals lent :
Let my life no longer be
Than I am in love with thee.
PhilarUe,
Jean Eusebe Nierembergius.
1595— 1658.
The world hath many things in it which humane
affairs have no need of. Virtue also is perfected in
few precepts. Though we fill the world with our
writings, it is not our volumes that can make us good,
but a will to be so. Book-men write out of no other
design, but to reform and civilize mankind. . . .
To be good there is nothing needful but willingnesse.
. . . We care not to use this present life which is
our own, but study the secrets of another, which as yet
is not ours. We would learn mysteries, and some
things that are either out of our way, or else beyond
56 JAMES SHIRLEY.
it. Annihilation is more profitable than a fruitlesse
being. In this family of Nature, every one hath his
task : none may be idle. The best and the noblest
are the most laborious. . . . Nothing hath com-
merce with heaven, but what is pure : he that would
be pure, must needs be active. Sin never prevailes
against us, but in the absence of Virtue, and Virtue
is never absent, but when wee are idle. To preserve
the peace of conscience, wee must not feare sufferings. —
Two Excellent Discourses : (i) " Temperance and
Patiencey^ (2) " Life and Death^^'' written in Latin
hy Johan : Euseb : Nierembergius. Englished by Henry
Vaughan, Silurist. 1654.
James Shirley. 1594 — 1666.
. . . but I hope
You have no enmity to the liberal arts :
Learning is an addition beyond
Nobility of birth ; honour of blood.
Without the ornament of knowledge,
Is but a glorious ignorance. . . .
I never knew
More sweet and happy hours than I employ'd
Upon my books.
The Lady of Pleasure^ Act ii. Scene i.
Sir William Waller. 1597—1668.
Here is the best solitary company in the world, and
in this particular chiefly excelling any other, that in
my study I am sure to converse with none but wise
SIR WILLIAM WALLER. 57
men ; but abroad it is impossible for me to avoid the
society of fools. What an advantage have I, by this
good fellowship, that, besides the help which I receive
from' hence, in reference to my life after this life, I can
enjoy the life of so many ages before I lived ! — that I
can be acquainted with the passages of three or four
thousand years ago, as if they were the weekly occur-
rences ! Here, without travelling so far as Endor,
I can call up the ablest spirits of those times, the
learnedest philosophers, the wisest counsellers, the
greatest generals, and make them serviceable to me.
I can make bold with the best jewels they have in their
treasury, with the same freedom that the Israelites
borrowed of the Egyptians, and, without suspicion of
. felony, make use of them as mine own. I can here,
without trespassing, go into their vineyards and not
only eat my fill of their grapes for my pleasure, but
put up as much as I will in my vessel, and store it up for
my profit and advantage. ... I would therefore
do in reading as merchants used to do in their trading ;
who, in a coasting way, put in at several ports and
take in what commodities they afford, but settle their
factories in those places only which are of special note ;
I would, by-the-bye, allow myself a traffic with sundry
authors, as I happen to light upon them, for my
recreation ; and I would make the best advantage that
I could of them : but I would fix my study upon those
only that are of most importance to fit me for action,
which is the true end of all learning. Lord, teach me
so to study other men's works as not to neglect mine
own ; and so to study Thy word, which is Thy work,
that it may be ** a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto
58 ANTONY TUCKNEV.
my path " — my candle to work by. Take me off from
the curiosity of knowing only to know ; from the
vanity of knowing only to be known ; and from the
folly of pretending to know more than I do know :
and let it be my wisdom to study to know Thee, who
art life eternal. Write Thy law in my heart, and I
shall be the best book here. — Divine Meditations:
Meditation upon the Contentment I have in my
Books and Study.
Antony Tuckney. 1599 — 1670.
What you say of your little reading and more medi-
tating ; I impute to your great modestie, in lessening
your own due : or if, as I have cause, I must beleeve
you; as I cannot but much approve your course of
Meditation ; so give mee leave to intreat you, to give
diligence to Reading. I have thought, that Bernard
was in the right ; when hee said, lectio^ sine meditatione^
arida est ; meditatio, sine lectione, erronea. In our
meditations, wee may unawares slip into an errour;
which, because our own, of our own selves, we are
hardlie restrained from; from which another's hand
may easilie helpe mee up. And if, for that and other
ends, I would gladlie conferre with the living ; the
same motive may persuade mee to converse with
others, that are dead ; in their writings : and the
rather, because they use to bee more digested ; than
others' extemporarie discourses ; especiallie, if, as you
do, we make choice of those, that are most pious and
learned. I look-at it, as a kind of Communion of
Saints ; in which I may expect a greater blessing : but
RIOJA—PE TER DU MO ULIN. 59
SO, as not resting on their authoritie. And shoulde not
their writings bee better than my thoughts, yett with
niee I find itt thus ; that by reading I have more hints,
and better rise, for more and better notions ; than
otherwise of myself I shou'd have reached unto :
hereby I shall bee better acquainted with the true
historic, stating, and phrasing, of any point of contro-
versie ; which otherwise I shall too often stumble-
att. — Third Letter from Dr, Antony Tuckney to
Dr. Benjamin Whichcote. — *' The Reconciliation of
Sinners unto God." 1 65 1.
Francesco di Rioja. 1600— 1659.
A little peaceful home
Bounds all my wants and wishes ; add to this
My book and friend, and this is happiness.
Peter du Moulin. 1600 — 1684.
Let our dwelling be lightsome, if possible ; in a
free air, and near a garden. Gardening is an innocent
delight. With these, if one may have a sufficient
revenue, an honest employment, little business, sortable
companys, and especially the conversation of good
books with whom a man may converse as little and as
much as he pleaseth ; he needs little more, as for the
exteriour to enjoy all the content that this world can
afford. . . . He that both learned to know the
world and himself, will soon be capable of this counsel —
" To retire within one's self." . . . Persons that
have some goodness in their soul, have a closet where
they may retire at any time, and yet keep in society.
6o PETER DU MOULIN.
That closet is their own in-side. . , . That in-side
to which the wise man must retire, is his judgment and
conscience. Thence to impose silence to business
and hush all the noise below, — that with a calm and
undisturbed mind, he may consider the nature of the
persons and things which he converseth with, what
interests he hath in them, and how far they are appli-
cable to God's service, and to the benefit of himself
and others. . . . There is no possession sooner
lost, than that of one's self. The smallest things rob
us of it. . . . Tecum habitat. Dwell at home.
Keep possession of your soul. Suffer not anything to
steal you away from yourself. There is neither profit
nor pleasure worth so much, that the soul should go
from home to get it. . . . One is always a loser
at that game which robs his soul of serenity. . . .
Nothing is so great, that for it we should set our mind
out of frame. A wise man should not suffer his soul to stir
out of her place, and run into disorder. . . . Keep
company with a few well-chosen persons, lending our-
selves freely to them, but giving ourselves to none but
God, nor suffering friendship to grow to slavery. With
all sorts of men we must deal ingenuously, yet re-
servedly, saying what we think, but thinking more
than we say, lest we give power to others to take hold
of the rudder of our mind. . . . Let them not be
admitted by too much familiarity to know the secret
avenues of our souls. For in all souls there are some
places weaker than the rest. ^A Treatise of Peace and
Contentment of Mind : Book VI. To Retire within
one's self: To avoid Idleness : Of the care of the Body,
and other little Contentments of Life. 1678.
john earle—sir thomas browne. 6i
John Earle. i6oi — 1665.
The hermitage by his study has made him somewhat
uncouth in the world . . . but practice him a
little in men, and brush him over with good company,
and he shall out-balance those glisterers, as far as a
solid substance does a feather, or gold, gold-lace. —
Microcosmography : A Down-right Scholar,
Sir William Davenant. 1605 — 1668.
Books shew the utmost conquests of our minds.
Gondibert.
Sir Thomas Browne. 1605 — 1682.
'Tis an unjust way of compute, to magnify a weak
head for some Latin abilities ; and to undervalue a
solid judgment, because he knows not the genealogy
of Hector. When that notable king of France would
have his son to know but one sentence in Latin, had
it been a good one, perhaps it had been enough.
Natural parts and good judgments rule the world.
States are not governed by ergotisms.* Many have
ruled well, who could not, perhaps, define a common-
wealth ; and they who understand not the globe of the
earth, command a great part of it. Where natural
logick prevails not, artificial too often faileth. Where
nature fills the sails,, the vessel goes smoothly on ; and
when judgment is the pilot, the ensurance need not be
high. When industry builds upon nature, we may
expect pyramids : where that foundation is wanting,
* Conclusions deduced according to the forms of logick.
62 SIR THOMAS BROWNE.
the structure must be low. They do most by books,
who could do much without them ; and he that chiefly
owes himself unto himself, is the substantial man. —
Christian Morals,
I have heard some with deep sighs lament the lost
lines of Cicero ; others with as many groans deplore
the combustion of the library of Alexandria : for my
own part, I think there be too many in the world ; and
could with patience behold the urn and ashes of the
Vatican, could I, with a few others, recover the perished
leaves of Solomon. . . . 'Tis not a melancholy
utinam of my own, but the desires of better heads,
that there were a general synod — not to unite the in-
compatible difference of religion, but, — for the benefit
of learning, to reduce it, as it lay at first, in a few and
solid authors ; and to condemn to the fire those swarms
and millions of rhapsodies, begotten only to distract
and abuse the weaker judgments of scholars, and to
maintain the trade and mystery of typographers.
I intend no monopoly, but a community in learning.
I study not for my own sake only, but for theirs
that study not for themselves. I envy no man that
knows more than myself, but pity them that know
less. I instruct no man as an exercise of my know-
ledge, or with an intent rather to nourish and keep it
alive in mine own head than beget and propagate it in
his. And, in the midst of all my endeavours, there is
but one thought that dejects me, that my acquired parts
must perish with myself, nor can be legacied among
my honoured friends. I cannot fall out or contemn a
THOMAS FULLER. 63
man for an error, or conceive why a difference in
opinion should divide an affection ; for controversies,
disputes, and argumentations, both in philosophy and
in divinity, if they meet with discreet and peaceable
natures, do not infringe the laws of charity. In all
disputes, so much as there is of passion, so much there
is of nothing to the purpose ; for then reason, like a
bad hound, spends upon a false scent, and forsakes the
question first started. And this is one reason why
controversies are never determined ; for, though they
be amply proposed, they are scarce at all handled ;
they do so swell with unnecessary digressions ; and the
parenthesis on the party is often as large as the main
discourse upon the subject. . . . Scholars are men
of peace, they bear no arms, but their tongues are
sharper than Actius's razor ; their pens carry farther,
and give a louder report than thunder. I had rather
stand the shock of a basilisko than in the fury of a
merciless pen. — Religio Medici.
Thomas Fuller. 1608 — 1661.
When there is no recreation or business for thee
abroad, thou may'st have a company of honest old
fellows in their leathern jackets in thy study which will
find thee excellent divertisement at home. ... To
divert at any time a troublesome fancy, run to thy
books ; they presently fix thee to them, and drive the
other out of thy thoughts. They always receive thee
with the same kindness.
Some hooks are only cursorily to be tasted of. Namely
first, voluminous books, the task of a man's life to
64 JOHN MILTON.
read them over ; secondly, auxiliary books, only to be
repaired to on occasions ; thirdly, such as are mere
pieces of formality, so that if you look on them, you
look through them ; and he that peeps through the
casement of the index, sees as much as if he were in
the house. But the laziness of those cannot be excused
who perfunctorily pass over authors of consequence,
and only trade in their tables and contents. These,
like city-cheaters, having gotten the names of all
country gentlemen, make silly people believe they have
long lived in those places where they never were, and
flourish with skill in those authors they never seriously
sX.Vi^\^^. — The Holy State: Of Books.
John Milton. 1608 — 1674.
For Books are not absolutely dead things, but doe
contain a potencie of Life in them to be as active
as that Soule was whose progeny they are ; nay, they do
preserve, as in a violl, the purest efficacie and ex-
traction of that living intellect that bred them. I
know they are as lively, and as vigorously productive,
as those fabulous Dragons teeth ; and being sown up
and down, may chance to spring up armed men. And
yet on the other hand unlesse warinesse be us'd, as
good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book ; who kills
a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image; but
hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills Reason it selfe,
kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye. Many
a Man lives a burden to the Earth ; but a good Booke
is the pretious life-blood of a master spirit, imbalm'd
and treasur'd up on purpose to a Life beyond Life.
MILTON— LORD CLARENDON. 65
'Tis true, no age can restore a Life, whereof perhaps
there is no great losse ; and revolutions of ages doe not
oft recover the losse of a rejected Truth, for the want
of which whole Nations fare the worse. We should
be wary therefore what persecution we raise against
the living labours of publick men, how we spill that
season'd Life of Man preserv'd and stor'd up in Books;
since we see a kinde of homicide may be thus com-
mitted, sometimes a martyrdome; and if it extend to
the whole impression, a kinde of massacre, whereof
the execution ends not in the slaying of an elementall
Life, but strikes at that ethereall and fift essence, the
breath of Reason it selfe, slaies an Immortality rather
than a Life. — Areopagitica, \Edition with Notes ^
^c, by T, Holt White, 1819.]
Who reads
Incessantly, and to his reading brings not
A spirit and judgment equal or superior.
Uncertain and unsettled still remains ;
Deep-versed in books, but shallow in himself.
Paradise Regained'.
Earl of Clarendon. 1608- 1674.
The wisdom of a learned man comes by opportunity
of leisure. That is true ; when there is wisdom and
learning, they will both grow, and be improved by the
opportunity of leisure ; but neither wisdom nor learning
will be ever got by doing nothing. He that hath little
business shall become wise, but he that hath none,
shall remain a fool ; he that doth not think at all
upon what he is to do, will never do any thing well ;
F
66 LORD CLARENDON—SIR MATTHEW HALE,
and he who doth nothing but think, had as good do
nothing at all. The mind that is unexercised, that
takes not the air, that it may know the minds of
other men, contracts the same aches and cramps in the
faculties of the understanding that the body labours
with by the want of exercising its limbs ; and he that
resolves to sit still, can never come to the other end of
his journey by other men's running never so fast.
There is evidence, by the observation and experience
of every man, enough to convince him of the great
advantages which attend upon an active life, above
what waits upon pure contemplation ; that there is a
great difference between the abilities of that man who
hath contracted himself to any one study, though he
excels in it, and him who hath with much less labour
attained to a general experimental knowledge of things
and persons ; and so the greatest divine who hath read all
the school men, and all the fathers, and is as wise as most
of them were, will be sooner deceived in the market,
and pay more for his clothes and for his meat, than his
groom will do, who understands that and his horse
too. — An Essay on an Active and Contemplative Life ;
and why the one shotild he preferred before the other.
Sir Matthew Hale. 1609 — 1676.
Read the Bible reverently and attentively, set your
heart upon it, and lay it up in your memory, and make
it the direction of your life : it will make you a wise
and good man. I have been acquainted somewhat
with. men and books, and have had long experience in
learning, and in the world : there is no book like the
FRANCIS OSBORNE— DR. WHICHCOTE. 67
Bible for excellent learning, wisdom, and use ; and it
is want of understanding in them that think or speak
otherwise. ... Be diligent in study and in your
calling. ... It will be your wisdom and benefit.
It will be a good expense of time, and a prevention
from a thousand inconveniences and temptations . that
otherwise will befall on main. — Cotinsels of a Father to
one of His Sons, recovering from the Small Pox,
Francis Osborne, d, 1659.
A few books well studied, and thoroughly digested,
nourish the understanding more than hundreds but-
gargled in the mouth. . . . Company, if good,
is a better refiner of the spirits, than ordinary books.
. . . The more you seem to have borrowed from
books, the poorer you proclaim your natural parts,
which only can properly be called yours. . . . •
Much reading, like a too great repletion, stops up,
through a concourse of diverse, sometimes, contrary
opinions, the access of a nearer, newer and quicker
invention of your own. — Advice to a Son, 2 Parts,
1656-8.
Benjamin Whichcote. 1610 — 1683.
The Improvement of a little Time may be a gain
to all Eternity.
A good Booke may be a Benefactor representing
God Himself.
A man is twice his own in those Things that come
to him by Studie, if he has the Power to use and enjoy
them. — Sermons,
68 sorbiere—0 wen fel tha m.
Samuel Sorbiere. i6io — 1670.
To appreciate literary toil justly, we should con-
sider what is the value of the subjects on which it is
employed ; it is not the quantity but the quality of
knowledge which is valuable. A glass of water may
be as full as the same glass of the most precious fluid.
A person may walk as much in a small space, in a
course of time, as if in the same period he had
marched over the world. In a fleet of ships we value
those higher which carry the most precious wares, not
the most numerous. — So7'be7'iana.
Owen Feltham. 16 10 — 1678.
All endeavours aspire to eminency: all eminencies
do beget an admiration. And this makes me believe
that contemplative admiration is a large part of the
worship of the Deity. Nothing can carry us so near
to God and heaven as this. The mind can walk
beyond the sight of the eye ; and (though in a cloud)
can lift us into heaven while we live. Meditation is
the soul's perspective glass : whereby, in her long
remove, she discerneth God, as if He were nearer
hand. I persuade no man to make it his whole life's
business. We have bodies, as well as souls. And
even this world, while we are in it, ought somewhat
to be cared for: contemplation generates; action
propagates. St. Bernard compares contemplation to*
Rachel, which was the more fair; but action to Leah,
which was the more fruitful. I will neither always be
busy and doing, nor ever shut up in nothing but
EARLY ENGLISH WRITER— MENAGE. 6g
thoughts. Yet, that which some would call idleness,
I will call the sweetest part of my life : and that is —
my thinking. — Resolves,
Early English Writer (unknown).
The philosopher Zeno, being demanded on a time
by what means a man might attain to happiness, made
answer : By resorting to the dead, and having familiar
conversation with them. Intimating thereby the reading
of Ancient and Modern Histories, and endeavouring
to have such good instructors, as have been observed in
our predecessors. A question also was moved by great
King Ptolemy, to one of the wise learned Interpreters :
In what occasions a King should exercise himself?
Whereto this he replyed. To know those things which
formerly have been done ; and to read Books of those
matters which offer themselves daily, or are fittest for
our instant office. . . . Such as are ignorant of
things done and past, before themselves had any being ;
continue still in the estate of children, able to speak
or behave themselves no otherwise, and even within
the bounds of their Native Countries (in respect
of knowledge or manly capacity) they are no more
than well seeming dumb Images. — Preface to First
English Ti'anslation of Boccacio. 1620 — 1625.
/
GiLLES Menage. 16 13 — 1692.
The following sentence from Menage ( " Menagiana, "
vol. IV.) is copied from David Garrick's book-plate, in
the possession of the compiler : —
70 MENAGE— yEREMY TAYLOR.
La premiere chose qu'on doit faire quand on a
emprunte un Livre, c'est de le lire, afin de pouvoir le
rendre pliitot.
Trans. The first thing one ought to do, after having
borrowed a book, is to read it, so as to be able to
return it as soon as possible.
In the *'M6nagiana" is a good pendant to the
above : —
M. Toinard dit que la raison pour laquelle on rend
si peu les livres pretez : c'est qu'il est plus aise de les
retenir que ce qui est dedans.
Trans, M. Toinard says that the reason why borrowed
books are seldom returned, is that it is easier to retain
the books themselves than what is inside of them.
Jeremy Taylor. 1613^ — 1667.
It conduces much to our content, if we pass by those
things which happen to our trouble, and consider that
which is pleasing and prosperous ; that by the repre-
sentation of the better, the worse maybe blotted out.
It may be thou art entered into the cloud which will
bring a gentle shower to refresh thy sorrows.
I am fallen into the hands of publicans and seques-
trators, and they have taken all from me : what now ?
let me look about me. They have left me the sun and
moon, fire and water, a loving wife, and many friends
to pity me, and some to relieve me, and I can still
discourse; and, unless I list, they have not taken
away my merry countenance, and my cheerfal spirit,
and a good conscience ; they still have left me the
providence of God, and all the promises of the gospel,
ROCHEFO UCA ULD—EARL OF BED FOR D. 7 1
and my religion, and my hopes of heaven, and my
charity to them too : and still I sleep and digest, I eat
and drink, I read and meditate, I can walk in my
neighbour's pleasant fields, and see the varieties of
natural beauties, and delight in all that in which God
delights, that is, in virtue and wisdom, in the whole
creation, and in God himself. — Holy Living.
Due DE LA Rochefoucauld. 1.6 13 — 1680.
II est plus necessaire d' etudier les hommes que les
livres.
Trans, To study men is more necessary than to
study books.
La sagesse est a I'ame ce que la sant^ est pour le
corps.
Irans. Wisdom is to the mind what health is to the
body. — Reflexions oic Sentences et Maxims Morales.
Earl of Bedford. 161 3 — 1700.
As a great advantage, not only to your book, but
health and business also, I cannot but advise and
enjoin you to accustom yourself to rise early ; for,,
take it from me, Frank, no lover of his bed did ever
yet form great and noble things. . . . Borrow,
therefore, of those golden morning hours, and bestow
them on your book. — Advice to His Sons,
Urban Chevreau. 1613 — 1701.
A gentleman told me, who had studied under Box-
•horne, at Leyden (successor to Heinsius, as professor
72 CHEVREAU^RICHARD BAXTER,
of politics and history in 1653), that this learned pro.
fessor was equallyindefatigable in reading and smoking.
To render these two favourite amusements compatible
with each other, he pierced a hole through the broad
brim of his hat, through which his pipe was conveyed,
when he had lighted it. In this manner he read and
smoked at the same time. When the bowl of the pipe
was empty, he filled it, and repassed it through the
same hole ; and so kept both his hands at leisure for
other employments. At other times he was never
without a pipe in his mouth. — Chevrceana,
Richard Baxter. 1615 — 1691.
But books have the advantage in many other respects :
you may read an able preacher, when you have but a
mean one to hear. Every congregation cannot hear
the most judicious or powerful preachers ; but every
single person may read the books of the most powerful
and judicious. Preachers may be silenced or banished,
when books may be at hand : books may be kept at a
smaller charge than preachers : we may choose books
which treat of that very subject which we desire to
hear of ; but we cannot choose what subject the
preacher shall treat of. Books we may have at hand
every day and hour ; when we can have sermons but
seldom, and at set times. If sermons be forgotten,
they are gone. But a book we may read over and
over until we remember it ; and, if we forget it, may
again peruse it at our pleasure, or at our leisure. So
that good books are a very great mercy to the
world. — Christian Directory^ Parti.y Chapter i\.
RICHARD BAXTER. 73
As for play-books, and romances, and idle tales,
T have already shewed in my "Book of Self-Denial,"
how pernicious they are, especially to youth, and to
frothy, empty, idle wits, that know not what a man is,
«or what he hath to do in the world. They are
powerful baits of the devil, to keep more necessary
things out of their minds, and better books out of
their hands, and to poison the mind so much the more
dangerously, as they are read with more delight and
pleasure : and to fill the minds of sensual people with
such idle fumes and intoxicating fancies, as may divert
them from the serious thoughts of their salvation : and
(which is no small loss) to rob them of abundance of
that precious time, which was given them for more
important business ; and which they will wish and
wish again at last that they had spent more wisely. —
Christian Directory, Parti., Direction xvi.
Because God hath made the excellent holy writings
of his servants the singular blessing of this land and
age, and many an one may. have a good book even
any day or hour of the week, that cannot at all
become a good preacher ; I advise all God's servants
to be thankful for so great a mercy, and to make use
of it, and be much in reading ; for reading with most
doth more conduce to knowledge than hearing doth,
because you may choose what subjects and the most
excellent treatises you please, and may be often at it,
and may peruse again and again what you forget, and
may take time as you go to fix it on your mind : and
with very many it doth more than hearing also to
move the heart, though hearing of itself, in this hath
74 RICHARD BAXTER.
the advantage; because lively books may be more
easily had, than lively preachers. . . . The truth
is, it is not the reading of many books which is
necessary to make a man wise or good ; but the well-
reading of a few, could he be sure to have the best.
And it is not possible to read over many on the same
subject in great deal of loss of precious time. —
Christian Directory, Part ii.. Chapter xwi.
. . . And yet the reading of as many as is
possible tendeth much to the increase of knowledge,
and were the best way, if greater matters were not
that way unavoidably to be omitted ; life therefore
being short, and work great, and knowledge being for
love and practice, and no man having leisure to learn
all things, a wise man must be sure to lay hold on that
which is most useful . . . and the very subjects
that are to be understood are numerous, and few men
write of all. And on the same subject men have several
modes of writing ; as one excelleth in accurate method,
and another in clear, convincing argumentation, and
another in an affectionate, taking style : and the same
book that doth one, cannot well do the other, because
the same style will not do it. — Christian Directory,
Part iii., Question clxxiv.
Great store of all sorts of good books (through the
great- mercy of God) are common among us : he that
cannot buy, may borrow. But take heed that you lose
not your time in reading romances, play-books, vain
jests, seducing or reviling disputes, or needless con-
troversies. This course of reading Scripture and good
books will be many ways to your great advantage.
JOHN OWEN. 75:
(i.) It will, above all other ways, increase your know-
ledge. (2.) It will help your resolutions and holy
affections, and direct your lives. (3.) It will make"
your lives pleasant. The knowledge, the usefulness,
and the variety to be found in these works, will be a
continual recreation to you, unless you are utterly
besotted or debauched. (4.} The pleasure of this will
turn you from your fleshly pleasures. You will have
no need to go for delight to a play-house, a drinking-
house . . . (5.) It will keep you from the sinful
loss of time, by idleness or unprofitable employment
or pastimes. You will cast away cards and dice, when-
you find the sweetness of youthful learning. — Com-
passionate Counsel to Young Men.
John Owen, i 616— 1683.
Nor was he {i.e.^ Sir Thomas Bodley] content with
defending the University, for so many years, by the
shadow of his invincible name ; but promoted and
enriched, by his munificence and most acceptable
. liberality, that universally renowned Treasury of Books,
the great ornament not only of the University, but of
our whole nation, the Bodleian Library. Fortunate
Soul of Bodley ! that found so many and such great
rivals of its excellence, and then augmenters of its
fame ! While oblivion covers, and will cover, in long
obscurity, innumerable descendants who believed their
only duty was to fare sumptuously. Thou hast so widely
spread thyglorious memory, that no succession of years,
no lapse of time, can obliterate it. Fortunate Bodley !
thou shalt not wholly perish ; so long as kings, princes,.
76 JOHN OWEN— ABRAHAM COWLEY,
conquerors shall emulously strive to deposit in thy
Treasury whatever monuments can anywhere be found
of ancient virtue or true learning ; and shall not disdain
to decorate thy halls with their own statues and images.
Here the Prince, then the Count, then the Bishop, in
long array, distinguished by various representations of
their honours, — the most eminent men — have caused
the name of Bodley to be now celebrated by the
unanimous voice of the whole world. If only the
Divine favour attend us, there is no room to doubt that
the University will rise to the most enviable summits
of virtue and science, and the loftiest heights of dignity
in the literary world. — From the Third Latin Oration^
held before the University of Oxford, by Johjz Owen,
D.D., Vice- Chancellor. Works, vol. xvi., p. 496.
\Translated by /. N,'\
Abraham Cowley. 1618 — 1667.
. . . In the second place he [the man who is to
make himself capable of the good of solitude,] must
learn the art and get the habit of thinking ; for this
to6, no less than well speaking, depends upon much
practice ; and cogitation is the thing which distinguishes
the solitude of a god from a wild beast. Now, because
the soul of man is not by its own nature or observation
furnished with sufficient materials to work upon, it is
necessary for it to have continual recourse to learning
and books for fresh supplies, so that the solitary life
will grow indigent, and be ready to starve, without
them ; but if once we be thoroughly engaged in the
ABRAHAM COIVLEV. 77
love of letters, instead of being wearied with the length
of any day, we shall only complain of the shortness of
our whole life.
**0 vita, stulto longa, sapienti brevis !"
[O life, long to the fool, short to the wise !]
The first minister of state has not so much business
in public, as a wise man has in private : if the one have
little leisure to be alone, the other has less leisure to
be in company ; the one has but part of the affairs of
one nation, the other all the works of God and nature
under his consideration. There is no saying shocks
me so much as that which I hear very often, **thata
man does not know how to pass his time." It would
have been but ill spoken by Methusalem in the nine
hundred sixty-ninth year of his life ; so far it is from
us, who have not time enough to attain to the utmost
perfection of any part of any science, to have cause to
complain that we are forced to be idle for want of
work. But this, you will say, is work only for the
learned ; others are not capable either of the employ-
ments or divertisements that arrive from letters. I
know they are not ; and therefore cannot much
recommend solitude to a man totally illiterate. But,
if any man be so unlearned, as to want entertainment
of the little intervals of accidental solitude, which
frequently occur in almost all conditions (except the
very meanest of the people, who have business enough
in the necessary provisions for life,) it is truly a great
shame both to his parents and himself; for a very
small portion of any ingenious art will stop up all
those gaps of our time ; either music, or painting, or
78 ABRAHAM COWLEV.
designing, or chemistry, or history, or gardening, or
twenty other things, will do it usefully and pleasantly ;
and, if he happen to set his affections upon poetry
(which I do not advise him too immoderately), that
will over-do it ; no wood will be thick enough to hide
him from the importunities of company or business,
which would abstract him from his beloved, — Essays:
Of Solitude.
As far as my memoiy can return back into my past
life, before I knew or was capable of guessing, what
the world, or the glories or business of it were, the
natural affections of my soul gave me a secret bent of
aversion from them, as some plants are said to turn
away from others, by an antipathy imperceptible to
themselves, and inscrutable to man's understanding.
Even when I was a very young boy at school, instead
of running about on holy-days, and playing with my
fellows, I was wont to steal from them, and walk into
the fields, either alone with a book, or with some one
companion, if I could find any of the same temper. I
was then, too, so much an enemy to all constraint,
that my masters could never prevail on me, by any
persuasions or encouragements, to learn without book
the common rules of grammar ; in which they dis-
pensed with me alone, because they found I made a
shift to do the usual exercise out of my own reading
and observation. That I was then of the same mind
as I am now, (which, I confess, I wonder at myself)
may appear by the latter end of an ode, which I made
when I was but thirteen years old, and which was
then printed with many other verses. The beginning
ABRAHAM COWLEY, 79
of it is boyish ; but of this part, which I here set
down (if a very little were corrected), I should hardly
now be much ashamed.
This only grant me ; that my means rnay lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have.
Not from great deeds, but good alone ;
The unknown are better than ill known :
Rumour can ope the grave.
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.
Books should, not business, entertain the light ;
And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night.
My house a cottage more
Than palace ; and should fitting be
For all my use, not luxury.
My garden painted o'er
With Nature's hand, not Art's ; and pleasures yield,
Horace might envy in his Sabine field.
Thus would I double my life's fading space ;
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, this happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate ;
But boldly say each night ;
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Or in clouds hide them ; I have lived to-day.
With these affections of mind, and my heart wholly
set upon letters, I went to the university; but was
8o ABRAHAM COJVLEV.
soon torn from thence by that violent public storm^
which would suffer nothing to stand where it did, but
rooted up every plant, even from the princely cedars
to me the hyssop. Yet, I had as good fortune as
could have befallen me in such a tempest; for I was
cast by it into "the family of one of the best persons,
and into the court of one of the best princesses, of the
world. Now, though I was here engaged in ways
most contrary to the original design of my life, that is,
into much company, and no small business, and into a
daily sight of greatness, both militant and triumphant
(for that was the state then of the English and French
courts); yet all this was so far from altering my opinion,
that it only added the confirmation of reason to that
which was before but natural inclination. I saw
plainly all the paint of that kind of life, the nearer I
came to it; and that beauty, which I did not fall in
love with, when, for aught I knew, it was real, was
not like to bewitch or entice me, when I saw that it
was adulterate. I met with several great persons,
whom I liked very well ; but could not perceive that
any part of their greatness was to be liked or desired,
no more than I would be glad or content to be in
a storm, though I saw many ships which rid safely and
bravely in it: a storm would not agree with my
stomach, if it did with my courage. Though I was in
a crowd of as good company as could be found any-
where; though I was in business of great and
honourable trust ; though I eat at the best table, and
enjoyed the best conveniences for present subsistence
that ought to be desired by a man of my condition in
banishment and public distresses; yet I could not
ABRAHAM COWLEY. 8t
abstain from renewing my old school-boy's wish, in a
copy of verses to the same effect :
" Well then;^ I now do plainly see
This busy world and I shall ne'er agree," &c.
And I never then proposed to myself any other ad-
vantage from his majesty's happy restoration, but the
getting into some moderately convenient retreat in the
country; which I thought, in that case, I might easily
have compassed, as well as some others, who, with no
greater probabilities or pretences, have arrived to ex-
traordinary fortunes. . . . However, by the failing
of the forces which I had expected, I did not quit the
design which I had resolved on ; I cast myself into it a
corps perdu, without making capitulations, or taking
counsel of fortune. But God laughs at a man who
says to his soul, **Take thy ease:" I met presently not
only with many little encumbrances and impediments,
but with so much sickness (a new misfortune to me)
as would have spoiled the happiness of an emperor
as well as mine: yet I do neither repent, or alter
my course. "Non ego perfidum dixi sacramen-
tum;" nothing shall separate me from a mistress
which I have loved so long, and have now at
last married; though she neither has brought me a
rich portion, nor lived yet so quietly with me as I
hoped from her:
Nee vos, dulcissima mundi
Nomina, vos, Musse, Libertas, Otia, Libri,
Hortique Silvseque^ anima remanente, relinquam.
G
82 BARTHOLIN-CHARPENTIER.
Nor by me e'er shall you,
You, of all names the sweetest and the best.
You, Muses, books, and liberty, and rest ;
You, gardens, fields, and woods, forsaken be
As long as life itself forsakes not me.
But this is a very pretty ejaculation ! Because I
liave concluded all the other chapters with a copy of
verses, I will maintain the humour to the last. —
Essays: Of Myself,
Thomas V. Bartholin. 1619 — 1680.
Without books, God is silent, justice dormant,
natural science at a stand, philosophy lame, letters
dumb, and all things involved in Cimmerian dark-
ness. — Dissertationes de libi'is legendis. Copenhagiie^
1672.
Francis Charpentier. 1620 — 1702.
I could not help laughing at the expression, though
1 agree in the sentiment of Heinsius, who with a
simple frankness, very natural to a Dutchman, declares,
that on reading Plato, he felt so much delight and
enthusiasm, that one page of that philosopher's work
operated upon him like the intoxication produced by
swallowing ten bumpers of wine. I have read some
bacchanalian passage very similar to this in Scaliger
the Elder: *' Herodotus is so charming an author,"
says he, " that I have as much pain to quit him as I
feel in leaving my bottle." — Carpeitteriana.
HENRY V A UGH an: 83
Henry Vaughan. 162 i — 1695.
To His Books.
Bright books ! the perspectives to our weak sights,
The clear projections of discerning lights,
Burning and shining thoughts, man's posthume day,
The track of fee'd souls, and their milkie way ;
The dead alive and busie, the still voice
Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's white decoys 1
Who lives with you lives like those knowing flowers,
Which in commerce with light spend all their hours ;
Which shut to clouds, and shadows nicely shun,
But with glad haste unveil to kiss the Sun.
Beneath you all is dark and a dead night.
Which whoso lives in wants both health and right.
By sucking you the wise, like bees, do grow
Healing and rich, though this they do most slow,
Because most choicely ; for as great a store
Have we of Books as bees of herbs, or more ;
And the great task to try, then know, the good,
To discern weeds, and judge of wholesome food,
Is a rare scant performance. For man dyes
Oft ere 'tis done, while the bee feeds and flyes.
But you were all choice flowers ; all set and dressed
By old sage florists, who well knew the best ;
And I amidst you all am turned to weed,
Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.
Then thank thyself, wild fool, that would'st not be
Content to know, — what was too much for thee.
Silex Scintillans : Sacred Poems (Sr* Private
Ejaculations. Part iii. Thalia Redi-
viva. 1650-5. Ne7v Edition, with
Memoir , by H. F. Lyie. 1S47,
84 john hall— sir william temple.
John Hall. 1627 — 1656.
We see seldome Learning and Wisdoin concurre,
because the former is got sub umbra, but business doth
winnow observations, and the better acquaintance with
breathing volumes of men ; it teacheth us both better
to read them, and to apply what we have read.
Health ought to be nicely respected by a Student.
. . . How can a Spirit actuate when she is caged
in a lump of fainting flesh? Unseasonable times of
study are very obnoxious, as after meales, when Nature
is wholy retired to concoction ; or at night times, when
she begins to droope for want of rest. ... I have
heard it spoken of one of the greatest Ambulatory
Pieces of learning at this day, that he would redeeme
(if possible) his health with the losse of halfe his
Learning.
Some Studies would be hug'd as imployments,
others only dandled as sports ; the one ought not to
trespasse on the other ; for to be employed in needlesse
things is halfe to be idle. — Horce Vacivce, 1646.
Sir William Temple. 1628— 1698.
This admirable writer, in discoursing on Ancient
and Modern Learning — its encouragements and hind-
rances — points out two great obstacles to its advance-
ment in proportion to what might have been expected
from the revival of letters, viz., the absorption of the
highest intellects of the time in disputes and contests
about religion, and the perpetual succession of foreign
and civil wars resulting therefrom j —
SIR IVILLIAM TEMPLE. 85
Since those accidents which contributed to the
restoration of learning, almost extinguished in the
western parts of Europe, have been observed, it will
be just to mention some that may have hindered the
advancement of it, in proportion to what might have
been expected from the mighty growth and progress
made in the first age after its recovery. One great
reason may have been, that, very soon after the entry
of learning upon the scene of Christendom, another
was made, by many of the new-learned men, into the
inquiries and contests about matters of religion — the
manners, and maxims, and institutions introduced by
the clergy for seven or eight centuries past ; the autho-
rity of Scripture and tradition ; of popes and of
councils ; of the ancient fathers, and of the latter
schoolmen and casuists ; of ecclesiastical and civil
power. The humour of travelling into all these
mystical or entangled matters, mingling with the
interests and passions of princes and of parties, and
thereby heightened or inflamed, produced infinite dis-
putes, raised violent heats throughout all parts of
Christendom, and soon ended in many defections or
reformations from the Roman church, and in several
new institutions, both ecclesiastical and civil, in divers
countries, which have been since rooted and estab-
lished in almost all the north-west parts. The endless
disputes and litigious quarrels upon all these subjects,
favoured and encouraged by the interests of the several
princes engaged in them, either took up wholly, or
generally employed, the thoughts, the studies, the
applications, the endeavours of all or most of the finest
wits, the deepest scholars, and the most learned
86 ISAAC BARROW.
writers that the age produced. Many excellent spirits,
and the most penetrating genii, that might have made
admirable progresses and advances in many other
sciences, were sunk and overwhelmed in the abyss of
disputes about matters of religion, without ever turning
their looks or thoughts any other way. To these dis-
putes of the pen, succeeded those of the sword; and the
ambition of great princes and ministers, mingled with
the zeal, or covered with the pretences of religion, has for
a hundred years past infested Christendom with almost a
perpetual course or succession either of civil or of foreign
wars ; the noise and disorders whereof have been ever
the most capital enemies of the Muses, who are seated,
by the ancient fables, upon the top of Parnassus, that
is, in a place of safety and of quiet from the reach of
all noises and disturbances of the regions below.
Books, like proverbs, receive their chief value from
the stamp and esteem of ages through which they have
passed. — Essays : On Ancient and Modej-n Leai-ning.
Isaac Barrow. 1630 — 1677.
Wisdom of itself is delectable and satisfactory, as
it implies a revelation of truth and a detection of error
to us. 'Tis like light, pleasant to behold, casting a
sprightly lustre, and diffusing a benign influence all
about ; presenting a goodly prospect of things to the
eyes of our mind ; displaying objects in their due
shapes, postures, magnitudes, and colours ; quickening
our spirits with a comfortable warmth, and disposing
our minds to a cheerful activity ; dispelling the dark-
ness of ignorance, scattering the mists of doubt, driving
ISAAC BARROW. 87
away the spectres of delusive fancy ; mitigating the
cold of sullen melancholy ; discovering obstacles, se-
curing progress, and making the passages of life clear,
open, and pleasant.. We are all naturally endowed
with a strong appetite to know, to see, to pursue truth ;
and with a bashful abhorrency from being deceived
and entangled in mistake. And as success in enquiry
after truth affords matter of joy and triumph ; so being
conscious of error and miscarriage therein, is attended
with shame and sorrow. These desires wisdom in the
most perfect manner satisfies, not by entertaining us
with dry, empty, fruitless theories upon mean and
vulgar subjects ; but by enriching our minds with ex-
cellent and useful knowledge, directed to the noblest
objects, and serviceable to the highest ends.
The calling of a scholar is one the design whereot
conspireth with the general end of our being ; the per-
fection of our nature in its endowments, and the fruition
of it in its best operations. It is a calling, which doth
not employ us in bodily toil, in worldly care, in pursuit
of trivial affairs, in sordid drudgeries ; but in those an-
gelical operations of soul, the contemplation of truth,
and attainment of wisdom ; which are the worthiest
exercises of our reason, and sweetest entertainments of
our mind ; the most precious wealth, and most beautiful
ornaments of our soul ; whereby our faculties are im-
proved, are polished and refined, are enlarged in their
power and use by habitual accessions : the which are
conducible to our own greatest profit and benefit, as
serving to rectify our wills, to compose our affections,
to guide our lives in the ways of virtue, to bring us
88 ISAAC BARROW.
unto felicity. It is a calling, which, being duly fol-
lowed, will most sever us from the vulgar sort of men,
and advance us above the common pitch ; enduing us
with light to see further than other men, disposing us
to affect better things, and to slight those meaner
objects of human desire, on which men commonly
dote ; freeing us from the erroneous conceits and from
the perverse affections of common people. It is said
that men of learning are double- sighted : but it is true,
that in many cases they see infinitely further than a
vulgar sight doth reach. And if a man by serious
study doth acquire a clear and solid judgment of
things, so as to assign to each its due weight and price ;
if he accordingly be inclined in his heart to affect and
pursue them ; if from clear and right notions of things,
a meek and ingenuous temper of mind, a command and
moderation of passions, a firm integrity, and a cordial
love of goodness do spring, he thereby becometh
another kind of thing, much different from those
brutish men (beasts of the people) who blindly follow
the motions of their sensual appetite, or the suggestions
of their fancy, or their mistaken prejudices.
It is a calling which hath these considerable advan-
tages, that, by virtue of improvement therein, we can
see with our own eyes, and guide ourselves by our own
reasons, not being led blindfold about, or depending
precariously on the conduct of others, in matters of
highest concern to us; that we are exempted from
giddy credulity, from wavering levity, from fond ad-
miration of persons and things, being able to distinguish
of things, and to settle our judgments about them, and
to get an intimate acquaintance with them, assuring to
ISAAC BAR 1^0 IV. 89
us their true nature and worth ; that we are also
thereby rescued from admiring ourselves, and that
overweening self-conceitedness, of which the Wise Man
saith, Tke sluggard is wiser in his own conceit than
seven men that can render a reason .
It is a calling most exempt from the cares, the
crosses, the turmoils, the factious jars, the anxious
intrigues, the vexatious molestations of the world ; its
business lying out of the road of those mischiefs, wholly
lying in solitary retirement, or being transacted in the
most innocent and ingenuous company. It is a calling
least subject to any danger or disappointment; wherein
we may well be assured not to miscarry or lose our
labour ; for the merchant indeed by manifold accidents
may lose his voyage, or find a bad market; the hus-
bandman may plough and sow in vain : but the student
hardly can fail of improving his stock, and reaping a
good crop of knowledge ; especially if he study with a
conscientious mind, and pious reverence to God, im-
ploring his gracious help and blessing. It is a calling,
the business whereof doth so exercise as not to weary,
so entertain as not to cloy us ; being not (as other
occupations are) a drawing in a mill, or a nauseous
tedious repetition of the same work ; but a continued
progress towards fresh objects ; our mind not being
staked to one or a few poor matters, but having immense
fields of contemplation, wherein it may everlastingly
expatiate, with great proficiency and pleasure.
It is that which recommendeth a man in all company,
and procureth regard, every one yielding attention and
acceptance to instructive, neat, apposite discourse
go ISAAC BARROW.
(that which the scripture calleth acceptable ^ pleasant^
gracious tvords ;) men think themselves obHged thereby,
by receiving information and satisfaction from it ; and
accordingly, Every man (saith the Wise Man) shall kiss
his lips that giveth a right answer ; Sind— /or the grace
of his lips the king shall be his friend ; and the words
of a wise man's mouth are gracious. It is that, an
eminency wherein purchaseth lasting fame, and a life
after death, in the good memory and opinion of pos-
terity : Many shall commend his understanding; and
so long as the world endureth, it shall not be blotted out:
his 77iemo7'ial shall not depart away^ and his name shall
live fj'om generation to generation. A fame no less
great, and far more innocent, than acts of chivalry and
martial prowess ; for is not Aristotle as renowned for
teaching the world with his pen, as Alexander for con-
quering it with his sAvord? Is not one far oftener
mentioned than the other ? Do not men hold them-
selves much more obliged to the learning of the
philosopher, than to the valour of the warrior ? Indeed
the fame of all others is indebted to the pains of the
scholar, and could not subsist but with and by his
fame : Dignum laude virum Musa vetatmori ; learning
consecrateth itself and its subject together to immortal
remembrance. It is a calling that fitteth a man for all
conditions and fortunes; so that he can enjoy prosperity
with moderation, and sustain adversity with comfort :
he that loveth a book will never want a faithful friend,
a wholesome counsellor, a cheerful companion, an
efifectual comforter. By study, by reading, by thinking,
one may innocently divert and pleasantly entertain
himself, as in all weathers, so in all fortunes.
CHARLES COTTON. 91
The exercise of our mind in rational discursiveness
about things in quest of truth ; canvassing questions,
examining arguments for and against ; how greatly
doth it better us, fortifying our natural parts, enabling
us to fix our thoughts on objects without roving, inuring
us to weigh and resolve, and judge well about matters
proposed ; preserving us from being easily abused by
captious fallacies, gulled by specious pretences, tossed
about with every doubt or objection started before us !
The reading of books, what is it but conversing with
the wisest men of all ages and all countries, who thereby
communicate to us their most deliberate thoughts,
choicest notions, and best inventions, couched in good
expression, and digested in exact method ?
How doth it supply the room of experience, and
furnish us with prudence at the expense of others,
informing us about the ways of action, and the conse-
quences thereof by examples, without our own danger
or trouble ! — Sermons : " Of Industry in our Partiadar
Calling as Scholars, "
Charles Cotton. 1630 — 1687.
[The friend of Isaac Walton, and Translator of
Montaigne's Essays.]
How calm and quiet a delight
Is it, alone.
To read, and meditate, and write,
By none offended, and offending none.
To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease,
And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease.
Poems, \(y%(). The jReiirement. To Mr. Isaac
Walton.
BISHOP HUET.
Who from the busy World retires,
To be more useful to it still,
And to no greater good aspires
But only the eschewing ill.
Who, with his Angle, and his Books,
Can think the longest day well spent,
And praises God when back he looks.
And finds that all was innocent.
This man is happier far than he
Whom public Business oft betrays
Through labyrinths of Policy,
To crooked and forbidden ways.
Poems ^ 1689. Contentation. Directed to
my Dear Father^ and most Worthy
Friend, Mr. Isaac Walton.
Peter Daniel Huet. 1630 — 1721.
They who endure the toil of study, w^th a view to
riches and honours, will be very much disappointed.
All the world has heard of a French treatise on the
Miseries of Scholars, but none has appeared descriptive
of their felicities. In fact, the retired life, the inac-
tivity with respect to all business in common life, or
public employments, which an attention to study re-
quires, and that internal recluseness and abstraction of
mind, so peculiar to the student, are all circumstances
averse from the acquisition of wealth. He on whom
the Muses have smiled in his infancy will scorn the
praises of the multitude, the fascination of wealth, and
the enticements of honours ; and will find that his toil
is the only adequate reward which can satisfy the mind
BISHOP HURT. 93
of a scholar. He will not be repelled by the length,
nor disgusted by the drudgery of his labours. His
passion for learning will increase with his acquire-
ments ; and, whilst his diligence procures him fresh
information, he will discover his numerous deficiencies,
and be induced to redouble his attention. These
sentiments are not declamatory. I write from expe-
rience of the truths which I advance, the experience of
my whole life, which I wish protracted for no other
reason than that I may employ it in future investiga-
tions. Nor let the hoary student be discouraged,
should he find himself sometimes going backward
instead of forward ; but impute his misfortune to the
incapacities of age, and to the languor that faculties
long harassed by continual application must necessarily
endure. ......
To constitute a learned man, the gifts of nature
are in the first line of desiderata ; a solid understanding,
a quick apprehension, a retentive memory, a healthful
and vigorous body, a disposition steady, constant, and
uniform ; diligence which years cannot impair, an
insatiable thirst of knowledge, and an invincible attach-
ment to reading, &c. Without the gifts of fortune,
nature will have been generous in vain.
Cujus conatibus obstat
Res angusta domi,
must confine his exertions to defend himself from the
exigencies of the moment. We must think of merely
living, before we can endeavour to live pleasantly and
with distinction ; and the conveniences of life must be
a consideration superior to the love of study. . . ,
94 JOHN LOCKE,
An exclusive application to books, as the sole employ-
ment and the pleasure of life, is the choice of the
student himself, inspired with a love of letters ; v^^hich
neither the fascination of riches or ambition can sup-
plant, nor the fears of poverty, nor the dread of labour
and obscurity, can extinguish. Horace, in the Ode
which Julius Scaliger so highly prized, that he would
rather have been the writer of it than a King of Spain,
has clothed the above sentiments with all the charms
that brilliant composition, united with truth, are
capable of bestowing.
"When we consider," says the Abbe Olivet ( V Eloge
Histor, de M. Huet), ** that he lived to the age of
ninety years and upwards, that he had been a hard
student from his infancy, that he had had almost all
his time to himself, that he enjoyed an uninterrupted
state of health, that he had always some one to read
to him, even at his meals ; that, in one word, to borrow
his own language, neither the heat of youth, nor a
multiplicity of business, nor the love of company, nor
the hurry of the world, had ever been able to moderate
his love of study, we may fairly conclude him to have
been the most learned man that any age ever pro-
duced. " — Huetiana,
John Locke. 1632 — 1704.
Education begins the gentleman, but reading, good
company, and reflection must finish him.
Those who have read of everything are thought to
understand everything too ; but it is not always so-
Reading furnishes the mind only with materials of
JOHN LOCKE. 95
knowledge ; it is thinking that makes what are read
over. We are of the ruminating kind, and it is not
enough to cram ourselves with a great load of collec-
tions ; unless we chew them over again, they will not
give us strength and nourishment.
The End and Use of a little Insight in those Parts
of Knowledge, which are not a Man's proper Business,
is to accustom our Minds to all Sorts of Ideas, and the
proper Ways of examining their Habitudes, and Rela-
tions. This gives the Mind a Freedom ; and the exer-
cising the Understanding in the several Ways of
Enquiry and Reasoning which the most skilful have
made use of, teaches the Mind Sagacity and Wariness,
and a Suppleness to apply itself more closely and dex-
terously to the Bents and Turns of the matter in all its
researches. Besides this universal Taste in all the
Sciences, with an Indifferency, before the Mind is
possessed of any one in particular, and grown into a
Love and Admiration of what is made its Darling, will
prevent another Evil very commonly to be observed in
those who have been reasoned only by one Part of
Knowledge. Let a Man be given to the Contemplation
of one Sort of Knowledge and that will become every-
thing. The Mind will take such a Tincture from a
Familiarity with that Object, that everything else, how
remote soever, will be brought under the same View.
A Metaphysician will bring Plowing and Gardening
immediately to abstract notions. The History of
Nature will signify nothing to him. An Alchymist, on
the contrary, shall reduce Divinity to the Maxims of
the Laboratory, explain Morality by Sal Sulphur and
96 ROBERT SOUTH.
Mercury, and allegorise the Scripture itself, and the
sacred Mysteries thereof, into the Philosopher's Stone.
And I heard once a Man who had a more than ordinary
Excellency in Musick seriously accommodate Moses
seven Days of the first Week, to the Notes of Musick,
as if from thence had been taken the Measure and
Method of Creation.
'Tis of no small Consequence to keep the Mind
from such a Possession, which I think is best done by
giving it a fair and equal View of the whole intellectual
World, wherein it may see the Order, Rank, and
Beauty of the whole, and give a just allowance to the
distinct Provinces of the several Sciences, in the due
Order, and usefulness of each of them. — Conduct of
the Understanding,
Robert South. 1633 — 17 16.
The pleasure and delight of knowledge and learning
far surpasseth all other in nature : for, shall the plea-
sures of the affections so exceed the senses, as much as
the obtaining of desire or victory exceedeth a song or a
dinner; and must not, of consequence, the pleasures
of the intellect or understanding exceed the pleasures
of the affections ? We see in all other pleasures there
is satiety, and after they be used, their verdure de-
parteth ; which sheweth well they be but deceits of
pleasure, and not pleasure ; and that it was the novelty
which pleased, and not the quality : and therefore we
see that voluptuous men turn friars, and ambitious
princes turn melancholy. But of knowledge there is
no satiety, but satisfaction and appetite are perpetually
interchangeable.
SIR GEORGE MACKENZIE. 97
Seldom is there much spoke, but something or other
had better not been spoke.
He who has published an injurious book, sins, as
it were, in his very grave ; corrupts others while he is
rotting himself.
Much reading is like much eating, wholly useless
without digestion, — Sermons,
Sir George Mackenzie. 1636 — 1691.
If variety be that which is admired in Society,
certainly our own thoughts, or other men's Books,^
can in these far exceed Conversation ; possessing above
it this Advantage, that one can never be either impor-
tuned or betray'd by these, as is much to be feared
from the other. . . . O what a divine State then
must Solitude be, wherein a Virtuous and Thoughtful
Inactivity begets in us a Tranquility, not conceivable
by such as do not possess it ! Solitude requires no
avarice to maintain its Table. It is satisfied without
Coaches, Lacqueys, Treasurers and Embroideries.
The Solitary Man is not disquieted at the Infrequency
of Guests. . . . Tranquility of Spirit is peculiar
to Philosophy, and is the Guest of Solitude. . . .
How can that Soul rust which is in continual Exercise?
. . . Really I know no securer Box, from which to
behold the world's Comedie, than in safe Solitude ;
and it is easier to feel than to express the Pleasure
which may be taken aloof, and in contemplating the
Rulings of the Multitude, the Excentrick Motions of
great Men, and how Fate recreates itself in their
Ruin. — A Moral Essay preferring Solitude to Publick
Employment,
98 la bruyere— jeremy collier.
John de la Bruyere. 1644— 1696.
Where a book raises yoUr spirit, and inspires you
with noble and courageous feelings, seek for no other
rule to judge the event by ; it is good and made by a
good workman.
x\ Seventeenth Century Divine.
(Unverified. )
There be those that ungratefully complain of the
heaviness of time, as if we could have too much of
God's most precious gift of life and its containings.
Let such persons consider that there be daily duties to
be well performed which do not exclude innocent
recreations and the privileged opportunities of silent
conversation with the greatest minds and spirits, in
their most chosen words, in their books, that lie ready
and offer themselves to us if we would.
Jeremy Collier. 1650 — 1726.
The Diversions of Reading, though they are not
always of the strongest Kind, yet they generally Leave
a better Effect than the grosser Satisfactions of Sense :
For if they are well chosen, they neither dull the
Appetite, nor strain the Capacity. On the contrary,
they refresh the Inclinations, and strengthen the
Power, and improve under Experiment : And which
is best of all, they Entertain and Perfect at the same
time ; and convey Wisdom and Knowledge through
Pleasure. By Reading a Man does ^s it were Antedate
his Life, and makes himself contemporary with the
JEREMY COLLIER. gg
Ages past. And this way of running up beyond one's
Nativity, is much better than Plato's Pre-existence ;
because here a Man knows something of the State,
and is the wiser for it ; which he is not in the other.
In conversing with Books we may chuse our Com-
pany, and disengage without Ceremony or Exception.
Here we are free from the Formalities of Custom, and
Respect : We need not undergo the Penance of a dull
Story, from a Fop of Figure ; but may shake off the
Haughty, the Impertinent, and the Vain, at Pleasure.
Besides, Authors, like Women, commonly Dress when
they make a Visit. Respect to themselves makes
them polish their Thoughts, and exert the Force of
their Understanding more than they would, or can do,
in ordinary Conversation : So that the Reader has as
it were the Spirit and Essence in a narrow Compass;
which was drawn off from a much larger Proportion of
Time, Labour, and Expence. Like an Heir, he is
born rather than made Rich, and comes into a Stock
of Sense, with little or no Trouble of his own. 'Tis
true, a Fortune in Knowledge which Descends in this
manner, as well as an inherited Estate, is too often
neglected, and squandered away; because we do not
consider the Difficulty in Raising it.
Books are a Guide in Youth, and an Entertainment
for Age. They support us under SoHtude, and keep
us from being a Burthen to our selves. They help us to
forget the Crossness of Men and Things ; compose our
Cares, and our Passions ; and lay our Disappointments
asleep. When we are weary of the Living, we may
repair to the Dead, who have nothing of Peevishness,
Pride, or Design, in their Conversation. . However, to
loo yEREMY COLLIER.
be constantly in the Wheel has neither Pleasure nor
Improvement in it. A Man may as well expect to
grow stronger by always Eating, as wiser by always
Reading. Too much over-charges Nature, and turns
more into Disease than Nourishment. 'Tis Jhought
and Digestion which makes Books serviceable, and
gives Health and Vigour to the Mind. Neither ought
we to be too Implicit or Resigning to Authorities,
but to examine before we Assent, and preserve our
Reason in its just Liberties. To walk always upon
Crutches, is the way to lose the Use of our Limbs.
Such an absolute Submission keeps us in a perpetual
Minority, breaks the Spirits of the Understanding, and
lays us open to Imposture.
But Books well managed afford Direction and Dis-
covery. They strengthen the Organ, and enlarge the
Prospect, and give a more universal Insight into Things,
than can be learned from unlettered Observation. Pie
who depends only upon his own Experience, has but
a few Materials to work upon. He is confined to
narrow Limits both of Place and Time ; And is not
fit to draw a large Model, and to pronounce upon
Business which is complicated and unusual. There
seems to be much the same difference between a Man
of meer Practice, and another of Learning, as there is
between an Empirick and a Physician. The first may
have a good Receipt, or two ; and if Diseases and
Patients were very scarce, and all alike, he might do
tolerably well. But if you enquire concerning the
Causes of Distempers, the Constitution of human
Bodies, the Danger of Symptoms, and the Methods of
Cure, upon which the Success of Medicine depends.
FENELON— CHARLES BLOUNT. loi
he knows little of the Matter. On the other side :
To take Measures wholly from Books, without looking
into Men and Business, is like travelling in a Map,
where though Countries and Cities are well enough
distinguished, yet Villages and private Seats are either
Over-looked, or too generally Marked for a Stronger
to find. And therefore he that would be a Master,
must Draw by the Life, as well as Copy from Originals,
and joyn Theory and Experience together. — Essays
upon Several Moral Subjects : Of the Entertainment
of Books,
Archbishop Fenelon. 1651 — 17 15.
If the crowns of all the kingdoms of the Empire
were laid down at my feet in exchange for my books
and my love of reading, I would spurn them all.
Charles Blount. 1654 — 1697.
Books are the only Records of Time, which excite
us to imitate the past Glories of our Ancestors.
Secondly, We owe our manner or form of Divine
Worship to Books alone. Thirdly, We owe our
Philosophy or Contemplation of God in his Works,
to the same Cause. For Mens Natural Abilities, like
Natural Plants, need pruning by Study : Thus we see
that Histories make Men wise ; Poets, witty ; Mathe-
jnaticks, subtle ; Natural Philosophy, deep ; Moral
Philosophy, grave ; Logick and Rhetorick, able to
dispute ; all which Excellencies are to be acquired only
from Books ; since no Vocal Learning is so effectual
I02 CHARLES BLOUNT,
for Instruction, as Reading; for that written Discourses
are better digested, and support themselves better on
their own weight, than Words disguised by the manner
of Expression, cadence or gesture, which corrupt the
simplicity of things ; when also the suddenness of
Pronunciation allows not the Audience time sufficient
to reflect upon what was said. Moreover, Books
flatter much less, and have more universal Precepts,
than Discourse ; which generally affects Complaisance,
and gaining the Hearers good will : Particularly in
Morality, where great Persons are better instructed,
and more plainly reprehended for their Faults by
Books, than by Discourses. Books being therefore in
the main so useful to Human Society, I cannot but
herein agree with Mr. Milton, and say, that (unless it
be effected with great Caution) you had almost as good
kill a Man, as a good Book ; for he that kills a Man,
kills but a Reasonable Creature, God's Image :
whereas he that destroys a good Book, kills Reason
it self, which is as it were the "very Eye of God.
Having thus demonstrated how much the World
owes to Learning and Books, let me not be altogether
unmindful of Faust and Guttenburg, the promoters of
both ; who by their Ingenuity discovered and made
known to the World, that Profound Art of Printing,
which hath made Learning not only Easie, but Cheap ;
since now, any Person may accommodate himself with
a good moderate Library, at the same Price, as hereto-
fore Plato payed for Three Books of Philolaus the
Pythagorean, viz. Three Hundred Pounds. — A Just
Vindication of Learning and the Liberty of the Pt'ess,
1695,
t. fuller, m.d.—yohn norris. 103
Thomas Fuller, M.D. 1654 — 1734.
Tell me not what thou hast heard and read, and
only so ; but what (after thy hearing and reading) thou
hast taken into thy Meditation, found to be Truth,
settled with Judgment, fixed in thy Memory, embraced
in thy affections ; and then a long time practised,
and so made up to be truly thine own. This, and
only this, is rightly called Learning. — Introductio ad
Sapientiam. 1731.
John Norris. 1657 — 1711.
Concerning my Essays and Discourses I have only
this to say, that I design'd in them as much Brevity
and Clearness as are consistent with each other, and
to abound in se^ise rather than words. I wish all men
would observe this in their writings more than they do.
I'm sure the multitude of Books and the shortness' of
Life require it, and sense will lye in a little compass if
men would be perswaded to vent no Notions but what
they are Masters of, and were Angels to write, I fancy
we should have but few Folio'' s. This is what I designed
and endeavour' din the whole. Whether I have attain' d
it or no, I submit to Judgment. — Introduction to Mis-
cellanies.
This over-fond and superstitious deference to Autho-
rity, makes men, otherwise senseful and Ingenious,
quote such things many times out of an old dull Author,
and with a peculiar emphasis of commendation too,
as would never pass even in ordinary conversation ;
and which they themselves would never have took
»o4 yOHN NORRIS,
notice of, had not such an Author said it. But now,
no sooner does a man give himself leave to think, but
he perceives how absurd and unreasonable 'tis, that
one man should prescribe to all Posterity : that men,
like beasts, should follow the foremost of the Herd ;
and that venerable non-sense should be prefer'd before
new-sense: He considers, that that which we call
Antiquity, is properly the nonage of the world ; that
the sagest of his Authoritys were once new ; and that
there is no other difference between an antient Author
and himself, but only that of time ; which, if of any
advantage, 'tis rather on his side, as living in a more
refined and mature age of the world. And thus having
cast off this Intellectual slavery, he addicts himself to
no Author, Sect or Party ; but freely picks up Truth
where-ever he can find it ; puts to Sea upon his own
bottom ; holds the Stern himself ; and now, if ever,
we may expect new discoverys.
The Solitary and Contemplative man sits as safe in
his Retirement as one of Homer's Heroes in a Cloud,
and has this only trouble from the follies and extrava-
gancies of men, that he pitties them. He does not, it
may be, laugh so loud, but he is hoXi&c pleas' d : He is
not perhaps so often inei'ry, but neither is he so often
disgusted ; he lives to himself and God, full of Serenity
and Content. . . . Neither are our intellectual
advantages less indebted to Solitude. . . . All
kinds of Speculative knowledg as well as practical^ are
best improved by Solitude. Indeed there is much talk
about the great benefit of keeping Great men company,
and thereupon 'tis usually reckon'd among the disad-
JOHN NORRIS, 105
vantages of a Country life, that those of that condition
want the opportunities of a Learned Conversation.
But to confess the truth, I think there is not so much
in it as people generally imagine. ... A man
may be a constant attendant at the Conclaves of
Learned men all his life long, and yet be no more
the wiser for't than a Book-worm is for dwelling in
Libraries. And therefore, to speak ingenuously, I
don't see for my part wherein the great advantage of
great Conversation lies, as the humours of men are
pleas'd to order it. Were I to inform my self in
business, and the management of affairs, I would
sooner talk with a plain illiterate Farmer or Trades-
man than the greatest Vertuoso, ... So that I
find I must take refuge at my Study at last, and there
redeem the Time that I have lost among the Learned. —
A Collection of Miscellanies : *^ Of the Advantages of
Thinking ; " "Of Solitude. "
Here in this shady lonely Grove
I sweetly think my hours away.
Neither with Business vex'd, nor Love^
Which in the World bear such Tyrannic sway :
No Tumults can my close Apartment find^
Calm as those Seats above, which know no Storm
nor Wind.
Let Plots and News embroil the State,
Pray what's that to my Books and Me ?
Whatever be the Kingdom^ s Fate,
Here I am sure t' enjoy a Monarchy.
Lord of my iself, accountable to none,
Like the first Man in Paradise, alone.
io6 6" WIFT- CONGREVE.
While the Ambitious vainly sue,
And of the partial Staxs complain,
I stand upon the S/wre and view
The mighty Labours of the distant Main.
I'm flush'd with silent ]<yjy and smile to see
The Shafts of Fortune still drop short of 7ne,
Th' uneasie Pageantry of State,
And all the plagues to Thought and Sense
Are far remov'd ; I'm plac'd by Fate
Out of the Road of all Impertinence.
Thus, tho myjleeting Life runs swiftly on^
'Twill not be short, because 'tis all my own.
Poems: ^■^ The Retirement. "*
Jonathan Swift. 1667 — 1745.
When I am reading a book, whether wise or silly,
it seems to me to be alive and talking to me.
Sometimes I read a book with pleasure, and detest
the author;
When a true genius appears in the world, you may
know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in con-
federacy against him. — Thoughts on Various Subjects.
William Congreve. 1670 — 1729.
Read, read, sirrah, and refuse your appetite ; learn
to live upon instruction ; feast your mind, and mortify
your flesh : read, and take your nourishment in at
your eyes, shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of
understanding. — Plays : * * Love for Love. "
STEELE-ADDISON. 107
Sir RiCHAjiD Steele. 1671 — 1729.
Reading is to the mind, what exercise is to the body.
As by the one, health is preserved, strengthened, and
invigorated ; by the other, virtue (which is the health
of the mind) is kept alive, cherished and confirmed.
But as exercise becomes tedious and painful, when we
make use of it only as the means of health, so reading
is apt to grow uneasy and burthensome when we apply
ourselves to it for our improvement in virtue. For
this reason, the virtue which we gather from a fable or
an allegory, is like the health we get .by hunting ; as
we are engaged in an agreeable pursuit that draws us
on with pleasure, and makes us insensible of the
fatigues that accompany it. — The Tatlert ^o. 147.
Joseph Addison. 1672 — 17 19.
Aristotle tells us, that the world is a copy or trans-
cript of those ideas which are in the mind of the first
Being, and that those ideas which are in the mind of man,
are a transcript of the world. To this we may add, that
words are the transcript of those ideas which are in the
mind of man and that writing or printing are the trans-
cript of words. As the Supreme Being has expressed, and
as it were printed his ideas in the creation, men express
their ideas in books, which by this great invention of
these latter ages may last as long as the sun and moon,
and perish only in the general wreck of nature. . . .
There is no other method of fixing those thoughts
which arise and disappear in the mind of man, and
transmitting them to the last periods of time ; no other
io8 ADDISON.
method of giving a permanency to pur ideas, and pre«
serving the knowledge of any particular period, when
his body is mixed with the common mass of matter,
and his soul retired into the world of spirits. Books
are the legacies that a great genius leaves to mankind,
which are delivered down from generation to genera-
tion, as presents to the posterity of those who are yet
unborn. . . . All other arts of perpetuating our
ideas continue but a short time. . . . The cir-
cumstance which gives authors an advantage above
all these great masters, is this, that they can multiply
their originals ; or rather can make copies of their
works, to what number they please, which shall be
as valuable as the originals themselves. This gives
a great author something like a prospect of eternity,
but at the same time deprives him of those other
advantages which artists meet with. The artist finds
greater returns in profit, as the author in fame. What
an inestimable price would a Virgil or a Homer, a
Cicero or an Aristotle bear, were their works, like a
statue, a building, or a picture, to be confined only in
one place and made the property of a single person !
If writings are thus durable, and may pass from age
to age throughout the whole course of time, how care-
ful should an author be of committing anything to print
that may corrupt posterity, and poison the minds of
men with vice and error ! Writers of great talents,
who employ their parts in propagating immorality, and
seasoning vicious sentiments with wit and humour, are
to be looked upon as. the pests of society, and the
enemies of mankind. They leave books behind them
(as it is said of those who die in distem.pers which
ADDISON— WATTS. log
breed an ill will towards their own species) to scatter
infection and destroy their posterity. They act the
counterparts of a Confucius or a Socrates ; and seem
to have been sent into the world to deprave human
nature, and sink it into the condition of brutality.
Knowledge of books in a man of business is a torch
in the hands of one who is willing and able to show
those who are bewildered, the way which leads to
prosperity and welfare. — Spectator,
Isaac Watts. 1674 — 1748.
By reading, we acquaint ourselves, in a very ex-
tensive manner, with the affairs, actions, and thoughts
of the living and the dead, in the most remote actions,
and in the most distant ages ; and that with as much
ease as though they lived in our own age and nation.
By reading of books, we may learn something, from all
parts, of mankind ; whereas, by observation we learn
all from ourselves, and only what comes within our
own direct cognisance. By conversation we can only
enjoy the unction of a very few persons, those who are
moving, and live at the same time that we do — that is,
our neighbours and contemporaries.
By study and meditation we improve the hints that
we have acquired by observation, conversation, and
reading ; we take more time in thinking, and by the
labour of the mind we penetrate deeper into the themes
of knowledge, and carry our thoughts sometimes much
farther on many subjects, than we ever met with, either
no MIDDLETON—POPE.
in the books of the dead or discourses of the living.
It is our own reasoning that draws out one truth from
another, and forms a whole scheme of science from a
few hints which we borrowed elsewhere. — On the
Improvement of the Mind.
CONYERS MiDDLETON. 1 683 — 1750.
I persuade myself that the life and faculties of man,
at the best but short and limited, cannot be employed
more rationally or laudably than in the search of
knowledge ; and especially of that sort which relates
to our duty, and conduces to our happiness. In these
enquiries, therefore, wherever I perceive any glimmer-
ing of truth before me, I readily pursue and endeavour
to trace it to its source, without any reserve or caution
of pushing the discovery too far, or opening too great
a glare of it to the public. I look upon the discovery
of anything which is true as a valuable acquisition of
society, which cannot possibly hurt or obstruct the
good effect of any other truth whatsoever ; for they all
partake of one common essence, and necessarily coin-
cide with each other ; and like the drops of rain which
fall separately into the river, mix themselves at once
with the stream, and strengthen the general current. —
Miscellaneous Works.
Alexander Pope. 1688 — 1744.
At this day, as much company as I have kept, and
as much as I love it, I love reading better — I would
rather be employed in reading than in the most agree-
able conversation. — Spence's Anecdotes,
montesquieu-lady m. w. montagu, m
Baron Montesquieu. 1689 — 1755.
Aimer \ lire, c'est faire en ^change des heures
d'ennui que Ton doit avoir en sa vie centre des heures
delicieuses.
[Love of reading enables a man to exchange the weary
hours which come to everyone, for hours of delight.]
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.
1690 — 1762.
I yet retain, and carefully cherish my love of reading.
If relays of eyes were to be hired like post-horses, I
would never admit any but silent companions : they
afford a constant variety of entertainment, which is
almost the only one pleasing in the enjoyinent, and
inoffensive in the consequence. . . , Every woman
endeavours to breed her daughter a fine lady, qualifying
her for a station in which she never will appear: and
at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement,
to which she is destined. Learning, if she has a real
taste for it, will not only make her contented, but
happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading,
nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new
fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or
variety of company, if she can be amused with an
author in her closet. ... Daughter! daughter!
don't call names ; you are always abusing my pleasures,
which is what no mortal will bear. Trash, lumber,
and stuff, are the titles you give to my favourite amuse-
ment. If I called a white staff a stick of wood, a gold
key gilded brass, and the ensigns of illustrious orders
coloured strings, this may be philosophically true, but
112 LADY M. WORTLEY MONTAGU.
would be very ill received. We have all our play-
things; happy are they that can be contented with
those they can obtain : those hours are spent in the
wisest manner that can easiest shade the ills of life, and
are the least productive of ill consequences. I think my
time better employed in reading the adventures of
imaginary people, than the Duchess of Marlborough,
who passed the latter years of her life in paddling
with her will, and contriving schemes of plaguing
some, and extracting praise from others to no purpose ;
eternally disappointing and eternally fretting. The
active scenes are over at my age. I indulge, with all
the art I can, my taste for reading. If I could confine
it to valuable books, they are almost as rare as valuable
men. I must be content with what I can find. As I
approach a second childhood, I endeavour to enter
into the pleasures of it. Your youngest son is, perhaps,
at this very moment riding on a poker with great
delight, not at all regretting that it is not a gold one,
and much less wishing it an Arabian horse, which he
could not know how to manage ; I am reading an idle
tale, not expecting wit or truth in it, and am very glad
it is not metaphysics to puzzle my judgment, or history
to mislead my opinion : he fortifies his health by
exercise ; I calm my cares by oblivion. The methods
may appear low to busy people ; but if he improves
his strength, and I forget my infirmities, we both attain
veiy desirable ends. — Letters ^ 1752-7.
Lord Chesterfield. 1694 — 1773.
Lay aside the best book whenever you can go into
the best company ; and, depend upon it, you change
LORD CHESTERFIELD— BAYLE.
"3
for the better. . . . Throw away none of your
time upon those trivial futile books, published by idle
or necessitous authors, for the amusement of idle and
ignorant readers : such sort of books swarm and buzz
about one every day ; flop them away ; they have no
sting. Certum pete finem ; have some one object for
those leisure moments, and pursue that object in-
variably till you have attained it ; and then take some
other. ... The ignorant and the weak only are
idle. ... Knowledge is like power, in this respect,
that those who have the most, are most desirous of
having more. It does not cloy by possession, but
increases desire ; which is the case with very few
pleasures. Nobody ever lent themselves more than I
did, when I was young, to the pleasure and dissipation
of good company. I even did it too much. But then
I can assure you that I always found time for serious
studies ; and when I could find it in no other way, I
took it out of my sleep ; for I resolved always to rise
early in the morning, however late I went to bed at
night. . . . Rise early, and at the same hour,
every morning, how late soever you may have sat up
the night before. This secures you an hour or two, at
least, of reading or reflection, before the common
interruptions of the morning begin. — Letters to His
Son.
Pierre Bayle. 1647 — 1706.
He (Ancillon, a French Protestant Divine of great
eminence in the seventeenth century, who collected a
very large and valuable library) said, that the less the
eye is fatigued in reading a book, the more at liberty
I
114 BA VLB— VOL TAIRE— FIELDING.
the mind is to judge of it. That, as the beauties and
faults of it are more easily perceived, when it is printed,
than in manuscript; so the same beauties and faults
are more clearly seen, when it is printed in a fair
character, and upon good paper, than when it is
printed on bad paper, or with a bad letter. —
Diciionnaire Hist, and Crit,: Art. ^^ Ancillon.'^
Edmund Halley. 1656 — 1742.
Dr. Halley used to say, ** close study prolonged a
man's life, by keeping him out of harm's way." —
Southey's Common- Place Book. Third Series. Quoted
f?'om Ivimefs ** History of the Baptists.''^
Francois M. Arouet de Voltaire.
1694 1778.
You despise books; you, whose whole lives are
absorbed in the vanities of ambition, the pursuit of
pleasure, or in indolence ; but remember that all
the known world, excepting only savage nations,
is governed by Books. — Dictionnaire Phil.: Art.
''Books:'
Matthew Green. 1696 — 1737.
And shorten tedious hours with books.
The Spleen.
Henry Fielding. 1707 — 1754.
We are as liable to be corrupted by books as by
companions. — Comment on Lord Bolingbroke's Essays.
SAMUEL yOHNSON. 115
Samuel Johnson. 1709 — 1784.
"Idleness is a disease which must be combated; but
I would not advise a rigid adherence to a particular plan
of study. I myself have never persisted in any plan
for two days together. A man ought to read just as
inclination leads him ; for what he reads as a task will
do him little good. A young man should read five
hours in the day, and so may acquire a great deal of
knowledge."
He then took occasion to enlarge on the advantages
of reading, and combated the idle, superficial notion,
that knowledge enough may be acquired in conversa-
tion. "The foundation," said he, "must be laid by
reading. General principles must be had from books,
which, however, must be brought to the test of real
life. In conversation you never get a system. What
is said upon a subject is to be gathered from a hundred
people. The parts of a truth, which a man gets thus,
are at such a distance from each other that he never
attains a full view."
He said, that for general improvement a man should
read whatever his immediate inclination prompts him
to ; though, to be wise, if a man have a science to
learn, he must regularly and resolutely advance. He
added, "what we read with inclination works
a much stronger impression. If we read without
inclination, half the mind is employed in fixing the
attention ; so there is but one half to be employed on
what we read. " He told us he read Fielding's "Amelia"
through without stopping. He said, "If a man begins
to read in the middle of a book, and feels an inclina-
ii6 SAMUEL JOHNSON.
tion to go on, let him not quit it, to go to the beginning
He may perhaps not feel again the inclination."
"Books that can be held in the hand, and carried to
the fireside, are the best after all."
"No sooner had we made a bow to Mr. Cam-
bridge, in his library, than Johnson ran eagerly
to one side of the room, intent on poring over the
backs of the books. Mr. Cambridge politely said,
* It seems odd that one should have such a desire to
look at the backs of books. * Johnson, ever ready for
contest, instantly answered, *Sir, the reason is very
plain. Knowledge is of two kinds. We know a
subject ourselves, or we know where we can find
information upon it. When we enquire into any
subject, the first thing we have to do, is to know what
books have treated of it. This leads us to look at
catalogues, and the backs of books in libraries.'" —
BoswelVs '■'Johnsony
Mr. Johnson has never, by his own account, been a
close student, and used to advise young people never
to be without a book in their pocket to read at bye-
times, when they had nothing else to do. "It has
been by that means," said he to a boy at our house one
day, "that all my knowledge has been gained, except
what I have picked up by running about the world
with my wits ready to observe and my tongue ready to
talk." . . . — Mrs. Piozzi: ^^Recollections.'''
A little plausibility of discourse, and acquaintance
with unnecessary speculations, are dearly purchased,
DA VID HUME—ROUSSEA U. 117
when it excludes those instructions which fortify the
heart with resolution, and exalt the spirit to indepen-
dence. — The RambUr, No. 180.
David Hume. 1712 — 1776.
My family, however, was not rich, and being myself
a younger brother, my patrimony, according to the
mode of my country, was of course very slender. My
father, who passed for a man of parts, died when I was
an infant, leaving me, with an elder brother and a
sister, under the care of our mother, a woman of
singular merit, who, though young and handsome, de-
voted herself entirely to the rearing and educating of
her children. I passed through the ordinary course of
education with success, and was seized very early with
a passion for literature, which has been the ruling
passion of my life, and the great source of my enjoy-
ments. My studious disposition, my sobriety, and my
industry, gave my family a notion that the law was a
proper profession for me ; but I found an unsur-
mountable aversion to every thing but the pursuits of
philosophy and general learning ; and while they
fancied I was poring upon Voet and Vinnius, Cicero
and Virgil were the authors which I was secretly
devouring. — The Life of David Hume, written by
Himself
Jean Jacques Rousseau. 1712 — 1778.
When the understanding is once enlarged by the
custom of reflecting, it is always much best to find
one's self the things which are to be met with in books,
ii8 ROUSSEAU-DIDEROT— STERNE.
This is the true secret to fix them well in the head,
and make them our own. The great error of those
who study, is trusting too much to their books, and
not extracting enough from their own fund; not
thinking that, of all sophists, our own reason is almost
always that which deceives us the least ; as soon as
they reflect, every one feels what is good ; every one
discovers what is beautiful. We have no occasion to
learn to distinguish either one or the other. . . .
The soul is elevated, the heart is inflamed, by contem-
plating the highest models ; by reflecting on them, we
seek to become like them, and no longer suffer any-
thing meddling without a mortal disgust. The mind,
no more than the body, carries more than it can bear.
When the understanding makes things its own, before
it lays them up in the memory, what we afterwards
draw from it, is our own ; while, by overloading the
memory, without its knowledge, we run the risk of
extracting nothing from it, which is our own. . . .
Reason is not a piece of furniture which we can lay
aside, and take again at our pleasure ; whoever has
been able to live ten years without thinking, will nevef
think during his whole life.
Denys Diderot. 17 13 — 1789.
Spoken sentences are like sharp nails, which force
truth upon us. — Diderotiana.
Laurence Sterne. 17 13 — 1768.
The mind should be accustomed to make wise
reflections, and draw curious conclusions as it goes
SI/EN'S TONE— WA L POLE— GOLDSMITH. 119
along ; the habitude of which made Pliny the younger
affirm that he never read a book so bad but he drew
some profit from it..>
Digressions incontestably are the sunshine, they are
the life, the soul of reading.
William Shenstone. 17 14 — 1763.
I hate a style, as I do a garden that is wholly flat
and regular ; that slides along like an eel, and never
rises to what one can call an inequality. — Essays : ^^ On
Writing and Books, "
Horace Walpole. 17 17 — 1797.
Without grace no book can live, and with it the
poorest may have its life prolonged. ... I some-
times wish for a catalogue of lounging books— books
that one takes up in the gout, low spirits, ennui, or
when in waiting for company. Some novels, gay
poetry, odd whimsical authors, as Rabelais, &c. A
catalogue raisonne of such might be itself a good
lounging book.
Oliver Goldsmith. 1728 — 1774.
' An author may be considered as a merciful substitute
to the legislature. He acts not by punishing crimes,
but by preventing them.
There is improbable pleasure attending the life of a
voluntary student. The first time I read an excellent
I20 DODD—LESSING— BURKE,
book, it is to me just as if I had gained a new friend ;
when I read over a book I have perused before, it
resembles the meeting with an old,one. — Citizen of the
World.
William Dodd. 1729— 1777.
Books, dear books,
Have been, and are my comforts, morn and night,
Adversity, prosperity, at home.
Abroad, health, sickness, — good or ill report,
The same firm friends ; the same refreshments rich,
And source of consolation.
Thoughts in Prison.
GOTTHOLD EpHRAIM LeSSING.
1729 — 1781.
"Yes," said Goethe ; "Lessing himself said, that if
God would give him truth, he would decline the gift,
and prefer the labour of seeking it for himself. " — Ecker-
mann's Conversations with Goethe in the Last Years of
His Life, [ Translated by Margaret Fuller. ]
Edmund Burke. 1729 — 1797.
He who calls in the aid of an equal understanding,
doubles his own; and he who profits by a superior
understanding, raises his power to a level with the
height of the superior understanding he unites with.
Whatever turns the soul inward on itself, tends to
concentre its forces, and to fit it for greater and
stronger flights
moore—cow per. 121
John Moore. 1730 — 1802.
It can hardly be conceived how life, short as it is, can
be passed without many intervals of tedium, by those
who have not their bread to earn, if they could not call in
the assistance of our worthy mute friends, the Books.
Horses, hounds, the theatres, cards, and the bottle,
are all of use occasionally, no doubt ; but the weather
may forbid the two first ; a kind of nonsense may drive
us from the third ; the association of others is necessary
for the fourth, and also for the fifth, unless to those
who are already sunk into the lowest state of wretched-
ness and degradation: but the entertainment which
BOOKS afford, can be enjoyed in the worst weather,
can be varied as we please, obtained in solitude, and
instead of blunting, it sharpens the understanding ; but
the most valuable effect of a taste for reading is, that
it often preserves us from bad company. For those
are not apt to go or remain with disagreeable people
abroad, who are always certain of a pleasant party at
home. — Zeluco ; Various Views of Human Nature^
William Cowper. 1731 — 1800.
Now stir the fire, and close the shutters fast,
Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round,
And, while the bubbling and loud -hissing urn
Throws up a steamy column, and the cups
That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each,
So let us welcome peaceful evening in.
22 COW PER.
'Tis pleasant through the loop-holes of retreat
To peep at such a world. To see the stir
Of the great Babel, and not feel the crowd.
To hear the roar she sends through all her gates
At a safe distance, where the dying sound
Falls in soft murmur on the uninjured ear.
Thus sitting and surveying them at ease
The globe and its concerns, I seem advanced
To some secure and more than mortal height,
That liberates and exempts me from them all.
Oh Winter ! ruler of the inverted year.
Thy scatter'd hair with sleet-like ashes fiU'd,
Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows
Than those of age ; thy forehead wrapt in clouds,
A leafless branch thy sceptre, and thy throne
A sliding car indebted to no wheels,
But urged by storms along its slippery way ;
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st
And dreaded as thou art. , . .
I crown thee King of intimate delight.
Fire-side enjoyments, home-born happiness,
And all the comforts that the lowly roof
Of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours
Of long uninterrupted evening know.
Come, evening, once again, season of peace,
Return, sweet evening, and continue long !
Come then, and thou shalt find thy votary calm
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift.
GIBBON^SIR WILLIAM JONES.
And whether I devote thy gentle hours
To books, to music, or the poet's toil.
I slight thee not, but make thee welcome still.
How calm is my recess ! and how the frost
Raging abroad, and the rough wind endear
The silence and the warmth enjoy 'd within.
The Task, Book iv. , The Winter Evening.
Books are not seldom talismans and spells.
The Task, Book vi. , The Winter Walk at Noon,
Edward Gibbon. 1737 — 1794.
A taste for books is the pleasure and glory of my
life. ... I would not exchange it for the wealth
of the Indies. . . . The miseries of a vacant life
are never known to a man whose hours are insufficient
for the inexhaustible pleasures of study. . . . The
love of study, a passion which derives great vigour
from enjoyment, supplies each day, each hour, with a
perpetual round of independent and rational pleasure.
— A utobiography.
Let us read with method, and propose to ourselves
an end to what our studies may point. The use of
reading is to aid us in thinking.
Sir William Jones. 1746 — 1794.
I have carefully and regularly perused the Holy
Scriptures, and am of opinion that they contain more
124 WYTTENBACH—DE GENLIS—AIKIN.
sublimity, purer morality, more important history, and
liner strains of eloquence, than can be collected from
all other books, in whatever language they may have
been written.
Daniel Wyttenbach. 1746 — 1820.
There is no business, no avo9ation whatever, which
will not permit a man, who has the inclination, to give
a little time, every day, to study.
Countess de Genlis. 1746 — 1830.
Books are a guide in youth, and an entertainment
for age. They support us under solitude, and keep us
from becoming a burden to ourselves. They help us
to forget the crossness of men and things, compose
our cares and our passions, and lay our disappointments
asleep. When we are weary of the living, we may
repair to the dead, who have nothing of peevishness,
pride, or design in their conversation. It is chiefly
through books that we enjoy intercourse with superior
minds ; and these invaluable communications are
within the reach of all. — Memoires^ ^c,
John Aikin. 1747 — 1822.
At the head of all the pleasures which offer them-
selves to the man of liberal education, may confidently
be placed that derived from books. In variety,
durability, and facility of attainment, no other can
stand in competition with it ; and even in intensity it
is inferior to few. Imagine that we had it in our
AIKIN. 125
power to call up the shades of the greatest and wisest
men that ever existed, and oblige them to converse
with us on the most interesting topics — what an
inestimable privilege should we think it ! — how
superior to all common enjoyments ! But in a well-
furnished library we, in fact, possess this power. We
can question Xenophon and Csesar on their campaigns,
make Demosthenes and Cicero plead before us, join
in the audiences of Socrates and Plato, and receive
demonstrations from Euclid and Newton. In books we
have the choicest thoughts of the ablest men in their
best dress. We can at pleasure exclude dulness and
impertinence, and open our doors to wit and good
sense alone. It is needless to repeat the high com-
mendations that have been bestowed on the study of
letters by persons, who had free access to every other
source of gratification. Instead of quoting Cicero to
you, I shall in plain terms give you the result of my
own experience on this subject. If domestic enjoy-
raents have contributed in the first degree to the
happiness of my life (and I should be ungrateful not to
acknowledge that they have), the pleasures of reading
have beyond all question held the second place.
Without books I have never been able to pass a single
day to my entire satisfaction : with, them, no day has
been so dark as not to have its pleasure. Even pain
and sickness have for a time been charmed away by
them. By the easy provision of a book in my pocket,
I have frequently worn through long nights and days
in the most disagreeable parts of my profession, with
all the difference in my feelings between calm content
and fretful impatience. Such occurrences have afforded
126 AIKIN— GOETHE.
me full proof both of the possihility of being cheaply
pleased, and of the consequence it is of to the sum of
human felicity, not to neglect minute attentions to
make the most of life as it passes.
Reading may in every sense be called a cheap amuse-
ment. A taste for books, indeed, may be made
expensive enough ; but that is a taste for editions,
bindings, paper, and type. If you are satisfied with
getting at the sense as an author, in some commodious
way, a crown at a stall will supply your wants as well
as a guinea at a shop. Learn, too, to distinguish
between books to be perused, and books to be
possessed. Of the former you may find an ample store
in every subscription library, the proper use of which
to a scholar is to furnish his mind without loading his
shelves. No apparatus, no appointment of time and
place, is necessary for the enjoyment of reading. From
the midst of bustle and business you may, in an instant,
.by the magic of a book, plunge into scenes of remote
ages and countries, and disengage yourself from present
care and fatigue. "Sweet pliability of man's spirit,
(cries Sterne, on relating an occurrence of this kind in
his Sentimental Journey) that can at once surrender
itself to illusions which cheat expectation and sorrow
of their weary moments!" — Letters from a Father to
his Son,
John Wolfgang von Goethe.
1749— 1832.
No productiveness of the highest kind, no re-
markable discovery, no great thought which bears
GOETHE. 127
fruit and has results, is in the power of any one ; but
su-ch things are elevated above all earthly control.
Man must consider them as an unexpected gift from
above, as pure children of God, which he must receive
and venerate with joyful thanks. They are akin to
the daemon, which does with him what it pleases, and
to which he unconsciously resigns himself, whilst he
believes he is acting from his own impulse. In such
cases, man may often be considered as an instrument
in a higher government of the world, — as a vessel
found worthy for the reception of a divine influence.
I say this, whilst I consider how often a single thought
has given a different form to whole centuries, and how
individual men have, by their expressions, imprinted
a stamp upon their age, which has remained uneffaced,
and has operated beneficially upon succeeding genera-
tions. — Conversatio7ts of Goethe with Eckermann and
Soret. {Translated by John Oxenford.'\
There are three classes of readers ; some enjoy
without judgment ; others judge without enjoyment ;
and some there are who judge while they enjoy, and
enjoy while they judge.
Whoever would do good in the world, ought not to
deal in censure. We ought not to destroy, but rather
construct.
It is a peculiarity of the literary world, that nothing
in it is ever destroyed without a new production, and
one of the same kind too. There is in it an eternal
life, for it is always in its old age, in its manhood,
youth, and childhood, and all this at one and the
same time»
128 GOETHE.
Certain books are written, not to instruct you, but
to let you know that the author knew something.
Our most valuable acquisition from history is the
enthusiasm it excites.
To understand an author we must first understand
his age.
Whatever you cannot understand, you cannot
possess.
Generally speaking, an author's style is a faithful
copy of his mind. If you would write a lucid style, let
there first be light in your own mind.
I have never made a secret of my enmity to parodies
and travesties. My only reason for hating them is
because they lower the beautiful, noble, and great.*
Every week he (Schiller) was different and more
perfect ; whenever I saw him he appeared to me to
have advanced in reading, learning, and judgment.
* One of the papers (that entitled " Debasing the Moral
Currency") in "The Impressions of Theophrastus Such" ex-
presses a strongly marked characteristic of George Eliot's mind.
It is a pithy protest against the tendency of the present generation
to turn the grandest deeds and noblest works of art into food
for laughter. For she hated nothing so much as mockery and
ridicule of what other people reverenced, often remarking that
those who considered themselves freest from superstitious fancies
were the most intolerant. She carried this feeling to such a pitch
that she even disliked a book like ' ' Alice in Wonderland, " because
it laughed at the things which children had had a kind of belief
in. In censuring this vicious habit of burlesquing the things that
ought to be regarded with awe and admiration, she remarks,
" Let a greedy buffoonery debase all historic beauty, majesty and
pathos, and the more you heap up the desecrated symbols, the
greater will be the lack of the ennobling emotions which subdue
the tyranny of suffering, and make ambition one with virtue. " —
George Eliot: by Mathilde Blind. (Eminent Women Series.)
GOETHE. 12^
Look at Burns ! What makes him great, but the
circumstance that the old songs of his ancestors still
lived in the mouth of the people, that they were sung
at his cradle, that he heard them and grew up with
them in his boyhood, until their high perfection became
part and parcel of himself, and until they became for
him a living basis on which he could stand and take his
start. And again, what makes him great, but the echo
which his songs found in the hearts of his countrymen I
They came back to him from the field where the
labourers sang them, and from the inn, where merry
fellows greeted his ear with his own songs. — Goethe's
Opinions; from his Correspondence and Conversations;
by Otto Wenckste7'n.
In the whirlpool of the literature of the day, I have
befen dragged into the bottomless abyss of horrors of
the recent French romance-literature. I will say in
one word — it is a literature of despair. In order to
produce a momentary effect, the very contrary of all
that should be held up to man for his safety or his
comfort is brought before the reader, who at last knows
not whether to fly or how to save himself. To push
the hideous, the revolting, the cruel, the base, in short
the whole brood of the vile and abandoned, to impos-
sibility, in their Satanic task. One may, and must, say
task; for there is at the bottom a profound study of old
times, by-gone events and circumstances, remarkable
and intricate plots, and incredible facts ; so that it is
impossible to call such a work either empty or bad.
And this task even men of remarkable talents have
undertaken ; clever, eminent men, men of middle age,
J
I30 HERDER— CECIL,
who feel themselves damned henceforward to occupy
themselves with these abominations. . . . Every-
thing true — everything sesthetical is gradually and
necessarily excluded from this literature. — Goethe's
Correspondence with Zelter,
J. G. VON Herder. 1744 — 1803.
With the greatest possible solicitude avoid author-
ship. Too early or immoderately employed, it makes
the head waste and the heart empty ; even were there
no other worse consequences. A person, who reads
■only to print, in all probability reads amiss ; and he,
who sends away through the pen and the press every
thought, the moment it occurs to him, will in a short
time have sent all away, and will become a mere
journeyman of the printing-office, a compositor.
To the above passage, quoted in the " Biographia
Literaria," Coleridge appends the following note: —
To which I may add from myself, that what medical
physiologists affirm of certain secretions applies equally
to our thoughts ; they too must be taken up again into
the circulation, and be again and again re-secreted in
order to ensure a healthful vigour, both to the mind
and to its intellectual offspring.
Richard Cecil. 1748 — 1816.
God has given us four books : the book of grace,
the book of nature, the book of the world, and the
book of providence. Every occurrence is a leaf in one
of these books : it does not become us to be negligent
in the use of any of them.
YRIARTE—INCHBALD—ROSCOE, 131
Tom AS DE Yriarte. 1750 — 1791.
For every man of real learning
Is anxious to increase his lore,
And feels, in fact, a greater yearning,
The more he knows, to know the more.
Elizabeth Inchbald. 1753 — 182 1.
Here, in the country, my books are my sole occupa-
tion ; books my sure solace, and refuge from frivolous
cares. Books are the calmers as well as the instructors
of the mind. — Letters.
William Roscoe. 1753 — 1831.
To 77iy Books on Parting with Them,
As one who, destined from his friends to part.
Regrets his loss, yet hopes again erewhile
To share their converse and enjoy their smile.
And tempers as he may affliction's dart, —
Thus, loved associates ! chiefs of elder Art !
Teachers of wisdom ! who could once beguile
My tedious hours, and lighten every toil,
I now resign you : nor with fainting heart ;
For pass a few short years, or days, or hours,
And happier seasons may their dawn unfold.
And all your sacred fellowship restore ;
When, freed from earth, unlimited its powers.
Mind shall with mind direct communion hold,
And kindred spirits meet to part no more.
132 CRABBE.
George Crabbe. 1754 — 1832.
But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes ?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
Others more wretched, more undone than we ?
This, Books can do ;— nor this alone ; they give
New views to life, and teach us how to live ;
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise.
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise :
Their aid they yield to all : they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone :
Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd ;
Nor tell to various people various things,
But show to subjects, what they show to kings.
Come, Child of Care ! to make thy soul serene.
Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene ;
Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold.
The soul's best cure, in all her cares, behold !
"Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find
And mental physic the diseased in mind ;
See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage ;
See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage ;
Here alt'ratives, by slow degrees control
The chronic habits of the sickly soul ;
And round the heart and o'er the aching head.
Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude.
And view composed this silent multitude : —
Silent they are— but, though deprived of sound.
Here all the living languages abound ;
CRABBE— GODWIN. 133
Here all that live no more ; preserved they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.
Blest be the gracious Power, who taught mankind
To stamp a lasting image of the mind !
Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,
Their mutual feelings, in the opening spring ;
But Man alone has skill and power to send
The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend ;
'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise
Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find ;
The curious here to feed a craving mind ;
Here the devout their peaceful temple choose ;
And here the poet meets his favouring muse.
With awe, around these silent walks I tread ;
These are the lasting mansions of the dead : —
** The dead !" methinks a thousand tongues reply ;
* ' These are the tombs of such as cannot die !
*'Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,
*' And laugh at all the little strife of time."
The Library, 1 78 1.
William Godwin. 1756 — 1836.
Books are the depositary of everything that is most
honourable to man. Literature, taken in all its bearings,
forms the grand line of demarcation between the human
and the animal kingdoms. He that loves reading, has
everything within his reach. He has but to desire ;
and he may possess himself of every species of wisdom
to judge, and power to perform. . ' . . Books
134 , GODWIN— SCHILLER.
gratify and excite our curiosity in innumerable ways.
They force us to reflect. They hurry us from point to
point. They present direct ideas of various kinds, and
they suggest indirect ones. In a well-written book we
are presented with the maturest reflections, or the
happiest flights, of a mind of uncommon excellence.
It is impossible that we can be much accustomed to
such companions, without attaining some resemblance
of them. When I read Thomson, I become Thomson ;
when I read Milton, I become Milton. I find myself
a sort of intellectual cameleon, assuming the colour of
the substances on which I rest. He that revels in a
well-chosen library, has innumerable dishes, and all of
admirable flavour. His taste is rendered so acute, as
easily to distinguish the nicest shades of difference.
His mind becomes ductile, susceptible to every im-
pression, and gaining new refinement from them all.
His varieties of thinking baffle calculation, and his
powers, whether of reason or fancy, become eminently
vigorous. — The Enquirer: Of an Early Taste for
Reading,
Friedrich Schiller. 1759 — 1805.
There is no more implacable enemy, no more envious
colleague, no more zealous inquisitor, than the man
who has set his talents and knowledge to sale. . . .
Not in the deep and hidden treasures of his own
thoughts does such an one seek his reward ; he seeks
it in external applause, in titles and posts of honour
or authority. ... In vain has he searched for
truth, if he cannot barter her in exchange for gold,
for newspaper applause, for court favour.
SCHILLER.
13s
How far different is the philosophical spirit ! Just
as sedulously as the trader in knowledge severs his
own peculiar science from all others, does the lover
of wisdom strive to extend its dominion and restore
its connexion with them, I say, to restore ; for the
boundaries which divide the sciences are but the
work of abstraction. What the empiric separates,
the philosopher unites. He has early come to the
conviction that in the territory of intellect, as in the
world of matter, every thing is enlinked and com-
mingled, and his eager longing for universal harmony
and agreement cannot be satisfied by fragments. All
his efforts are directed to the perfecting of his know-
ledge ; his noble impatience cannot be tranquillized
till all his conceptions have arranged themselves into
one harmonious whole ; till he stands at the central
point of arts and sciences, and thence overlooks the
whole extent of their dominion with satisfied glance.
New discoveries in the field of his activity, which
depress the trader in science, enrapture the philo-
sopher. . . . The philosophical mind passes on
through new forms of thought, constantly heightening
in beauty, to perfect, consummate excellence; while the
empiric hoards the barren sameness of his school
attainments in a mind eternally stationary. . . .
Whatever one conquers in the empire of truth, the
philosopher shares with all ; while the man whose only
estimate of wisdom is profit, hates his contemporaries
and grudges them the light and sun which illumine
them ; he guards with jealous care the tottering
barriers which feebly defend him from the incursions
of victorious truth ; for whatever he undertakes, he is
^36 SCHILLER— WILLIAM COBBETT.
compelled to borrow stimulus and encouragement from
without, while the philosophical spirit finds in its
objects, nay, even in its toils, excitement and reward.
With how much more ardour can the true lover of
knowledge set about his work, how much more lively
is his zeal, how much more persevering his courage
and activity, since each labour starts in all the fresh-
ness of youth from the bosom of its predecessor ! The
small acquires magnitude under his creative hand, for
he keeps the great steadily in his eye, and all his
conceptions are tinctured by it ; while the empiric sees
only minute details, — the small, even in the greatest.
Not what is his pursuit, but how he handles whatever
he pursues, distinguishes the philosophical mind.
Wherever he takes his station, whatever is the field of
his activity, he always stands in the centre of the
Whole ; and, however widely the object of his pursuit
separates him from his brethren, he is near and allied
to them by a mind working in harmony with theirs.
He meets them on that point where all clear spirits
find each other. — Introductory Lecture to a Course on
Universal History, delivered at Je?ia, 1789.
William Cobbett. 1762 — 1835.
Books never annoy ; they cost little, and they are
always at hand, and ready at your call. . . .
I hope that your taste will keep you aloof from the
writings of those detestable villains, who employ the
powers of their mind in debauching the minds of
others, or in endeavours to do it. They present their
poison in such captivating forms, that it requires great
COBBE TT—SIR EGER TON BR YDGES. 1 37
virtue and resolution to withstand their temptations ;
and they have, perhaps, done a thousand times as much
mischief in the world as all the infidels and atheists put
together. These men ought to be held in universal
abhorrence, and never spoken of but with execration.
If you wish to remember a thing well, put it into
writing, even if you burn the paper immediately after
you have done ; for the eye greatly assists the mind.
Memory consists of a concatenation of ideas, the place,
the time, and other circumstances, lead to the recollec-
tion of facts ; and no circumstance more effectually
than stating the facts upon paper. A Journal should
be kept by every young man. Put down something
against every day in the year, if it be merely a descrip-
tion of the weather. You will not have done this for
one year without finding the benefit of it. It demands
not more than a minute in the twenty-four hours ; and
that minute is most agreeably and advantageously
employed. It tends greatly to produce regularity in
the conducting of affairs ; it is a thing demanding a
small portion of attention once only in every day, —
Advice to Yomig Men, and (incidentally) to Young
Women, in the Middle and Higher Ranks of Life,
in a Series of Letters addressed to a Youth, a Bachelor,
a Lover, a Husband, a Father, a Citizen or a Subject,
Sir S. Egerton Brydges. 1762 — 1837.
Are books, in truth, a dead letter ? To those who
have no bright mirror in' their own bosoms to reflect
their images, they are ! but the lively and active scenes,
which they call forth in well-framed minds, exceed the
T38 SIR EGERTON BRVDGES.
liveliness of reality. Heads and hearts of a coarser
grain require the substance of material objects to put
them in motion. Books instruct us calmly, and with-
out intermingling with their instruction any of those
painful impressions of superiority, which we must
necessarily feel from a living instructor. They wait
the pace of each man's capacity ; stay for his want of
perception, without reproach ; go backward and for-
ward with him at his wish ; and furnish inexhaustible
repetitions. How is it possible to express what we
owe, as intellectual beings, to the art of printing?
When a man sits in a well -furnished library, sur-
rounded by the collected wisdom of thousands of the
best endowed minds,, of various ages and countries,
what an amazing extent of mental range does he com-
mand. Every age, and every language, has some
advantages, some excellencies peculiar to itself ! I am
not sure, that skill in a variety of tongues is always
wisdom ; but an acquaintance with various forms of
expression, and the operations and results of minds at
various times, and under various circumstances of
climate, manners and government, must necessarily
enrich and strengthen our opinions. A person, who is
only conversant with the literature of his own country,
and that during only the last ten or twenty years, con-
tracts so narrow a taste, that every other form of
phrase, or mode of composition, every other fashion
of sentiment, or intellectual process, appears to him
repulsive, dull and worthless. He reads Spenser,
and Milton, if he reads them at all, only as a task ;
and he turns with disgust from the eloquence of
Sydney, Hooker, and Jeremy Taylor.
SIR EGERTON BRYDGES. 139
Above all, there is this value in books, that they
enable us to converse with the dead. There is
something in this beyond the mere intrinsic worth
of what they have left us. When a person's body
is mouldering, cold and insensible, in the grave, we
feel a sacred sentiment of veneration for the living
memorials of his mind. — The Ruminato?, No. 22,
Books.
The contempt of many of the innocent trifles of life,
which the generality of the world betray, arises from
the weakness and narrowness, and not from the
superiority, of their understandings. Most of the
empty baubles, which mankind pursue as objects of
high consideration, are suffered to eclipse those simple
amusements which are in no respect less important,
and which are so far more valuable as they are more
compatible with purity of heart and conduct ! It is
from an undue estimate of the points of ordinary ambi-
tion, that health, liberty, carelessness of mind, and
ease of conscience are sacrificed to the attainment of
distinctions, which in the opinion of the truly wise are
mere vanity. A just appreciation on the contrary will
deem every pursuit, that affords amusement without
derogating from virtue, praiseworthy. Of all the
human relaxations which are free from guilt, perhaps
there is none so dignified as reading. It is no little
good to while away the tediousness of existence in a
gentle and harmless exercise of the intellectual facul-
ties. If we build castles in the air that vanish as
quickly as the passing clouds,, still some beneficial
result has been obtained ; some hours of weariness
I40 RICHTER.
have been stolen from us; and probably some cares
have been robbed of their sting. I do not here mean
to discuss the scale of excellence among the various
studies that books afford. It is my purpose to shew
that even the most trifling books, which give harmless
pleasure, produce a good far exceeding what the world
ascribes to more high-sounding occupations. When
we recollect of how many it is the lot, even against
choice, to pass their days in solitude, how admirable
is the substitute for conversation, which the powers of
genius and art of printing bestow ! — The Ruminator,
No. 24, On the Pleasures of Reading,
Jean Paul F. Richter. 1763 — 1825.
A scholar has no ennui. ... In this bridal-
chamber of the mind (such are our study-chambers),
in this concert-hall of the finest voices gathered from
all times and places — the aesthetic and philosophic
enjoyments almost overpower the faculty of choice. —
Hesperus,
And now the most beautiful dawn that mortal can
behold, arose upon his spirit — the dawn of a new
composition. For the book that a person is beginning
to create or design, contains within itself half a life,
and God only knows what an expanse of futurity also.
Hopes of improvement — ideas which are to ensure
the development and enlightenment of the human
race — swarm with a joyful vitality in his brain, as he
Softly paces up and down in the twilight when it has
become too dark to write.
ferriar— isaac disraeli. 141
Dr. John Ferriar. 1764 — 1815.
Like Poets, born, in vain Collectors strive
To cross their Fate, and learn the art to thrive.
Like Cacus, bent to tame their struggling will,
The tyrant-passion drags them backward still :
Ev'n I, debarr'd of ease, and studious hours.
Confess, mid' anxious toil, its lurking pow'rs.
How pure the joy, when first my hands unfold
The small, rare volume, black with tarnish'd gold.
The Bibliofnania. [Annotated edition, by
Mr. J. E. Bailey, in the Palatine Note-
book ^ March, 1882.]
Isaac Disraell 1767— 1848.
No character is more frequently amiable than that
of a man of letters. The occupations he has chosen,
are justly called the studies of humanity; and they
communicate to his manners, his understanding,
and his heart, that refined amenity, that lively sensi-
bility, and that luminous acuteness which flow from
a cultivated taste. He is an enthusiast; but an
enthusiast for elegance. He loves literature, like
virtue, for the harmony it diffuses over the passions ;
and perceives, that like religion, it has the singular art
of communicating with an unknown and future state.
Men of letters find in books an occupation congenial
to their sentiments ; labour without fatigue ; repose
with activity ; an employment, interrupted without
inconvenience, and exhaustless without satiety. They
remain ever attached to their studies. Their library
and their chamber are contiguous ; and often in this
142
ISAAC DISRAELI.
contracted space, does the opulent owner consume his
delicious hours. — His pursuits are ever changing, and he
enlivens the austere by the lighter studies. It was said
of a great hunter, that he did npt live, but hunted ; and
it may be said of the man of letters, that he does not
live, but meditates. He is that happy man who creates
hourly wants, and enjoys the voluptuousness of imme-
diate gratification. . . .
Those who feel with enthusiasm the eloquence of a
fine writer, insensibly receive some particles from it ;
a virtuous writer communicates virtue ; a refined writer,
a subtile delicacy; a sublime writer, an elevation of
sentiment. All these characters of the mind, in a few
years, are diffused throughout the nation. Among us,
what acute reasoners has the refined penetration of
Hume formed ; what amenity of manners has not
Addison introduced ; to how many virtuous youths
have not the moral essays of Johnson imparted forti-
tude, and illumined with reflection ? . . .
It is curious to observe the solitary man of letters
in the concealment of his obscure study, separated
from the crowd, unknown to his contemporaries, col-
lecting the materials of instruction from every age and
every country ; combining with the present the example
of the past, and the prediction of the future ; pouring
forth the valuable secrets of his meditations to posterity ;
striking with the concussion of new light the public
mind ; and forming the manners, the opinions, the
refinement, and the morals of his fellow-citizens. . . .
The interruptions of visitors have been feelingly
lamented by men of letters. — The mind, occupied in
maturing its speculations, feels the approach of the
ISAAC DISRAELI. 143
visitor by profession, as the sudden gales of an eastern
blast, passing over the blossoms of spring. "We are
afraid," said some of the visitors to Baxter, "that we
break in upon your time." "To be sure you do,"
replied the disturbed and blunt scholar. . . . The
amiable Melancthon, incapable of a harsh expression,
when he received these idle visits, only noted down the
time he had expended, that he might reanimate his
industry, and not lose a day.
Yet let us not confound true philosophers with
dreaming theorists. They are not more engaged in
cultivating the mind, than the earth ; the annals of
agriculture are as valuable as the annals of history;
and while they instruct some to think, they teach others
to labour. Philosophy extends it's thoughts on what-
ever the eye has seen, or the hand has touched ; it
herbalises in fields ; it founds mines ; it is on the waters,
and in the forests ; it is in the library, and the labora-
tory ; it arranges the calculations of finance ; it invents
the police of a city ; it erects it's fortifications ; it gives
velocity to our fleets ; in a word, it is alike in the
solitude of deserts, as in the populousness of manufac-
tories. The Genius of Philosophy pierces every
where, and on whatever it rests, like the sun, it dis-
covers what lay concealed, or matures what it found
imperfect. — An Essay on the Manners and Genius of
the Literary Character, 1 795.
Those authors who appear sometimes to forget they
are writers, and remember they are men, will be our
favourites. He who writes from the heart, will write to
the heart ; every one is enabled to decide on his merits.
144 ISAAC DISRAELI.
and they will not be referred to learned heads, or a
distant day. We are I think little interested if an
author displays sublimity; but we should be much
concerned to know whether he has sincerity. . . .
** Why," says Boileau, " are my verses read by all? it
is only because they speak truths, and that I am con-
vinced of the truths I write."
Why is Addison still the first of our essayists? he
has sometimes been excelled in criticisms more philo-
sophical, in topics more interesting, and in diction
more coloured. But there is a personal charm in the
character he has assumed, in his periodical Miscellanies,
which is felt with such a gentle force, that we scarce
advert to it. He has painted forth his little humours,
his individual feelings, and eternised himself to his
readers. . . . Sterne perhaps derives a portion of
his celebrity from the same influence ; he interests us
in his minutest motions, for he tells us all he feels. —
Richardson was sensible of the power with which his
minute strokes of description enter the heart, and which
are so many fastenings to which the imagination clings.
He says "If I give speeches and conversations I ought
to give them justly ; for the humours and characters
of persons cannot be known, unless I repeat what
they say, and their ?nanner of saying." I confess
I am infinitely pleased when Sir William Temple
acquaints us with the size of his orange trees, and with
the flavour of his peaches and grapes, confessed by
Frenchmen to equal those of France ; with his having
had the honour to naturalize in this country four kinds
of grapes, with his liberal distribution of them because
" he ever thought all things of this kind the commoner
ISAAC DISRAELI. 145,
they are the better." In a word with his passionate
attachment to his garden, of his desire to escape from
great employments, and having passed five years with-
out going to town, where, by the way, **he had a
large house always ready to receive him." Dryden has
interspersed many of these little particulars in his
prosaic compositions, and I think, that his character
and dispositions, may be more correctly acquired by
uniting these scattered notices, than by any biographical
account which can now be given of this man of genius.
. . . Dryden confesses that he never read any-
thing but for his pleasure. . . . Montaigne's
works have been called by a Cardinal "the Breviary
of Idlers." It is therefore the book of man ; for all
men are idlers; we have hours which we pass with
lamentation, and which we know are always returning.
At those moments miscellanists are comformable to all
our humours. We dart along their airy and concise page,
and their lively anecdote, or their profound observation
are so many interstitial pleasures in our listless hours.
We find, in these literary miniatures, qualities incom-
patible with more voluminous performances. Some-
times a bolder, and sometimes a firmer touch ; for they
are allowed but a few strokes. They are permitted
every kind of ornament, for how can the diminutive
please, unless it charms by it's finished decorations,
it's elaborate niceties, and it's exquisite polish ? A
concise work preserves a common subject from insi-
pidity, and an uncommon one from error. An essayist
expresses himself with a more real enthusiasm, than
the writer of a volume ; for I have observed that the
most fervid genius is apt to cool in a quarto. . . .
K
146 ISAAC DISRAELI,
The ancients were great admirers of Miscellanies ;
and this with some profound students, who affect to
contemn these light and beautiful compositions, might
be a solid argument to evince their bad taste. Aulus
Gellius has preserved a copious list of titles of such
works. These titles are so numerous, and include such
gay and pleasing descriptions, that we may infer by
their number that they were greatly admired by the
public, and by their titles that they prove the great
delight their authors experienced in their composition.
Among the titles are "a basket of flowers ; " " an em-
broidered mantle ; " and " a variegated meadow. " Such
amiscellanist as was the admirable Erasmus, deserves the
happy description which Plutarch with an elegant
enthusiasm bestows on Menander: he calls him the
delight of philosophers fatigued with study ; that they
have recourse to his works as to a meadow enamelled
with flowers, where the sense is delighted by a purer
air.
Nature herself is most delightful in her miscellaneous
scenes. When I hold a volume of Miscellanies, and
run over with avidity the titles of its contents, my mind
is enchanted, as if it were placed among the landscapes
of Valais, which Rousseau has described with such
picturesque beauty. I fancy myself seated in a cottage
amid those mountains, those valleys, those rocks, en-
circled by the enchantments of optical illusion. I look,
and behold at once the united seasons. ** All climates
in one place, all seasons in one instant." I gaze at
once on a hundred rainbows, and trace the romantic
figures of the shifting clouds. I seem to be in a temple
dedicated to the service of the Goddess Variety.
ISAAC DISRAELI. 147
On the other side, readers must not imagine that all
the pleasures of composition depend on the author ;
for there is something which a reader himself must
bring to the book, that the book may please. There
is a literary appetite which the author can no more im-
part, than the most skilful cook can give an appetency
to the guests. When Cardinal Richelieu said to Godeau,
that he did not understand his verses, the honest poet
replied, that it was not his fault. It would indeed be
very unreasonable, when a painter exhibits his pictures
in public, to expect that he should provide spectacles
for the use of the short-sighted. Every man must come
prepared as well as he can. Simonides confessed
himself incapable of deceiving stupid persons ; and
Balzac remarked of the girls of his village, that they
were too silly to be duped by a man of wit. Dullness
is impenetrable; and there are hours when the
liveliest taste loses its sensibility. The temporary
tone of the mind may be unfavourable to taste a work
properly, and we have had many erroneous criticisms
from great men, which may often be attributed to
this circumstance. The mind communicates it's infirm
dispositions to the book, and an author has not only
his own defects to account for, but also those of his
reader. There is something in composition, like the
game of shuttlecock, where, if the reader does not
quickly rebound the feathered • cork to the author, the
game is destroyed, and the whole spirit of the work
falls extinct. — Literary Miscellanies: including a
Dissertation on Anecdotes, A New Edition ^ enlarged,
1801.
148 john foster,
John Foster. 1770 — 1843.
The man who is supposed to be thoughtfully passing
his eye over a large array of books . . . may be
arrested by the works of some authors of highest dis-
tinction, splendid in literary achievement and lasting
fame. While pronouncing their names and looking at
these volumes, in which they have left a representative
existence on earth, left the form and action of their
minds embodied in a more durable vehicle than their
once animated clay, how striking to think, that some-
where, and in some certain condition, they themselves
are existing still — existing as really and personally as
when they were revolving the thoughts and writing the
sentences which fill these books ! . . . The musing
of our contemplatist may at times be led to solemn con-
jectures at the award, which these great intellectual
performers have found in another state ; and he follows
some of them with a very dark surmise. . . . And he
may be reminded of that sovereignty of the Governor
of the world in his selection and appointment, by which
minds greatly below the highest order of natural
ability may be rendered pre-eminent in usefulness. It
may also occur to him, diverting for an instant from
all the ranks and varieties of those who have aspired
to be teachers of mankind, to reflect how many humble
spirits, that never attempted any of the thousand
speculations, nor revelled in the literary luxuries con-
tained in these books, have nevertheless passed worthily
and happily through the world into a region where it
viay be the appointed result and reward of fervent
piety, in inferior faculties, to overtake, by one mighty
JOHN FOSTER. 149-
bound, the intellectual magnitude of those who had
previously been much more powerful minds. . , .
The mind of a thoughtful looker over a range of
volumes, of many dates, and a considerable portion
of them old, will sometimes be led into a train of con-
jectural questions : — ^Who were they, that, in various
times and places, have had these in their possession ?
Perhaps many hands have turned over the leaves,
many eyes have passed along the lines. With what
measure of intelligence, and of approval or dissent,
did those persons respectively follow the train of
thoughts? How many of them were honestly intent
on becoming wise by what they read ! How many
sincere prayers were addressed by them to the Eternal
Wisdom during the perusal ? How many have been
determined, in their judgment or their actions, by
these books? . . . May not some one of these
books be the last that some one person lived to read ?
Many that have perused them are dead ; each made
an exit in a manner and with circumstances of its own ;
what were the manner and circumstances in each
instance ? It was a most solemn event to that person ;
but how ignorant concerning it am I, who now perhaps
have my eye on the book which he read the last!
What a power of association, what an element of
intense significance, would invest some of these
volmnes, if I could have a momentary vision of the
last scene of a number of the most remarkable of
their former readers ! * Of that the books can tell me
nothing ; but let me endeavour to bring the fiact, that
persons have read them and died, to bear with a
salutary influence on my own mind while I am reading
i5«> JOHN FOSTER.
any of them. List me cherish that temper of spirit
which is sensible of intimations of what is departed,
remaining and mingling with what is present, and can
thus perceive some monitory glimpses of even the
unknown dead. What multiplied traces of them on
some of these books are perceptible to the imagina-
tion, which beholds successive countenances long since
'* changed and sent away," bent in attention over the
pages! And the minds which looked from within
through those countenances, conversing with the
thoughts of other minds perhaps long withdrawn,
even at that time, from among men — what and where
are they now ?
Sometimes the conjectural reference to the former
possessors and readers of books seems to be rendered
a little less vague, by our finding at the beginning of
an old volume one or more names written, in such
characters, and perhaps accompanied with such dates,
that we are assured those persons must long since have
done with all books. The name is generally all we
can know of him who inserted it ; but we can thus fix
on an individual as actually having possessed this
volume ; and perhaps there are here and there certain
marks which should indicate an attentive perusal.
What manner of person was he ? What did he think
of the sentiments, the passages which I see that he
particularly noticed ? If there be opinions here which
I cannot admit, did he believe them? If there be
counsels here which I deem moSt just and important,
did they effectually persuade him ? . . . The book
is perhaps such a one as he could not read without
being cogently admonished that he was going to his
yOHN FOSTER. 151
great account. He went to that account — how did he
meet and pass through it? This is no vain revery.
He, the man who bore and wrote this name, did go,
at a particular time, though unrecorded, to surrender
himself to his Judge. But I, who handle the book
that was his, and observe his name, and am thus
directing my thoughts into the dark after the man, I
also am in progress toward the same tribunal, when it
will be proved to my joy or sorrow, whether I have
learned true wisdom from my books, and from my
reflections on those who have possessed and read them
before.
But it may be that the observer's eye fixes on a
volume which instantly recalls to his mind a person
whom he well knew — a revered parent perhaps, or a
valued friend, who is recollected to have approved
and inculcated the principles of the book, or perhaps
to have given it to the person who is now looking at
it as a token of regard, or an inoffensive expedient for
drawing attention to an important subject. He may
have the image of that relative or friend, as in the
emplojnnent of reading that volume, or in the act of
presenting it to him. This may awaken a train of
remembrances leading away from any relation to the
book, and possibly of salutary tendency ; but also,
such an association with the book may have an effect,
whenever he shall consult it, as if it were the departed
friend, still more than the author, that uttered the senti-
ments. The author spoke to any one indifferently —
to no one in particular; but the sentiments seem to
be especially applied to me, when they come in this
connection with the memory of one who was my friend.
152 JOHN FOSTER.
Thus he would have spoken to me ; thus in effect he
does speak to me, while I think of him as having read
the book, and regarded it as particularly adapted to
me; or seem to behold him, as when reading it
in my hearing, and sometimes looking off from the
page to make a gentle enforcement of the instruction.
He would have been happy to anticipate, that, when-
ever I might look into it, my remembrance of him
would infuse a more touching significance, a more
applying principle, into its important sentiments;
thus retaining him, though invisibly, and without his
actual presence, in the exercise of a beneficent in-
fluence. But indeed I can, at some moments, indulge
my mind to imagine something more than this mere
ideal intervention to reinforce the impression of truth
upon me, insomuch that, supposing it were permitted
to receive intimations from those who have left the
world, it will seem to me possible that I might,
when looking into some parts of that book, in a solitary
hour of night, perceive myself to be once more the
object of his attention, signified by a mysterious whisper
from no visible form ; or by a momentary preternatural
luminousness pervading the lines, to intimate that a
friendly intelligence that does not forget me, would
still and again enforce on my conscience the dictates
of piety and wisdom which I am reading. , . . Is all
influential relation dissolved by the withdrawment from
mortal intercourse ; so that let my friends die, and I
am as loose from their hold upon me as if they had
ceased to exist, or even never had existed? — Intro-
ductory Essay to Doddridge's Rise and Progress of
Religion in the Soul.
WORDSWORTH.
'53
William Wordsworth. 1770 — 1850.
Wings have we, and as far as we can go
We may find pleasure : wilderness and wood,
Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood
Which with the lofty sanctifies the low,
Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we
know.
Are a substantial world, both pure and good :
Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood
Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
There find I personal themes, a plenteous store ;
Matter wherein right voluble I am :
To which I listen with a ready ear ;
Two shall be named, pre-eminently dear —
The gentle lady married to the Moor ;
And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb.
Nor can I not believe but that hereby
Great gains are mine ; for thus I live remote
From evil speaking ; rancour, never sought,
Comes to me not : malignant truth, or lie.
Hence have I genial seasons, hence have I
Smooth passions, smooth discourse, and joyous
thought :
And thus from day to day my little boat
Rocks in its harbour, lodging peaceably.
Blessings be with them — and eternal praise.
Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares —
The poets, who on earth have made us heirs
Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays !
Oh ! might my name be numbered among theirs.
Then gladly would I end my mortal days.
1 54 WORDS WOR TH— COLERIDGE.
... Books are yours,
Within whose silent chambers treasure lies
Preserved from age to age; more precious far
Than that accumulated store of gold
And orient gems, which for a day of need,
The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs,
These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772 — 1834.
With no other privilege than that of sympathy and
sincere good wishes, I would address an affectionate
exhortation to the youthful literati^ grounded on my
own experience. It will be but short; for the begin-
ning, middle, and end converge to one charge : never
pursue literature as a trade. With the exception
of one extraordinary man, I have never known an
individual, least of all an individual of genius, healthy
or happy without a profession, that is, some regular
employment, which does not depend on the will
of the moment, and which can be carried on so far
mechanically that an average quantum only of health,
spirits, and intellectual exertion are requisite to its
faithful discharge. Three hours of leisure, unannoyed
by any alien anxiety, and looked forward to with
delight as a change and recreation, will sufitice to realise
in literature a larger product of what is truly genial,
than weeks of compulsion. Money, and immediate
reputation form only an arbitrary and accidental end
of literary labour. The hope of increasing them by
any given exertion will often prove a stimulant to
industry ; but the necessity of acquiring them will in
COLERIDGE. 15s
all works of genius convert the stimulant into a narcotic. .
Motives by excess reverse their very nature, and instead
of exciting, stun and stupify the mind. For it is one
contradistinction of genius from talent, that its pre-
dominant end is always comprised in the means ; and
this is one of the many points, which establish an
analogy between genius and virtue. Now though
talents may exist without genius, yet as genius cannot
exist, certainly not manifest itself, without talents, I
would advise every scholar, who feels the genial power
working within him, so far to make a division between
the two, as that he should devote his talents to the
acquirement of competence in some known trade or
profession, and his genius to objects of his tranquil
and unbiassed choice ; while the consciousness of being
actuated in both alike by the sincere desire to perform
his duty, will alike ennoble both. "My dear young
friend," (I would say) "suppose yourself established
in any honourable occupation. From the manufactory
or counting house, from the law-court, or from having
visited your last patient, you return at evening.
Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
Is sweetest . . .
to your family, prepared for its social enjoyments,
with the very countenances of your wife and children
brightened, and their voice of welcome made doubly
welcome, by the knowledge that, as far as they are
concerned, you have satisfied the demands of the day
by the labour of the day. Then, when you retire into
your study, in the books on your shelves you revisit
so many venerable friends with whom you can con-
156 COLERIDGE.
verse. Your own spirit scarcely less free from personal
anxieties than the great minds, that in those'books are
still living for you ! Even your writing desk with its
blank paper and all its other implements will appear
as a chain of flowers, capable of linking your feelings
as well as thoughts to events and characters past or to
come; not a chain of iron, which binds you down
to think of the future and the remote by recalling the
claims and feelings of the peremptory present. But
why should I say retire ? The habits of active life and
daily intercourse with the stir of the world will tend
to give you such self-command, that the presence of
your family will be no interruption. Nay, the social
silence, or undisturbing voices of a wife or sister will
be like a restorative atmosphere, or soft music which
moulds a dream without becoming its object. If facts
are required to prove the possibility of combining
weighty performances in literature with full and in-
dependent employment, the works of Cicero and
Xenophon among the ancients ; of Sir Thomas More,
Bacon, Baxter, or to refer at once to later and con-
temporary instances, Darwin and Roscoe, are at
once decisive of the question. — Biographia Literariay
<hap. xi.
In classifying the various kinds of readers, he (Cole-
ridge) said some were like jelly-bags — they let pass away
all that is pure and good, and retained only what is im-
pure and refuse. Another class he typified by a sponge ;
these were they whose minds sucked all up, and gave
it back again, only a little dirtier. Others, again, he
likened to an hour-glass, and their reading co the sand
SOUTH EY, 157.
which runs in and runs out, and leaves no trace behind.
I forget the fourth class, but the fifth and last he com-
pared to the slave in the Golconda mines, who retained
the gold and the gem, and cast aside the dust and
the dross. — ^^ Notes and Reminiscences,^'' by the late
W, H. Harrison, Ufiiversity Magazine, vol. i. /. 537'
Robert Southey. 1774 — 1843.
My days among the Dead are pass'd ;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old ;
My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe ;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe.
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead : with them
I live in long-past years ;
Their virtues love, their faults condemn.
Partake their hopes and fears.
And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead, anon
My place with them will be,
And I with them shall travel on
Through all Futurity ;
.Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.
158 SOUTH EY.
Young readers — you, whose hearts are open, whose
understandings are not yet hardened, and whose feelings
are not yet exhausted nor encrusted with the world,
take from me a better rule than any professors of
criticism will teach you ! Would you know whether
the tendency of a book is good or evil, examine in
what state of mind you lay it down. Has it induced
you to suspect that what you have been accustomed
to think unlawful, may after all be innocent, and that
may be harmless which you have hitherto been taught
to think dangerous ? Has it tended to make you dis-
satisfied and impatient under the control of others, and
disposed you to relax in that self-government without
which both the laws of God and man tell us there can
be no virtue, and consequently no happiness ? Has it
attempted to abate your admiration and reverence for
what is great and good, and to diminish in you the love
of your country, and your fellow-creatures? Has it
addressed itself to your pride, your vanity, your selfish-
ness, or any other of your evil propensities? Has it
defiled the imagination with what is loathsome, and
shocked the heart with what is monstrous? Has it
disturbed the sense of right and wrong which the
Creator has implanted in the human soul ? If so, if
you are conscious of all or any of these effects, or if
having escaped from all, you have felt that such were
the effects it was. intended to produce, throw the book
in the fire, whatever name it may bear in the title-
page ! Throw it in the fire, young man, though it
should have been the gift of a friend ; young lady,
away with the whole set, though it should be the
prominent furniture of a rosewood bookcase. — The
Doctor f ii. 86 (Interchapter v,).
SOUTHEY, 159
"Libraries," says my good old friend George Dyer,
a man as learned as he is benevolent, . . . "libraries
are the wardrobes of literature, whence men, properly
informed, might bring forth something for ornament,
much for curiosity, and more for use." These books
of mine, as you well know, are not drawn up here
for display, however much the pride of the eye may
be gratified in beholding them ; they are on actual
service. Whenever they may be dispersed, there is
not one among them that will ever be more com-
fortably lodged, or more highly prized by its possessor ;
and generations may pass away before some of them
will again find a reader. . . . It is well that we
do not moralize too much upon such subjects, . . .
For foresight is a melancholy gift,
Which bares the bald, and speeds the all-too-swift.
But the dispersion of a library, whether in retrospect
or in anticipation, is always to me a melancholy thing.
How many such dispersions must have taken place to
have made it possible that these books should thus be
brought together here among the Cumberland moun-
tains ! Many, indeed ; and in many instances most
disastrous ones. Not a few of these volumes have been
cast up from the wreck of the family or convent libraries
during the late Revolution. . . . Yonder Acta
Sanctorum belonged to the Capuchines, at Ghent.
This book of St. Bridget's Revelations, in which not
only all the initial letters are illuminated, but every
capital throughout the volume was coloured, came
from the Carmelite Nunnery at Bruges. That copy
i6o SOUTH EY.
of Alain Chartier, from the Jesuits' College at Louvain ;
that Imago Primi ScbcuU Societatis^ from their college
at Ruremond. Here are books from Colbert's library;
here others from the Lamoignon one. ... A
book is the more valuable to me when I know to whom
it has belonged, and through what "scenes and changes '^
it has past. I would have its history recorded in
the fly leaf, as carefully as the pedigree of a race-horse
is preserved. ... I confess that I have much of
that feeling in which the superstition concerning relics
has originated ; and I am sorry when I see the name
of a former owner obliterated in a book, or the plate
of his arms defaced. Poor memorials though they be,
yet they are something saved for a while from oblivion ;
and I should be almost as unwilling to destroy them,
as to efface the Hie jacct of a tombstone. There may
be sometimes a pleasure in recognizing them, some-
times a salutary sadness.
How peaceably they stand together, . . . Papists
and Protestants side by side ! Their very dust reposes
not more quietly in the cemetery. Ancient and Modern,
Jew and Gentile, Mahommedan and Crusader, French
and English, Spaniards and Portuguese, Dutch and
Brazilians, fighting their old battles, silently now,
upon the same shelf: Fernam Lopez and Pedro de
Ayala ; John de Laet and Barlseus, with the historians
of Joam Fernandes Vieira ; Fox's Martyrs and the
Three Conversions of Father Persons ; Cranmer and
Stephen Gardiner ; Dominican and Franciscan ; Jesuit
and Philosophe (equally misnamed) ; Churchmen and
Sectarians ; Roundheads and Cavaliers !
SOUTH EY. T6t
Here are God's conduits, grave divines ; and here
Is nature's secretary, the philosopher :
And wily statesmen, vi^hich teach how to tie
The sinews of a city's mystic body ;
Here gathering chroniclers : and by them stand
Giddy fantastic poets of each land. Domie
Here I possess these gathered treasures of time, the
harvest of so many generations, laid up in my garners :
and when I go to the window, there is the lake, and
the circle of the mountains, and the illimitable sky.
The simile of the bees,
Sic vos non vohis 7nellijicatis apes,
has often been applied to men who have made litera-
ture their profession ; and they among them to whom
worldly wealth and worldly honours are objects of
ambition, may have reason enough to acknowledge
its applicability. But it will bear a happier applica-
tion, and with equal fitness ; for, for whom is the purest
honey hoarded that the bees of this world elaborate,
if it be not for the man of letters ? The exploits of
the kings and heroes of old, serve now to fill story
books for his amusement and instruction. It was to
delight his leisure and call forth his admiration that
Homer sung, and Alexander conquered. It is to gratify
his curiosity that adventurers have traversed deserts
and savage countries, and navigators have explored the
seas from pole to pole. The revolutions of the planet
which he inhabits are but matters for his speculation ; and
the deluges and conflagrations which it has undergone,
problems to exercise his philosophy, ... or fancy.
He is the inheritor of whatever has been discovered
i62 SOUTH EY,
by persevering labour, or created by inventive genius.
The wise of all ages have heaped up a treasure for him,
which rust doth not corrupt, and which thieves cannot
break through and steal. ... I must leave out
the moth, ... for even in this climate care is
required against its ravages.
Never can any man's life have been passed more in
accord with his own inclinations, nor more answerably
to his own desires. Excepting that peace which,
through God's infinite mercy, is derived from a higher
source, it is to literature, humanly speaking, that I am
beholden, not only for the means of subsistence, but
for every blessing which I enjoy; . . , health of
mind and activity of mind, contentment, cheerfulness,
continual employments, and therewith continual plea-
sure. Suavissima vita indies sentire se fieri meliorem ;
and this, as Bacon has said, and Clarendon repeated,
is the benefit that a studious man enjoys in retirement.
To the studies which I have faithfully pursued, I am
indebted for friends with whom, hereafter, it will be
deemed an honour to have lived in friendship ; and as
for the enemies which they have procured to me in
sufficient numbers, . . . happily I am not of the thin-
skinned race, ... they might as well fire small shot
at a rhinoceros, as direct their attacks upon me. In
omnibus requiem qucesivi, said Thomas k Kempis, sed
non inveni nisi in angulis et libellis, I too have found
repose where he did, in books and retirement, but it was
there alone I sought it : to these my nature, under the
direction of a merciful Providence, led me betimes, and
the world can offer nothing which should tempt me from
them. — Sir Thomas More : or. Colloquies on the Progress
and Prospects of Society, Colloquy xiv. : * ' The Library. "
charles lamb. 163
Charles Lamb. 1775 — 1834.
Above all thy rarities, old Oxenford, what do most
arride and solace me, are thy repositories of mouldering
learning, thy shelves-
What a place to be in is an old library ! It seems
as though all the souls of all the writers, that have
bequeathed their labours to these Bodleians, were
reposing here, as in some dormitory, or middle state.
I do not want to handle, to profane the leaves, their
winding-sheets. I could as soon dislodge a shade. I
seem to inhale learning, walking amid their foliage ;
and the odour of their old moth -scented coverings is
fragrant as the first bloom of those sciential apples
which grew amid the happy orchard. — Elides Essays:
'* Oxford in the Vacation^
To one like Elia, whose treasures are rather cased
in leather covers than closed in iron coffers, there is a
class of alienators more formidable than that which I
have touched upon ; I mean your borrowers of books —
those mutilators of collections, spoilers of the symmetry
of shelves, and creators of odd volumes. There is Com-
berbatch [Coleridge], matchless in his depredations !
That foul gap in the bottom shelf facing you, like a
great eye-tooth knocked out — (you are now with me
in my little back study in Bloomsbury, reader !) with
the huge Switzer-like tomes on each side (like the
Guildhall giants, in their reformed posture, guardant
of nothing) once held the tallest of my folios,
Opera Bonaventurce, choice and massy divinity, to
which its two supporters (school divinity also, but of
a lesser calibre, — Bellarmine, and Holy Thomas),
i64 CHARLES LAMB.
showed but as dwarfs, — itself an Ascapart ! — that
Comberbatch abstracted upon the faith of a theory he
holds, which is more easy, I confess, for me to suffer
by than to refute, namely, that "the title to property
in a book (my Bonaventure, for instance), is in exact
ratio to the claimant's powers of understanding and
appreciating the same." Should he go on acting upon
this theory, which of our shelves is safe ?
The slight vacuum in the left-hand case — two shelves
from the ceiling — scarcely distinguishable but by the
quick eye of a loser was whilom the commodious
resting-place of Brown on Urn Burial. C. will hardly
allege that he knows more about that treatise than I
do. who introduced it to him, and was indeed the first
(of the moderns) to discover its beauties — but so have
I known a foolish lover to praise his mistress in the
presence of a rival more qualified to carry her off than
himself. — ^Just below, Dodsley's dramas want their
fourth volume, where Vittoria Corombona is ! The
remainder nine are as distasteful as Priam's refuse
sons, when the Fates borrowed Hector. Here stood
the Anatomy of Melancholy, in sober state. — There
loitered the Complete Angler ; quiet as in life, by some
stream side. — In yonder nook, John Buncle, a widower-
volume, with "eyes closed," mourns his ravished mate.
— Elia^s Essays : " The 7 wo Races of Men.'"
I own that I am disposed to say grace upon twenty
other occasions in the course of the day besides my
dinner. I want a form for setting out upon a pleasant
walk, for a moonlight ramble, for a friendly meeting,
or a solved problem. Why have we none for books,
CHARLES LAMB. 165
those spiritual repasts — a grace before Milton — a grace
before Shakspeare — a devotional exercise proper to be
said before reading the Fairy Queen ? — Ella's Essays:
" Grace Before Meat.''''
In the depth of college shades, or in his lonely
chamber, the poor student shrunk from observation.
He found shelter among books, which insult not ; and
studies, that ask no questions of a youth's finances. —
Ella's Essays : ^^Poor Relations y
I must confess that I dedicate no inconsiderable
portion of my time to other people's thoughts. I
dream away my life in others' speculations. I love to
lose myself in other men's minds. When I am not
walking, I am reading ; I cannot sit and think. Books
think for me.
I have no repugnances. Shaftesbury is not too
genteel for me, nor Jonathan Wild too low. I can
read anything which I call a book. There are things
in that shape which I cannot allow for such.
In this catalogue of books which are no books — biblia
a-biblia — I reckon Court Calendars, Directories, Pocket
Books, Draught Boards, bound and lettered at the back,
Scientific Treatises, Almanacks, Statutes at large ; the
works of Hume, Gibbon, Robertson, Beattie, Soame
Jenyns, and, generally, all those volumes which **no
gentleman's library should be without : " the Histories
of Flavius Josephus (that learned Jew), and Paley's
Moral Philosophy. With these exceptions, I can read
almost any thing. I bless my stars for a taste so catholic,
so unexcluding.
i66 CHARLES LAMB.
I confess that it moves my spleen to see these things
in books' clothing perched upon shelves, like false saints,
usurpers of true shrines, intruders into the sanctuary,
thrusting out the legitimate occupants. To reach down
a well-bound semblance of a volume, and hope it some
kind-hearted play-book, then, opening what "seem its
leaves," to come bolt upon a withering Population
Essay. To expect a Steele, or a Farquhar, and find —
Adam Smith. To view a well-arranged assortment of
blockheaded Encyclopaedias (AngHcanas or Metropoli-
tanas) set out in an array of Russia or Morocco, when
a tithe of that good leather would comfortably re-clothe
my shivering folios ; would renovate Paracelsus himself,
and enable old Raymund Lully to look like himself
again in the world. I never see these impostors, but
I long to strip them, to warm my ragged veterans in
their spoils.
To be strong-backed and neat-bound is the deside-
ratum of a volume. Magnificence comes after. This,
when it can be afforded, is not to be lavished upon all
kinds of books indiscriminately. I would not dress
a set of Magazines, for instance, in full suit. The
dishabille, or half-binding (with Russia backs ever) is
our costume. A Shakspeare, or a Milton (unless the
first editions), it were mere foppery to trick out in gay
apparel. The possession of them confers no distinction.
The exterior of them (the things themselves being so
common), strange to say, raises no sweet emotions, no
tickling sense of property in the owner. Thomson's
Seasons, again, looks best (I maintain it) a little torn,
and dog's-eared. How beautiful to a genuine lover of
reading are the sullied leaves, and worn out appearance,
CHARLES LAMB. - 167
nay, the very odour (beyond Russia,) if we would not
forget kind feelings in fastidiousness, of an old " Circu-
lating Library" Tom Jones, or Vicar of Wakefield!
How they -speak of the thousand thumbs, that have
turned over their pages with delight ! — of the lone
sempstress, whom they may have cheered (milliner,
or harder-working mantua-maker) after her long day's
needle-toil, running far into midnight, when she has
snatched an hour, ill spared from sleep, to steep her
cares, as in some Lethean cup, in spelling out their
enchanting content ! Who would have them a whit
less soiled ? What better condition could we desire to
see them in?
In some respects the better a book is, the less it
demands from binding. Fielding, Smollet, wSterne, and
. all that class of perpetually self-reproductive volumes —
Great Nature's Stereotypes — we see them individually
perish with less regret, because we know the copies
of them to be " eterne." But where a book is at once
both good and rare — where the individual is almost
the species, and when ^/laf perishes.
We know not where is that Promethean torch
That can its light relumine —
such a book, for instance, as the Life of the Duke of
Newcastle, by his Duchess — no casket is rich enough,
no casing sufficiently durable, to hoaour and keep safe
such a jewel.
I do not know a more heartless sight than the reprint
of the Anatomy of Melancholy. What need was there
of unearthing the bones of that fantastic old great man,
to expose them in a winding-sheet of the newest fashion
i68 CHARLES LAMB.
to modern censure ? what hapless stationer could dream
of Burton ever becoming popular? — The wretched
Malone could not do worse, when he bribed the sexton
of Stratford church to let him white-wash the painted
effigy of old Shakspeare, which stood there, in rude
but lively fashion depicted, to the very colour of the
cheek, the eye, the eyebrow, hair, the very dress he
used to wear — the only authentic testimony we had,
however imperfect, of these curious parts and parcels
of him. They covered him over with a coat of white
paint. By , if I had been a justice of peace for
Warwickshire, I would have clapped both commen-
tator and sexton fast in the stocks, for a pair of
meddling sacrilegious varlets.
I think I see them at their work — these sapient
trouble-tombs. . . .
Much depends upon when and where you read a
book. In the five or six impatient minutes, before the
dinner is quite ready, who would think of taking up
the Fairy Queen for a stop-gap, or a volume of Bishop
Andrewes' sermons ?
Milton almost requires a solemn service of music to
be played before you enter upon him. But he brings
his music, to which, who listens, had need bring docile
thoughts, and purged ears.
Winter evenings— the world shut out — with less of
ceremony the gentle Shakspeare enters. At such a
season, the Tempest, or his own Winter's Tale — . . .
Coming in to an inn at night — having ordered your
•supper — what can be more delightful than to find lying
in the window-seat, left there time out of mind by the
carelessness of some former guest — two or three num-
CHARLES LAMB, 169
bers of the old Town and Country Magazine, with its
amusing teie-h-tete pictures — "The Royal Lover and
Lady G ;" "The Melting Platonic and the old
Beau," — and such like antiquated scandal? Would
you exchange it — at that time, and in that place— for a
better book ? . . .
I am not much a friend to out-of-doors reading. I
cannot settle my spirits to it. I knew a Unitarian
minister, who was generally to be seen upon Snow-hill
(as yet Skinner's-street was not\ between the hours of
ten and eleven in the morning, studying a volume of
Lardner. I own this to have been a strain of abstrac-
tion beyond my reach. I used to admire how he
sidled along, keeping clear of secular contacts. An
illiterate encounter with a porter's knot, or a bread
basket, would have quickly put to flight all the
theology I am master of, and have left me worse than
indifferent to the five points.
There is a class of street-readers, whom I can never
contemplate without affection — the poor gentry, who,
not having wherewithal to buy or hire a book, filch a
little learning at the open stalls — the owner, with his
hard eye, casting envious looks at them all the while,
and thinking when they will have done. Venturing
tenderly, page after page, expecting every moment
when he shall interpose his interdict, and yet unable to
deny themselves the gratification, they "snatch a fear-
ful joy." Martin B , in this way, by daily frag-
ments, got through two volumes of Clarissa, when the
stall-keeper damped his laudable ambition, by asking
him (it was in his younger days) whether he meant to
purchase the work. M. declares, that under no cir-
I70 CHARLES LAMB.
cumstances of his life did he ever peruse a book with
half the satisfaction which he took in those uneasy
snatches. — Ella's Essays: ''^Detached Thoughts on
Books and Reading,'''^
[Bridget Elia loquitur] **I wish the good old times
would come again, when we were not quite so rich. I
do not mean, that I want to be poor ; but there was a
middle state;" so she was pleased to ramble on, — "in
which I am sure we were a great deal happier. A pur-
chase is but a purchase, now that you have money
enough and to spare. Formerly it used to be a
triumph. When we coveted a cheap luxury (and, O !
how much ado I had to get you to consent in those
times !) we were used to have a debate two or three
days before, and to weigh i\iQ for and against, and
think what we might spare it out of, and what saving
we could hit upon, that should be an equivalent. A
thing was worth buying then, when we felt the money
that we paid for it.
" Do you remember the brown suit, which you made
to hang upon you, till all your friends cried shame
upon you, it grew so thread-bare — and all because of
that folio Beaumont and Fletcher, which you dragged
home late at night from Barker's in Covent -garden ?
Do you remember how we eyed it for weeks before we
could make up our minds to the purchase, and had
not come to a determination till it was near ten
o'clock of the Saturday night, when you set off from
Islington, fearing you should be too late — and when
the old bookseller with some grumbling opened his
shop, and by the twinkling taper (for he was setting
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 171
bedwards) lighted out the relic from his dusty treasures
— and when you lugged it home, wishing it were twice
as cumbersome — and when you presented it to me —
and when we were exploring the perfectness of it
[collating you called it) — and while I was repairing
some of the loose leaves with paste, which your im-
patience would not suffer to be left till day-break —
was there no pleasure in being a poor man ? or can
those neat black clothes which you wear now, and are
so careful to keep brushed, since we have become rich
and finical, give you half the honest vanity, with which
you flaunted it about in that over-worn suit — your old
corbeau — for four or five weeks longer than you should
have done, to pacify your conscience for the mighty
sum of fifteen — or sixteen shillings was it? — a great
affair we thought it then — which you had lavished on
the old folio. Now you can afford to buy any book
that pleases you, but I do not see that you ever bring
me home any nice old purchases now." — Ella's
Essays : * ' Old Ch ina . ' '
Walter Savage Landor. 1775 — 1864.
O Andrew ! Although our learning raiseth up against
us many enemies, among the low, and more among the
powerful, yet doth it invest us with grand and glorious
privileges, and grant to us a largess of beatitude. We
enter our studies, and enjoy a society which we
alone can bring together. We raise no jealousy by
conversing with one in preference to another ; we give
no offence to the most illustrious by questioning him as
long as we will, and leaving him as abruptly. Diver-
172 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.
sity of opinion raises no tumult in our presence ; each
interlocutor stands before us, speaks, or is silent, and
we adjourn or decide the business at our leisure.
Nothing is past which we desire to be present ; and
we enjoy by anticipation somewhat like the power
which I imagine we shall possess hereafter of sailing
on a wish from world to world. — Imaginary Cotiversa-
tions: ''^Milton in conversation with Attdrew Marvell.'"
Logic, however unperverted, is not for boys ; argu-
ment is among the most dangerous of early practices, and
sends away both fancy and modesty. The young mind
should be nourished with simple and grateful food, and
not too copious. It should be little exercised until its
nerves and muscles show themselves, and even then
rather for air than anything else. Study is the bane of
boyhood, the aliment of youth, the indulgence of
manhood, and the restorative of age. — Pericles and
Aspasia, Ivii. : " Cleone to Aspasia.^^
The writings of the wise are the only riches our
posterity cannot squander.
William Hazlitt. 1778 — 1830.
They [Books] are the nearest to our thoughts : they
wind into the heart ; the poet's verse slides into the
current of our blood. We read them when young, we
remember them when old. We i^ad there of what
has happened to others ; we feel that it has happened
to ourselves. They are to be had everywhere cheap
and good. We breathe but the air of books : we owe
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 173
every thing to their authors, on this side barbarism ;
and we pay them easily with contempt, while living,
and with an epitaph, when dead ! . . . there are
neither picture-galleries nor theatres-royal on Salisbury-
plain, where I write this ; but here, even here, with a
few old authors, I can manage to get through the
summer or the winter months, without ever knowing
what it is to feel ennui. They sit with me at break-
fast ; they walk out with me before dinner. After a
long walk through unfrequented tracks, after starting
the hare from the fern, or hearing the wing of the raven
rustling above my head, or being greeted by the wood-
man's ** stern good -night," as he strikes into his narrow
homeward path, I can "take mine ease at mine inn,"
beside the blazing hearth, and shake hands with Signor
Orlando Friscobaldo [a character in one of Dekkar's
Plays], as the oldest acquaintance I have, Ben Jonson,
learned Chapman, Master Webster, and Master Hey-
wood, are there ; and seated round, discourse the silent
hours away. Shakespear is there himself, not in
Gibber's manager's coat. Spenser is hardly yet
returned from a ramble through the woods, or is con-
cealed behind a group of nymphs, fawns, and satyrs.
Milton lies on the table, as on an altar, never taken
up or laid down without reverence. Lyly's Endymion
sleeps with the moon, that shines in at the window ;
and a breath of wind stirring at a distance seems a
sigh from the tree under which he grew old. Faustus
disputes in one corner of the room with fiendish faces,
and reasons of divine astrology, Bellafront soothes
Matheo, Vittoria triumphs over her judges, and old
Chapman repeats one of the hymns of Homer, in his
174 WILLIAM HAZLITT.
own fine translation ! I should have no objection to
pass my life in this manner out of the world, not
thinking of it, nor it of me ; neither abused by my
enemies, nor defended by my friends ; careless of the
future, but sometimes dreaming of the past which might
as well be forgotten ! — Lectui^es on the Dramatic
Literature of the Age of Elizabeth.
I do not think altogether the worse of a book for
having survived the author a generation or two. I
have more confidence in the dead than the living.
Contemporary writers may generally be divided into
two classes — one's friends or one's foes. Of the first
we are compelled to think too well, and of the last we
are disposed to think too ill, to receive much genuine
pleasure from the perusal, or to judge fairly of the
merits of either. One candidate for literary fame, who
happens to be of our acquaintance, writes finely, and
like a man of genius ; but unfortunately has a foolish
face, which spoils a delicate passage : — another inspires
us with the highest respect for his personal talents and
character, but does not quite come up to our expecta-
tions in print. All these contradictions and petty
details interrupt the calm current of our reflections. If
you want to know what any of the authors were who
lived before our time, and are still objects of anxious
inquiry, you have only to look into their works. But
the dust and smoke and noise of modern literature
have nothing in common with the pure, silent air of
immortality.
When I take up a work that I have read before (the
oftener the better) I know what I have to expect.
WILLIAM HAZLirr. 175
The satisfaction is not lessened by being anticipated.
When the entertainment is altogether new, I sit down
to it as I should to a strange dish, — turn and pick out
a bit here and there, and am in doubt what to think
of the composition. There is a want of confidence and
security to second appetite. New-fangled books are
also like made-dishes in this respect, that they are
generally little else than hashes and rifaccimenti of
what has been served up entire and in a more natural
state at other times. Besides, in thus turning to a
well-known author, there is not only an assurance that
my time will not be thrown away, or my palate nauseated
with the most insipid or vilest trash, — but I shake
hands with, and look an old, tried, and valued friend
in the face, — compare notes, and chat the hours away.
It is true, we form dear friendships, with such ideal guests
— dearer, alas ! and more lasting, than those with our
most intimate acquaintance. In reading a book which
is an old favourite with me (say the first novel I ever
read) I not only have the pleasure of imagination and
of a critical relish of the work, but the pleasures of
memory added to it. It recalls the same feelings and
associations which I had in first reading it, and which
I can never have again in any other way. Standard
productions of this kind are links in the chain of our
conscious being. They bind together the different
scattered divisions of our personal identity. They are
landmarks and guides in our journey through life.
They are pegs and loops on which we can hang up,
or from which we can take down, at pleasure, the
wardrobe of a moral imagination, the relics of our best
affections, the tokens and records of our happiest hours.
176 WILLIAM HAZLITT.
They are "for thoughts and for remembrance ! " They
are like Fortunatus's Wishing-Cap — they give us the
best riches — those of Fancy ; and transport us, not
over half the globe, but (which is better) over half our
lives, at a word's notice !
My father Shandy solaced himself with Bruscambille.
Give me for this purpose a volume of *' Peregrine
Pickle" or "Tom Jones." Open either of them any-
where — at the "Memoirs of Lady Vane," or the
adventures at the masquerade with Lady Bellaston, or
the disputes between Thwackum and Square, or the
escape of Molly Seagrim, or the incident of Sophia and
her muff, or the edifying prolixity of her aunt's lecture
— and there I find the same delightful, busy, bustling
scene as ever, and feel myself the same as when I was
first introduced into the midst of it. Nay, sometimes
the sight of an old volume of these good old English
authors on a stall, or the name lettered on the back
among others on the shelves of a library, answers the
purpose, revives the whole train of ideas, and sets "the
puppets dallying." Twenty years are struck off the
list, and I am a child again. A sage philosopher, who
was not a very wise man, said, that he should like very
well to be young again, if he could take his experience
along with him. This ingenious person did not seem
to be aware, by the gravity of his remark, that the great
advantage of being young is to be without this weight
of experience, which he would fain place upon the
shoulders of youth, and which never comes too late
with years. Oh ! what a privilege to be able to let
this hump, like Christian's burthen, drop from off one's
back, and transport oneself, by the help of a little
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 177
musty duodecimo, to the time when ** ignorance was
bliss," and when we first got a peep at the raree-show
of the world, through the glass of fiction — gazing at
mankind, as we do at wild beasts in a menagerie,
through, the bars of their cages, — or at curiosities in a
museum, that we must not touch ! for jnyself, not only
are the old ideas of the contents of the work brought
back to my mind in all their vividness, but the old
associations of the faces and persons, of those I then
knew, as they were in their lifetime — the place where
I sat to read the volume, the day when I got it, the
feeling of the air, the fields, the sky — ^^return, and all
my early impressions with them. This is better to me
— those places, those times, those persons, and those
feelings that come across me as I retrace the story
and devour the page, are to me better far than the wet
sheets of the last new novel from the Ballantyne press,
to say nothing of the Minerva press in Leadenhall
Street. It is like visiting the scenes of early youth.
I think of the time "when I was in my father's house,
and my path ran down with butter and honey," —
when I was a little, thoughtless child, and had no other
wish or care but to con my daily task, and be h^ppy !
— "Tom Jones," I remember, was the first work that
broke the spell. It came down in numbers once a
fortnight, in Cooke's pocket-edition, embellished with
cuts. I had hitherto read only in school-books, and a
tiresome ecclesiastical history (with the exception of
Mrs. Radcliffe's "Romance of the Forest"): but this
had a different relish with it, — ** sweet in the mouth,"
though not *' bitter in the belly." It smacked of the
world I lived, in, and in which I was to live — and
M
178 WILLIAM HAZLITT.
showed me groups, "gay creatures" not "of the ele-
ment," but of the earth ; not "living in the clouds,"
but travelling the same road that I did ; — some that
had passed on before me, and others that might soon
overtake me. My heart had palpitated at the thoughts
of a boarding-school ball, or gala-day, at Midsummer
or Christmas ; but the world I had found out in
Cooke's edition of the "British Novelists" was to me
a dance through life, a perpetual gala-day. The six-
penny numbers of this work regularly contrived to
leave off just in the middle of a sentence, and in the
nick of a story. . . . With what eagerness I used
to look forward to the next number, and open the
prints ! Ah ! never again shall I feel the enthusiastic
delight with which I gazed at the figures, and
anticipated the story and adventures of Major Bath and
Commodore Trunnion, of Trim and my Uncle Toby, of
Don Quixote and Sancho and Dapple, of Gil Bias and
Dame Lorenza Sephora, of Laura and the fair Lucretia,
whose lips open and shut like buds of roses. To what
nameless ideas did they give rise, — with what airy de-
lights I filled up the outlines, as I hung in silence
over the page ! — Let me still recall them, that they
may breathe fresh life into me, and that I may live
that birthday of thought and romantic pleasure over
again 1 Talk of the ideal I This is the only true ideal
— the heavenly tints of Fancy reflected in the bubbles
that float upon the spring-tide of human life.
O Memory ! shield me from the world's poor strife,
And give those scenes thine everlasting life !
The Plain Speaker: ''On Reading Old Books:'
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 179
I cannot understand the rage manifested by the
greater part of the world for reading New Books. If
the public had read all those that have gone before, I
can conceive how they should not wish to read the same
work twice over ; but when I consider the countless
volumes that lie unopened, unregarded, unread, and
unthought-of, I cannot enter into the pathetic com-
plaints that I hear made that Sir Walter writes no
more-^that the press is idle — that Lord Byron is dead.
If I have not read a book before, it is, to all intents
and purposes, new to me, whether it was printed yes-
terday or three hundred years ago. If it be urged that
it has no modern, passing incidents, and is out of date
and old-fashioned, then it is so much the newer ; it is
farther removed from other works that I have lately
read, from the familiar routine of ordinary life, and
makes so much more addition to my knowledge. But
many people would as soon think of putting on old
armour as of taking up a book not published within
the last month, or year at the utmost. There is a
fashion in reading as well as in dress, which lasts only
for the season. One would imagine that books were,
like women, the worse for being old ; that they have a
pleasure in being read for the first time ; that they open
their leaves more cordially ; that the spirit of enjoy-
ment wears out with the spirit of novelty ; and that,
after a certain age, it is high time to put them on the
shelf. This conceit seems to be followed up in practice.
What is it to me that another — that hundreds or thou-
sands have in all ages read a work ? Is it on this
account the less likely to give me pleasure, because it
has delighted so many others? Or can I taste this
i8o WILLIAM HAZLITT.
pleasure by proxy ? Or am I in any degree the wiser
for their knowledge ? Yet this might appear to be the
inference. — Sketches and Essays: ^^ On Reading New
Books.''
The greatest pleasure in life is that of reading, and I
have had as much of this pleasure as perhaps anyone,
I have had more pleasure in reading the adventures
of a novel (and perhaps changing situations with the
hero) than I ever had in my own. I do not think any
one can feel much happier — a greater degree of heart's
ease — than I used to feel in reading Tristram Sha7tdy,
and Peregrine Pickle^ and Tom Jones ^ and The Tatler,
and Gil Bias of Santillane, and Werter, and Boccacio.
It was some years after that I read the last, but his
Tales
Dallied with the innocence of love,
Like the old time.
The story of Federigo Alberigi affected me as if it
had been my own case. . . . Mrs. Inchbald was
always a great favourite with me. There is the true
soul of woman breathing from what she writes, as
much as if you heard her voice. It is as if Venus had
written books. ... I once sat on a sunny bank
in a field, in which the green blades of corn waved in
the fitful northern breeze, and read the letter in the
*'New Heloise" in which St. Preux describes the
Pays de Vaud. I never felt what Shakespeare calls
** my glassy existence" so much as then. ... I
have certainly spent some enviable hours at inns,
luxuriantly in books. I remember getting completely
wet through one day and stopping at an inn (I think
WILLIAM HAZLITT. i8i
it was at Tewkesbury), where I sat up all night to read
Patil and Virginia, Sweet were the showers in early
youth that drenched my body, and sweet the drops of
pity that fell upon the books I read ! . . . I
stopped two days at Bridgewater, and when I was
tired of sauntering on the banks of its muddy river,
returned to the inn and read Ca??iilla. So have I
loitered my life away, reading books, looking at pic-
tures, going to plays, hearing, thinking, writing on
what pleased me best. I have wanted only one thing
to make me happy; but wanting that have wanted
everything. . . , It was on the loth of April,
1798, that I sat down to a volume of The Neiv Heloise,
at the inn at Llangollen, over a bottle of sherry and a
cold chicken. I had brought the book with me as a
bonne bouche to crown the evening with. It was my
birth-day, and I had for the first time come from a
place in the neighbourhood to visit this delightful spot.
. . . For myself, I should like to browse on folios,
and have to deal chiefly with authors that I have
scarcely strength to lift, that are as solid as they are
heavy, and if dull, are full of matter. It is deHghtful
. . . to travel out of one's self into the Chaldee,
Hebrew, and Egyptian characters ; to have the palm-
trees waving mystically in the margin of the page, and
the camels moving slowly on in the distance of three
thousand years. . . . Not far from the spot
where I write [Winterslow Hut, February 20, 1828],
I first read Chaucer's The Flower and The Leaf^ and
was charmed with that young beauty, shrouded in her
bower, and listening with ever-fresh delight to the
repeated song of the nightingale close by her— the
i82 WILLIAM HAZLITT.
impression of the scene, the vernal landscape, the cool
of the morning, the gushing notes of the songstress,
'* And ay en methought she sang close by mine ear,"
is as vivid as if it had been of yesterday. — From
vaTious Essays : ^^ My First Acquaintmice with Poets, ^^
*^A Farewell to Essay-writing,'''' ^c.
Books are but one inlet of knowledge ; and the
powers of the mind, like those of the body, should be
left open to all impressions. I applied too close to my
studies, soon after I was of your age, and hurt myself
irreparably by it. Whatever may be the value of
learning, health and good spirits are of more. . . .
By conversing with the mighty dead, we imbibe senti-
ment with knowledge. We become strongly attached
to those who can no longer either hurt or serve us, except
through the influence which they exert over the mind.
We feel the presence of that power which gives immor-
tality to human thoughts and actions, and catch the
flame of enthusiasm from all ages and nations. . . .
As to the books you will have to read by choice or for
amusement, the best are the commonest. The names
of many of them are already familiar to you. Read
them as you grow up with all the satisfaction in your
power, and make much of them. It is perhaps the
greatest pleasure you will have in life, the one you
will think of longest, and repent of least. If my life
had been more full of calamity than it has been (much
more than I hope yours will be), I would live it over
again, my poor little boy, to have read the books I
did in my youth. — On the Co7id2ict of Life; or Advice
to a Schoolboy,
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 183
[The following passages are from the last article
which Hazlitt wrote. It is entitled The Sick Chamber^
and appeared in the New Monthly Magazine for August,
1830. Hazlitt died on the i8th of September of the
same year, at the age of fifty-two. For some time he
had been ailing, and all through the month of August
was struggling with death. He seemed to live on
*'by a pure act of volition," His old and ever-dear
friend, Charles Lamb — who said of him that "in his
natural and healthy state, he was one of the wisest
and finest spirits breathing," and **that he should go
down to the grave without finding, or expecting to
find, such another companion " — was beside him at the
close, which was so peaceful that his son, who was
sitting by his bed-side, did not know that he had gone,
till the breathing had ceased for a moment or two.
During his illness a friend saw him as he lay ghastly,
shrunk, and helpless, on the bed from which he never
afterwards rose. That friend said that his mind seemed
to have weathered all the dangers of extreme sickness,
and to be safe and as strong as ever; but the body had
endured much decay. The article here quoted from,
and another that preceded it, called The Free Admis-
sion, — brilliant, and full of fine things, — have never been
reprinted in any of the editions of his works which have
.appeared since his death. The article possesses excep-
tional interest, — being the last composition of a man
of true genius, written within a few weeks of his death.
It exhibits many of the characteristics of its author—
i84 WILLIAM HAZLITT.
his intellectual vigour and robustness, his keen sen&s of
the Beautiful, his imagination, and passionate intensity.
It presents, with undiminished power and vividness, the
conditions and surroundings, the consolations and heart-
sinkings, the fluctuations of thought and feeling, incident
to the inmate of a sick-room. This Essay may truly
be said to be unknown — buried as it has been for more
than half-a-century in the dust-covered volume of a
forgotten Periodical. As it concludes with a touching
tribute to Books, and as these are often associated
with the hush and quietude of a sick-chamber, the
compiler may be forgiven for reverently and lovingly
snatching from oblivion and preserving for future
readers these latest recorded thoughts of a favourite
author. Assuredly the works of Hazlitt will, in course
of time, become better known than they now are, and
take their fitting place in our Literature.]*
* Bulwer [Lord Lytton], in his Essay entitled ** Some Thoughts
on the Genius of William Hazlitt," says : —
"The present century has produced many men of poetical
genius, and some of analytical acumen ; but I doubt whether it
has produced anyone who has given to the world such signal
proofs of the union of the two as William Hazlitt . . . He
possessed the critical faculty in its noblest degree — his taste was
not the creature of schools and canons ; it was begotten of Enthu-
siasm by Thought. . . . Scattered throughout his Essays is
a wealth of thought and poetry, beside which half the contem-
poraries of their author seem as paupers. He had a keen sense
of the Beautiful and the Subtile ; and what is more, he was
deeply imbued with sympathy for the humane. He ranks high
amongst the social writers — his intuitive feeling was in favour
of the multitude ; yet he had nothing of the demagogue or
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 185
What a difference between this subject and my last —
a " Free Admission !" Yet from the crowded theatre
litterateur ; he did not pander to a single vulgar passion.
When he died, he left no successor. Others may equal him,
but none resemble. I must confess that few deaths of the great
writers of my time ever affected me more powerfully than his.
. . . He went down to dust without having won the crown
for which he had so bravely struggled. . . . His faults have
been harshly judged, because they have not been fairly analysed
— they arose mostly from an arrogant and lordly sense of
superiority. . . . He was the last man to play the thrifty
with his thoughts — he sent them forth with an insolent ostenta-
tion, and cared not much what they shocked or whom they
cflfended. . . . Posterity will do him justice. To the next
age, he will stand among the foremost of the thinkers of the
present ; and late and tardy retribution will assuredly be his,
which compensates to others the neglect to which men of genius
sometimes are doomed j — that retribution which, long after the
envy they provoked is dumb, and the errors they committed are
forgotten — invests with interest everything associated with their
names — making it an honour even to have been their con-
temporaries, and an hereditary rank to be their descendants."
The same critic, thirty years later, in an article on " Charles
Lamb, and Some of His Companions," in the Quarterly Review,
Jan., 1867, again writes of Hazhtt, and delivers this mature
judgment of him : —
** But amidst all these intolerant prejudices and this wild
extravagance of apparent hate, there are in Hazlitt from time
to time — those times not unfrequent — outbursts of sentiment
scarcely surpassed among the writers of our century for tender
sweetness, rapid perceptions of truth and beauty in regions of
criticism then but sparingly cultured — nay, scarcely discovered —
and massive fragments of such composition as no hand of ordinary
strength could hew out of the unransacked mines of our native
language. . . . It is not as a guide that HazUtt can be useful
to any man. His merit is that of a companion in districts little
trodden — a companion strong and hardy, who keeps our sinews
i86 WILLIAM HAZLITT.
to the sick chamber ; from the noise, the glare, the keen
delight, to the loneliness, the darkness, the dulness,
and the pain, there is but one step. A breath of air,
an overhanging cloud effects it ; and though the transi-
tion is made in an instant, it seems as if it would last
for ever. A sudden illness not only puts a stop to the
career of our triumphs and agreeable sensations, but
blots out and cancels all recollection of and desire for
them. We lose the relish of enjoyment : we are
effectually cured of our romance. Our bodies are con-
fined to our beds : nor can our thoughts wantonly
in healthful strain ; rough and irascible, whose temper will con-
stantly offend us if we do not steadily preserve our own ; but
always animated, vivacious, brilliant in his talk ; suggestive of
truths, even where insisting on paradoxes ; and of whom when
we part company we retain impressions stamped with the crown-
mark of indisputable genius. Gladly would we welcome among
the choicer prose works of our age some volumes devoted to the
more felicitous specimens of Hazlitt's genius. He needs but an
abstract of his title deeds to secure a fair allotment in the ground,
already overcrowded, which has been quaintly described by a
Scandinavian poet as the garden-land lying south between
Walhalla and the sea."
" In his Essays and other writings," says a critic of fine sym-
pathies, the late Alexander Smith, "it is almost pathetic to notice
how he clings to the peaceful images which the poet loves ; how he
reposes in their restful lines. . .• . He is continually quoting
Sidney's Arcadian image of the shepherd-boy imder the shade,
piping as though he would never grow old,— ■as, if the recurrence
of the image to his memory brought with it silence, sunshine,
and waving trees. . . . When at his best, his style is excel-
lent, concise, sinewy — laying open the stubborn thought as the
sharp ploughshare the glebe. . . . His best Essays were, in
a sense, autobiographical, because in them he recalls his enthu-
siasm, and the passionate hopes on which he fed his spirit."
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 187
detach themselves and take the road to pleasure, but
turn back with doubt and loathing at the faint, evanes-
cent phantom which has usurped its place. If the
folding-doors of the imagination were thrown open or
left ajar, so that from the disordered couch where we
lay, we could still hail the vista of the past or future,
and see the gay and gorgeous visions floating at a dis-
tance, however denied to our embrace, the contrast,
though mortifying, might have something soothing in
it, the mock splendour might be the greater for the
actual gloom : but the misery is that we cannot con-
ceive anything beyond or better than the present evil ;
we are shut up and spell-bound in that, the curtains of
the mind are drawn close, we cannot escape from "the
body of this death," our souls are conquered, dismayed,
" cooped and cabined in," and thrown with the lumber
of our corporeal frames in one corner of a neglected
and solitary room. We hate ourselves and everything
else; nor does one ray of comfort *'peep through the
blanket of the dark " to give us hope. How should
we entertain the image of grace and beauty, when our
bodies writhe with pain ? To what purpose invoke the
echo of some rich strain of music, when we ourselves
can scarcely breathe ? The very attempt is an im-
possibility.
It is amazing how little effect physical suffering or
local circumstances have upon the mind, except while
we are subject to their immediate influence. While
the impression lasts, they are everything : when it is
gone, they are nothing. We toss and tumble about
in a sick bed : we lie on our right side, we then change
to our left ; we stretch ourselves on our backs, we turn
i8S WILLIAM HAZLITT,
on our faces ; we wrap ourselves up under the clothes
to exclude the cold, we throw them off to escape the
heat and suffocation ; we grasp the pillow in agony,
we fling ourselves out of bed, we walk up and down
the room with hasty or feeble steps ; we return into
bed ; we are worn out with fatigue and pain, yet can
get no repose for the one, or intermission for the other ;
we summon all our patience, or give vent to passion and
petty rage : nothing avails ; we seem wedded to our
disease, "like life and death in disproportion met ; "
we make new efforts, try new expedients, but nothing
appears to shake it off, or promise relief from our grim
foe : it infixes its sharp sting into us, or overpowers us
by its sickly and stunning weight : every moment is as
much as we can bear, and yet there seems no end of
our lengthening tortures ; we are ready to faint with
exhaustion, or work ourselves up to frenzy : we
*' trouble deaf Heaven with our bootless prayers :" we
think our last hour has come, or peevishly wish it
were, to put an end to the scene; . . . when
lo ! a change comes, the spell falls off, and the next
moment we forget all that has happened to us. No
sooner does our disorder turn its back upon us than we
laugh at it. The state we have been in sounds like a
dream, a fable ; health is the order of the day, strength
is ours de jure and de facto ; and we discard all un-
called-for evidence to the contrary with a smile of
contemptuous incredulity, just as we throw our physic-
bottles out of the window ! I see (as I awake from a
short, uneasy doze) a golden light shine through my
white window-curtains on the opposite wall :— is it the
dawn of a new day, or the departing light of evening ?
WILLIAM HAZLITT, 189
I do not well know, for the opium "they have drugged
my posset with " has made strange havoc with my
brain, and I am uncertain whether time has stood still,
or advanced, or gone backward. By " puzzling o'er
the doubt," my attention is drawn a little out of my-
self to external objects ; and I consider whether it
w^ould not administer some relief to my monotonous
langour, if I could call up a vivid picture of an evening
sky I witnessed a short while before, the white fleecy
clouds, the azure vault, the verdant fields and balmy
air. In vain ! the wings of fancy refuse to mount from
my bedside. The air without has nothing in common
with the closeness within : the clouds disappear, the
sky is instantly overcast and black.
It is curious that, on coming out of a sick-room,
where one has been pent some time, and grown weak
and nervous, and looking at Nature for the first time,
the objects that present themselves have a very
questionable and spectral appearance, the people in
the street resemble flies crawling about, and seem
scarce half- alive. It is we who are just risen from
a torpid and unwholesome state, and who impart our
imperfect feelings of existence, health, and motion to
others. Or it may be that the violence and exertion
of the pain we have gone through make common
e very-day objects seem unreal and unsubstantial.
It is not till we have established ourselves in form
in the sitting-room, wheeled round the arm-chair to the
fire (for this makes part of our re-introduction to the
ordinary modes of being in all seasons,) felt our
appetite return, and taken up a book, that we can be
considered as at all restored to ourselves. And even
igo WILLIAM HAZLITT.
then our first sensations are rather empirical than
positive ; as after sleep we stretch out our hands to
know whether we are awake. This is the time for
reading. Books are then indeed "a world, both pure
and good," into which we enter with all our hearts,
after our revival from illness and respite from the tomb,
as with the freshness and novelty of youth. They are
not merely acceptable as without too much exertion they
pass the time and relieve ennui ; but from a certain
suspension and deadening of the passions, and abstrac-
tion from worldly pursuits, they may be said to bring
back and be friendly to the guileless and enthusiastic
tone of feeling with which we formerly read them.
Sickness has weaned us pro tempore from contest and
cabal ; and we are fain to be docile and children again .
All strong changes in our present pursuits throw us
back upon the past. This is the shortest and most
complete emancipation from our late discomfiture.
We wonder that any one who has read The History
of a Foundling should labour under an indigestion ;
nor do we comprehend how a perusal of the Faery
Queen should not insure the true believer an unin-
terrupted succession of halcyon days. Present objects
bear a retrospective meaning, and point to "a foregone
conclusion." Returning back to life with half-strung
nerves and shattered strength, we seem as when we
first entered it with uncertain purposes and faltering
aims. The machine has received a shock, and it moves
on more tremulously than before, and not all at once
in the beaten track. Startled at the approach of death,
we are willing to get as far from it as we can by
making a proxy of our former selves ; and finding the
WILLIAM HAZLITT. 191
precarious tenure by which we hold existence, and its
last sands running out, we gather up and make the
most of the fragments that memory has stored up for
us. Everything is seen through a medium of reflec-
tion and contrast. We hear the sound of merry
voices in the street ; and this carries us back to
the recollections of some country-town or village-
group—
" We see the children sporting on the shore
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. "
A cricket chirps on the hearth, and we are reminded
of Christmas gambols long ago. The very cries in the
street seem to be of a former date ; and the dry toast
eats very much as it did — twenty years ago. A rose
smells doubly sweet, after being stifled with tinctures
and essences ; and we enjoy the idea of a journey and
an inn the more for having been bed-rid. But a book
is the secret and sure charm to bring all these implied
associations to a focus. I should prefer an old one,
Mr. Lamb's favourite, the Journey to Lisbon, by
Henry Fielding ; or the Decameron, if I could get it.
. . . Well, then, I have got the new paraphrase
on the Beggars Opera, — Paul Clifford,— \y^ Bulwer,
am fairly embarked in it ; and at the end of the first
volume, where I am galloping across the heath with
the three highwaymen, while the moon is shining full
upon them, feel my nerves so braced, and my spirits so
exhilarated, that, to say truth, I am scarce sorry for
the occasion that has thrown me upon the work and
the author — have quite forgot my Sick Room, and am
192 CHARLES C. COLTON.
' more than half ready to recant the doctrine that a Free-
Admission to the theatre is
— **The true pathos and sublime
Of human life : " —
for I feel as I read that if the stage shows us the masks
of men and the pageant of the world, books let us
INTO THEIR SOULS AND LAY OPEN TO US THE
SECRETS OF OUR OWN. ThEY ARE THE FIRST
AND LAST, THE MOST HOME-FELT, THE MOST
HEART-FELT OF ALL OUR ENJOYMENTS !
Charles C. Colton. 1780 — 1832.
So idle are dull readers, and so industrious are dull
authors, that puffed nonsense bids fair to blow unpuffed
sense wholly out of the field.
Nothing is so difficult as the apparent ease of a clear
and flowing style : those graces which, from their pre-
sumed facility, encourage all to attempt an imitation
of them, are usually the most inimitable.
In reading the life of any great man, you will always,
in the course of his history, chance upon some obscure
individual who, on some particular occasion, was
greater than he whose life you are reading.
Some read to think, — these are rare ; some to write, —
these are common ; and some read to talk, — and these
form the great majority. The first page of an author
not unfrequently suffices for all the purposes of this
latter class : of whom it has been said, that they treat
books as some do lords ; they inform themselves of their
m/eSf and then boast of an intimate acquaintance.
DR. W. E. CHANNING. 193
Many books require no thought from those who read
them, and for a very simple reason ; — they made no
such demand upon those who wrote them. Those
works therefore are the most valuable, that set our
thinking faculties in the fullest operation. For as the
solar light calls forth all the latent powers and dormant
principles of vegetation contained in the kernel, but
which, without such a stimulus, would neither have
struck root downwards, nor borne fruit upwards, so it
is with the light that is intellectual ; it calls forth and
awakens into energy those latent principles of thought
in the minds of others, which, without this stimulus,
reflection would not have matured, nor examination
improved, nor action embodied. — Lacon: or, Many
Things in few words : Addressed to Those who Think,
Dr. William Ellery Channing.
1780 — 1842.
It is chiefly through books that we enjoy intercourse
with superior minds ; and these invaluable means of
communication are in the reach of all. In the best
books, great men talk to us, give us their most precious
thoughts, and pour their souls into ours. God be
thanked for books ! They are the voices of the distant
and the dead, and make us heirs of the spiritual life
of past ages. Books are the true levellers. They
give to all who will faithfully use them, the society,
the spiritual presence of the best and greatest of our
race. No matter how poor I am ; no matter though
the prosperous of my own time will not enter my
N
194 ^^- ^- ^' CHANNING,
obscure dwelling ; if the sacred writers will enter and
take up their abode under my roof— if Milton will
cross my threshold to sing to me of Paradise ; and
Shakspeare to open to me the worlds of imagination
and the workings of the human heart ; and Franklin
to enrich me with his practical wisdom — I shall not
pine for want of intellectual companionship, and I
may become a cultivated man, though excluded from
what is called the best society in the place where I
live.
To make this means of culture effectual, a man must
select good books, such as have been written by right-
minded and strong-minded men, real thinkers ; who,
instead of diluting by repetition what others say, h.ave
something to say for themselves, and write to give
relief to full earnest souls : and these works must not
be skimmed over for amusement, but read with fixed
attention, and a reverential love of truth. In selecting
books, we may be aided much by those who have
studied more than ourselves. But after all, it is best
to be determined in this particular a good deal by our
own tastes. The best books for a man are not always
those which the wise recommend, but oftener those
which meet the peculiar wants, the natural thirst of his
mind, and therefore awaken interest and rivet thought.
And here it may be well to observe, not only in regard
to books, but in other respects, that self-culture must
vary with the individual. All means do not equally
suit us all. A man must unfold himself freely, and
should respect the peculiar gifts or biasses by which
nature has distinguished him from others. Self-culture
does not demand the sacrifice of individuality ; it does
DR. W. E. CHANNING. 195
not regularly apply an established machinery ; for the
sake of torturing every man into one rigid shape, called
perfection. As the human countenance, with the same
features in us all, is diversified without end in the race,
and is never the same in any two individuals ; so the
human soul, with the same grand powers and law,
expands into an infinite variety of forms, and would
be wofully stinted by modes of culture requiring all
men to learn the same lesson, or to bend to the same
rules.
I know how hard it is to some men, especially to
those who spend much time in manual labour, to fix
attention on books. Let them strive to overcome the
difficulty, by choosing subjects of deep interest, or
by reading in company with those whom they love.
Nothing can supply the place of books. They are
cheering or soothing companions in solitude, illness,
affliction. The wealth of both continents would not
compensate for the good they impart. Let every man,
if possible, gather some good books under his roof,
and obtain access for himself and family to some
social library. Almost any luxury should be sacrificed
to this.
One of the very interesting features of our times, is
the multiplication of books, and their distribution
through all conditions of society. At a small expense,
a man can now possess himself of the most precious
treasures of English literature. Books, once confined
to a few by their costliness, are now accessible to the
multitude ; and in this way a change of habits is going
on in society, highly favourable to the culture of the
people. Instead of depending on casual rumour and
196 WASHINGTON IRVING.
loose conversation for most of their knowledge and
objects of thought ; instead of forming their judgments
in crowds, and receiving their chief excitement from
the voice of neighbours, men are now learning to study
and reflect alone, to follow out subjects continuously,
to determine for themselves what shall engage their
minds, and to call to their aid the knowledge, original
views, and reasonings of men of all countries and ages ;
and the results must be, a deliberateness and indepen-
dence of judgment, and a thoroughness and extent of
information, unknown in former times. The diffusion
of these silent teachers, books, through the whole
community, is to work greater effects than artillery,
machinery, and legislation. Its peaceful agency is to
supersede stormy revolutions. The culture, which it
is to spread, whilst an unspeakable good to the indi-
vidual, is also to become the stability of nations. —
Self- Culture : An Address introductory to the Franklin
Lectures i at Boston^ 1838.
Washington Irving. 1783 — 1859.
The scholar only knows how dear these silent, yet
eloquent, companions of pure thoughts and innocent
hours become in the season of adversity. When all
that is worldly turns to dross around us, these only re-
tain their steady value. When friends grow cold, and
the converse of intimates languishes into vapid civility
and common-place, these only continue the unaltered
countenance of happier days, and cheer us with that
true friendship which never deceived hope nor deserted
sorrow. — The Sketch Book.
LEIGH HUNT. X97
Leigh Hunt. 1784 — 1859.
Were I to name, out of the times gone by,
The poets dearest to me, I should say,
Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way ;
Chaucer for mannas, and close, silent eye ;
Milton for classic taste, and harp strung high ;
Spenser. for luxury, and sweet, sylvan play;
Horace for chatting with, from day to day ;
Shakspeare for all, but most, society.
But which take with me, could I take but one ?
Shakspeare, — as long as I was unoppress'd
With the world's weight, making sad thoughts intenser ;
But did I wish, out of the common sun,
To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest.
And dream of things far off and healing, — Spenser.
London Examiner, Dec. 24, 1815.
We like a small study, where we are almost in con-
tact with our books. We like to feel them about us, —
to be in the arms of our mistress Philosophy, rather
than see her at a distance. . . . We do not know
how our ideas of a study might expand with our walls.
Montaigne, who was Montaigne ** of that ilk," and lord
of a great chateau, had a study " sixteen paces in diameter,
with three noble and iree prospects." . . . "The figure
of my study is round, and has no more flat (bare) wall,
than what is taken up by my table and my chairs : so
that the remaining parts of the circle present me with
a view of all my books, at once, set upon five degrees
igS LEIGH HUNT.
of shelves round about me." A great prospect we
hold to be a very disputable advantage, upon the same
reasoning as before ; but we like to have some green
boughs about our windows, and to fancy ourselves as
much as possible in the country when we are not there.
Milton expressed a wish with regard to his study,
extremely suitable to our present purpose. He would
have the lamp in it seen ; thus letting others into a
share of his enjoyments, by the imagination of them.
" And let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear
With thrice great Hermes ; or unsphere
The Spirit of Plato, to unfold
What world or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshy nook."
The Indicator. 1819.
Sitting last winter among my books, and walled
round with all the comfort and protection which they
and my fire-side could afford me, — to wit, a table of
high -piled books at my back, my writing desk on
one side of me, some shelves on the other, and the
feeling of the warm fire at my feet, — I began to con-
sider how I loved the authors of those books ; how I
loved them too, not only for the imaginative pleasures
they afforded me, but for their making me love the very
books themselves, and delight to be in contact with
them. I looked sideways at my Spenser, my Theo-
critus, and my Arabian Nights ; then above them at
LEIGH HUNT, 195
my Italian Poets ; then behind me at my Dryden and
Pope, my Romances, and my Boccaccio ; then on my
left side at my Chaucer, who lay on my writing desk ;
and thought how natural it was in Charles Lamb to
give a kiss to an old folio, as I once saw him do to
Chapman's Homer. ... ^
I entrench myself in my books^ equally against
sorrow and the weather. If the wind comes through
a passage, I look about to see how I can fence it off
by a better disposition of my moveables ; if a melan-
choly thought is importunate, I give another glance at
my Spenser. When I speak of being in contact with
my books, I mean it literally. I like to be able to
lean my head against them. ...
I like a great library next my study ; but for the
study itself, give me a small snug place almost entirely
walled with books. There should be only one window
in it, looking upon trees* Some prefer a place with
few or no books at all ; nothing but a chair or a table,
like Epictetus : but I should say that these were
philosophers, not lovers of books, if I did not recollect
that Montaigne was both. He had a study in a round
tower, walled as aforesaid. It is true, one forgets one's
books while writing : at least they say so. For my
part, I think I have them in a sort of sidelong mind's
eye; like a second thought, which is none; like a
waterfall, or a whispering wind. . . .
The very perusal of the backs is a "discipline of
humanity." There Mr. Southey takes his place again
with an old Radical friend : there Jeremy Collier is at
peace with Dryden : there the lion, Martin Luther,
lies down with the Quaker lamb, Sewell : there Guzman
200 LEIGH HUNT.
d'Alfarache thinks himself fit company for Sir Charles
Grandison, and has his claims admitted. Even the
"high fantastical" Duchess of Newcastle, with her
laurel on her head, is received with grave honours, and
not the less for declining to trouble herself with the
constitutions of her maids. . . .
How pleasant it is to reflect that the greatest lovers
of books have themselves become books ! What
better metamorphosis could Pythagoras have desired !
How Ovid and Horace exulted in anticipating theirs !
And how the world have justified their exultation !
They had a right to triumph over brass and marble.
It is the only visible change which changes no further ;
which generates, and yet is not destroyed. Consider :
mines themselves are exhausted ; cities perish ; king-
doms are swept away, and man weeps with indignation
to think that his own body is not immortal. . . .
Yet this little body of thought that lies before me in
the shape of a book has existed thousands of years ;
nor since the invention of the press, can any thing short
of an universal convulsion of nature, abolish it. To
a shape like this, so small, yet so comprehensive, so
slight, yet so lasting, so insignificant, yet so venerable,
turns the mighty activity of Homer, and so turning, is
enabled to live and warm us for ever. To a shape
like this turns the placid sage of Academus: to a
shape like this the grandeur of Milton, the exuberance
of Spenser, the pungent elegance of Pope, and the
volatility of Prior. In one small room, like the com-
pressed spirits of Milton, can be gathered together
"The assembled souls of all that men held wise."
LEIGH HUNT. 201
May I hope to become the meanest of these existences ?
This is a question which every author, who is a lover •
of books, asks himself some time in his life ; and which
.must be pardoned, because it cannot be helped. I
know not. I cannot exclaim with the poet,
" Oh that my name were numbered among theirs.
Then gladly would I end my mortal days."
For my mortal days, few and feeble as the rest of them
may be, are of consequence to others. But I should
like to remain visible in this shape. The little of
myself that pleases myself, I could wish to be accounted
worth pleasing others. I should like to survive so,
were it only for the sake of those who love me in private,
knowing as I do what a treasure is the possession of a
friend's mind, when he is no more. At all events,
nothing, while I live and think, can deprive me of my
value for such treasures. I can help the appreciation
of them while I last, and love them till I die ; and
perhaps, if fortune turns her face once more in kind-
ness upon me before I go, I may chance, some quiet
day, to lay my over-beating temples on a book, and so
have the death I most envy.* — The Literary Examiner:
''My Books:' 1823.
The want we wish to supply by the London Journal is
that of something more connected with the ornamental
* ** We think few can read this very lovely passage and not
sympathise cordially in the wish so nobly conceived and so
tenderly expressed. Something not to be replaced would be
struck out of the gentler literature of our century, could the
mind of Leigh Hunt cease to speak to us in a book." — Lord
Lytton (E. L. Bulwer). ^^ Charles Lamb and jsome of His
Companions'^ &*c. Quarterly Review. 1867.
202 LEIGH HUNT.
part of utility,— yfiih. the art of extracting pleasurable
ideas from the commonest objects, and the participations
of a scholarly experience. In the metropolis there are
thousands of improving and inquiring minds, capable
of all the elegance of intellectual enjoyment, who, for
want of education worthy of them, are deprived of a
world of pleasures, in which they might have in-
structed others. We hope to be read by these. In every
country town there is always a knot of spirits of this
kmd, generally young men, who are known, above
others, for their love of books, for the liberaHty of
their sentiments, and their desire to be acquainted
with all that is going forward in connection with the
graces of poetry and the fine arts. We hope to have
these for our readers. . . . Pleasure is the busi-
ness of this journal ; we own it ; we love to begin it
with the word ; it is like commencing the day with
sunshine in the room. Pleasure for all who can
receive pleasure ; consolation and encouragement for
the rest : this is our purpose. But then it is pleasure
like that implied by our simile, innocent, kindly, we
dare to add, instructive and elevating. Nor shall the
gravest aspects of it be wanting. As the sunshine
floods the sky and the ocean, and yet nurses the baby-
buds of the roses on the wall, so we would fain open
the largest and the very least sources of pleasure, the
noblest that expands above us into the heavens, and
the most familiar that catches our glance in the home-
stead. We would break up the surface of habit and
indifference, and shew the treasures concealed beneath.
Man has not yet learnt to enjoy the world he lives in.
We would fain help him to render it productive of
LEIGH HUNT.
203
Still greater joy. We would make adversity hopeful,
prosperity sympathetic, all kinder, richer, and happier ;
and we have some right to assist in the endeavour, for
there is scarcely a single joy or sorrow within the ex-
perience of our fellow creatures which we have not
tasted ; and the belief in the good and beautiful has
never forsaken us. It has been medicine to us in
sickness, riches in poverty, and the best part of all
that has ever delighted us in health and wealth. . . .
We have been at this work now, off and on, man and
boy (for we began essay-writing while in our teens) for
upwards of thirty years, and excepting that we would
fain have done yet more, we feel the same as we have
done throughout ; and we have the same hope, the
same love, the same faith in the beauty and goodness
of nature and all her prospects, in space and in time ;
we could almost add, if a sprinkle of white hairs in our
black would allow us, the same youth. , . . We
have had so much sorrow, and yet are capable of so
much joy, and receive pleasure from so many familiar
objects, that we sometimes think we should have had
an unfair portion of happiness, if our life had not been
one of more than ordinary trial. — London Journal,
April I, 1834.
Conceive what our pleasure must be when those who
have a right to judge pronounce our Journal to have
done well, both in spirit and letter, and unite heartily
in approving the cultivation of one sequestered spot in
the regions of literature. . . . It is our ambition
to be one of the sowers of a good seed in places where
it is not common, but would be most profitable ; to be
204 LEIGH HUNT.
one of those who should try to render a sort of public
loving-kindness a grace of common life, a conventional,
and for that very reason, in the highest sense of the
word, a social and universal elegance. We dare to
whisper in the ears of the wisest, and therefore of the
all-hearing and the kindliest judging, that we would
fain do something, however small and light, towards
Christianizing public minds. . . . If we end in
doing nothing but extending a faith in capabilities of
any sort, and showing some thousands of our fellow-
creatures that sources of amusement and instruction
await but a touch in the objects around them, to start
up like magic, and enrich the meanest hut, perhaps
the most satiated ennuiy we shall have done something
not unworthy. — London Journal^ August 2^ , 1834.
Our object was to put more sunshine into the feel-
ings of our countrymen, more good will and
good humour, a greater habit of being pleased
with one another, and with everything, and therefore
a greater power of dispensing with uneasy sources of
satisfaction. We wished to create one corner and
field of periodical literature in which men might be
more of hope and cheerfulness, and of the cultivation
of peaceful and flowery thoughts, without the accom-
paniment of anything inconsistent with them ; we
knew that there was a desire at the bottom of every
human heart to retain a faith in such thoughts, and to
see others believe in them and recommend them ; and
heartily have anxious as well as happy readers in this
green and beautiful England responded to our belief.
, , , Still blow then, ye fair winds, and keep open
LEIGH HUNT. 205
upon us, ye blue heavens — still hail us as ye go, all
gallant brother voyagers, and encourage us to pursue
the kindly task which love and adversity have taught
us, touching at all curious shores of reality and
romance, endeavouring to make them know and love
one another, to learn what is good against the roughest
elements, or how the suffering that cannot be remedied
may be best endured, to bring news of hope and joy
and exaltation from the wings of the morning, and the
uttermost parts of the sea, making familiar companions,
but not the less revered on that account, of the least
things on earth and the greatest things apart from it —
of the dust and the globe, and the divided moon, of
sun and stars, and the loneliest meetings of man's
thought with immensity, which is not too large for his
heart, though it be for his knowledge ; because know-
ledge is but man's knowledge, but the heart has a
portion of God's wisdom, which is Love.* — London
Journal^ Sept. 4, 1834.
* *' The London ^^Mr«a/ was a miscellany of essays, criticisms,
and passages from books. The note which it struck was of too
aesthetical a nature for cheap readers in those days ; and in 1836,
after attaining the size of a goodly folio double volume, it termi-
nated. I have since had the pleasure of seeing the major part
of the essays renew their life, and become accepted by the public,
in a companion volume to the Indicator, called the Seer. The
Seer does not mean a prophet, or one gifted with second sight,
but an observer of ordinary things about him, gifted by his
admiration of nature with the power of discerning what every
body else may discern by a cultivation of the like secret of satis-
faction. ... I have been pleased to see that the London
Journal maintains a good steady price with my old friends, the
bookstalls. . . . Assuredly its large, triple-columned, eight
hundred pages, full of cheerful ethics, of reviews, anecdotes,
2o6 LEIGH HUNT.
We still find ourselves halting as instinctively at the
humblest, or even the most familiar book-stall, as we
legends, table-talk, and romances of real life, make a reasonable
sort of library, %ic.^^— Autobiography.
The London Jour^ial^ in two folio volumes, is often to be met
with in second-hand book catalogues, and will be found a perfect
storehouse of literary amenities and delights. An ardent
admirer of Hunt— Mr. Frank Carr, of Newcastle — who chooses
to veil his identity under the nojn de plume of *' Lancelot Cross,"
has devoted a dainty little volume to a description of the merits
and varied contents of the London Journal^ as a Typical
Literary Miscellany. He says of it :—
"The charm of his articles does not lie alone in their ever
sparkling freshness, in the morning sweetness that pervades
them, but in the largeness of their scope — in their consideration,
according to the call of the moment, of all human needs. Hunt's
was of the inquisitive and exploring order of minds ; industry
and method he shared with hundreds of other literary workers —
but he superadded (and therein lay his power) a genial humanity
which looked on all things with an equal eye, moved towards all
with a warm sympathising heart, and sought good in all things
with a clear, trustful mind. His style was conversational
picturesqueness, richness of ready learning, plus unfailing
cordiality and communicativeness. If we had to state his power
in a brief sentence it would be — the alchemy of intelligent
loving-kindness."
*' There is to be found in those two volumes," he says, ** matter
that will stir every pure power of the soul— smiles, tears, deep
thought, and devotion. It is a book that can be laid before the
child, the lady, the poet, and the philosopher. It is a noble boast
when an author can declare that he leaves not ' one line which,
dying, he could wish to blot ; ' but it is tenfold higher praise
when it may be said of him that he has not only left his multi-
farious writings pure, — all misconceptions atoned for, all rash
judgments corrected — (as when he says * How pleasant it is thus
to find oneself reconciled to men whom we have ignorantly
LEIGH HUNT, 207
used to do when first fresh from school, In vain have
got cold feet at it, shivering, wind-beaten sides, and
black-fingered gloves. The dusty old siren still delays
us, charming with immortal beauty inside her homely
attire, and singing songs of old poets. We still find
ourselves diving even into the sixpenny or threepenny
"box," in spite of eternal disappointment, and
running over whole windows of books, which we saw
but three days before for the twentieth time, and of
which we could repeat by heart a good third of the titles.
Nothing disconcerts us but absolute dirt, or an ill-
tempered looking woman. What delights us is to see a
plentiful sprinkle of old poetry, little Elzevir classics,
Ariostos full of loving comment, and a woman getting
under-valued, and how fortunate to have lived long enough to
say so ') — but that in the immense mass of charming selections
that he has made and commented upon over a long period of
time, there is not one sullied by temper, pruriency, or factious-
ness. Their range includes the fruits of all intellects, of all
forms of human endeavour, from the sayings of childhood to
those of the wisest of the sons of man ; from instances of
domestic magnanimity to the heroic achievements in art, science,
and public strife, and each and all convey the most ennobling
lessons. We love the glorious two folios for their own sake, and
because, in addition to other great merits, they are a Prime
Exemplar of Periodical Literature far fulness, variety, ease,
elegance, enthusiasm, and urbanity."
Christopher North (Professor Wilson), who at one time viru-
lently attacked Leigh Hunt, made the amende honorable in
thus speaking of the London Journal: "It is not only beyond
all comparison, but out of all sight the most entertaining and
instructive of all the cheap periodicals ; and when laid, as it duly
is once a week, on my breakfast-table, it lies there, — but is not
permitted to lie long— like a spot of sunshine dazzling the snow."
2o8 LEIGH HUNT.
gradually better and better dressed, her afternoon
ribbons matching with her pleasant face, and a chubby-
urchin in her arm§.
They who can afford to give a second-hand book-
seller what he asks in his catalogue, may in general do
it with good reason, as well as a safe conscience. He
is of an anxious and industrious class of men, com'
pelled to begin the world with laying out ready money
and living very closely ; and if he prospers, the com-
modities and people he is conversant with, encourage
the good and intellectual impressions with which he set
out, and generally end in procuring him a reputation
for liberality as well as acuteness.
One of the many curious things about bookstalls and
other cheap shops of the kind, is the appearance, in
sudden flocks, of certain copies of the same old book.
If we dealt in inferior providences like a Pagan, we
might be tempted to think that the God of Books
{^^ Liber Pater ^^) had thought fit to make that special
disbursement for some good existing reason ; an old
poet, to counteract too much prose ; or something gay,
as a hint against something too serious. So, however,
it is.
A Second -Hand Bookseller's Catalogue is not a
mere catalogue or list of saleables as the uninitiated
may fancy. Even a common auctioneer's catalogue of
goods and chattels, suggests a thousand reflections to
a peruser of any knowledge ; judge then what the case
must be with a catalogue of Books ; the very titles of
which run the rounds of the whole world, visible and in-
LEIGH HUNT. 209
visible ; geographies — biographies — histories — loves —
hates — joys — sorrows — cookeries — sciences — fashion,
— and eternity ! We speak on this subject from the most
literal experience ; for often and often have we cut
open a new catalogue of old books, with all the fervour
and ivory folder of a first love ; often read one at tea ;
nay, at dinner ; and have put crosses against dozens of
volumes in the list, out of the pure imagination of
buying them, the possibility being out of the question t
— Series of Papers in The Monthly Repository y 1837,
entitled ^^Retrospective Review, or Companion to The
Lover of Old Books ;^^ Old Books and Bookshops —
Beneficence of Bookstalls — Catalogues of Cheap Books.
This book (A Book for a Corner ), for the most part,
is a collection of passages from such authors as retain, if
not the highest, yet the most friendly and as it were
domestic hold upon us during life, and sympathize with
us through all portions of it. Hence the first extract is
a Letter addressed to an Infant, the last the Elegy in the
Churchyard, and the intermediate ones have something
of an analogous reference to the successive stages of
existence. It is therefore intended to be read by in-
telligent persons of all times of life, the youthful
associations in it being such as the oldest readers love
to call to mind, and the oldest such as all would gladly
meet with in their decline. It has no politics in it, no
polemics, nothing to offend the delicatest mind. The
innocentest boy and the most cautious of his seniors
might alike be glad to look over the other's shoulder,
and find him in his corner perusing it. This may be
speaking in a boastful manner ; but an Editor has a
o
210 LEIGH HUNT.
right to boast of his originals, especially when they are
such as have comforted and delighted him throughout
his own life, and are for that reason recommended by
him to others.
This compilation is intended for all lovers of books,
at every time of life, from childhood to old age,
particularly such as are fond of the authors it quotes,
and who enjoy their perusal most in the quietest
places. It is intended for the boy or girl who loves
to get with a book into a corner — for the youth who
on entering life finds his advantage in having become
acquainted with books — for the man in the thick of life,
to whose spare moments books are refreshments — and
for persons in the decline of life, who reflect on what
they have experienced, and to whom books and gardens
afford their tranquillest pleasures. It is a book (not to
Bay it immodestly) intended to lie in old parlour win-
dows, in studies, in cottages, in cabins aboard ship, in
country-inns, in country-houses, in summer-houses,
in any houses that have wit enough to like it, and are
not the mere victims of a table covered with books for
show. . . .
Some of the most stirring men in the world, persons
in the thick of business of all kinds, and indeed with
the business of the world itself on their hands, —
Lorenzo de Medici, for instance, who was at once the
great merchant and the political arbiter of his time, —
have combined with their other energies the greatest love
of books, and found no recreation at once so wholesome
and so useful. We hope many a man of business will
refresh himself with the short pieces in these volumes,
LEIGH HUNT 211
and return to his work the fitter to baffle craft, and yet
retain a reverence for simpHcity. Every man who has
a right sense of business, whether his business be that of
the world or of himself, has a respect for all right things
apart from it ; because business with him is not a mind-
less and merely instinctive industry, like that of a
beetle rolling its ball of clay, but an exercise of faculties
congenial with the other powers of the human being,
and all working to some social end. Hence he
approves of judicious and refreshing leisure — of
domestic and social evenings — of suburban retreats —
of gardens— of ultimate retirement "for good" — of a
reading and reflective old age. Such retirements have
been longed for, and in many instances realized, by
wise and great men of all classes, from the Diocletians
of old to the Foxes and Burkes of our own days.
Warren Hastings, who had ruled India, yearned for
the scenes of his boyhood ; and lived to be happy in
them. The wish to possess a country-house, a retreat,
a nest, a harbour of some kind from the storms and
even from the agitating pleasures of life, is as old as
the sorrows and joys of civilization. The child feels it
when he *' plays at house ;" the schoolboy, when he is
reading in his corner ; the lover, when he thinks of his
mistress. Epicurus felt it in his garden ; Horace and
Virgil expressed their desire of it in passages which the
sympathy of mankind has rendered immortal. It was
the end of all the wisdom and experience of Shakspeare.
He retired to his native town, and built himself a house
in which he died. And who else does not occasionally
" flit " somewhere meantime if he can ? The country
for many miles round London, and indeed in most
212 LEIGH HUNT.
Other places, is adorned with houses and grounds of
men of business, who are whirled to and fro on weekly
or daily evenings, and who would all find something to
approve in the closing chapters of our work. . . .
It is Books that teach us to refine on our pleasures
when young, and which, having so taught us, enable
us to recall them with satisfaction when old. For let
the half-witted say what they will of delusions, no
thorough reader ever ceased to believe in his books,
whatever doubts they might have taught him by the
way. They are pleasures too palpable and habitual
for him to deny. The habit itself is a pleasure. They
contain his young dreams and his old discoveries ; all
that he has lost, as well as all that he has gained ; and,
as he is no surer of the gain than of the loss, except
in proportion to the strength of his perceptions, the
dreams, in being renewed, become truths again. He
is again in communion with the past ; again interested
in its adventures, grieving with its griefs, laughing with
its merriment, forgetting the very chair and room he
is sitting in. Who, in the mysterious operation of
things, shall dare to assert in what unreal corner of
time and space that man's mind is ; or what better
proof he has of the existence of the poor goods and
chattels about him, which at that moment (to him) are
non-existent? "Oh!" people say, **but he wakes
up, and sees them there." Well ; he woke down then,
and saw the rest. What we distinguish into dreams
and realities, are, in both cases, but representatives of
impressions. Who shall know what difference there is
in them at all, save that of degree, till some higher
state of existence help us to a criterion ?
LEIGH HUNT.
213
For our part, such real things to us are books, that,
if habit and perception make the difference between
real and unreal, we may say that we more frequently
wake out of common life to them^ than out of them to
common life. Yet we do not find the life the less real.
We only feel books to be a constituent part of it ; a
world, as the poet says,
** Round which, with tendrils strong as flesh and
blood.
Our pastime and our happiness will grow."
. . . And yet, when readers wake up to that other
dream of life, called real life (and we do not mean to
deny its palpability), they do not find their enjoyment
of it diminished. It is increased — increased by the
contrast — by the variety — by the call upon them to
show the faith which books have originally given them
in all true and good things, and which books, in spite
of contradiction and disappointment, have constantly
maintained. Mankind are the creatures of books, as
well as of other circumstances ; and such they eternally
remain ; proofs, that the race is a noble and believing
race, and capable of whatever books can stimulate.
The volumes now offered to our fellow readers
originated in this kind of passion for books. They
were suggested by a wish we had long felt to get up a
book for our private enjoyment, and of a very particular
and unambitious nature. It was to have consisted of
favourite passages, not out of the authors we most
admired, but those whom we most love ; and it was to
have commenced, as the volumes do, with Shenstone's
"Schoolmistress," and ended with Gray's ** Elegy."
214 LEIGH HUNT.
It was to have contained indeed little which the
volumes do not comprise, though not intended to be
half so big, and it was to have proceeded on the same
plan of beginning with childhood and ending with the
church-yard. We did not intend to omit the greatest
authors on account of their being the greatest, but .
because they moved the feelings too strongly. What we
desired was not an excitement, but a balm. Readers,
who have led stirring lives, have such men as Shak-
speare with them always, in their very struggles and
sufferings, and in the tragic spectacles of the world.
Great crowds and great passions are Shakspeares ; and
we, for one (and such we take to be the case with many
readers), are sometimes as willing to retire from their
"infinite agitation of wit," as from strifes less exalted;
and retreat into the placider corners of genius more
humble. It is out of no disrespect to their greatness;
neither, we may be allowed to say, is it from any fear
of being unable to sustain it ; for we have seen perhaps
as many appalling faces of things in our time as they
have, and we are always ready to confront more if
duty demand it. But we do not choose to be always
suffering over again in books what we have suffered in
the world. We prefer, when in a state of repose, to
renew what we have enjoyed — to possess wholly what
we enjoy still — to discern in the least and gentlest
things the greatest and sweetest intentions of Nature —
and to cultivate those soothing, serene, and affectionate
feelings, which leave us in peace with all the world,
and in good hope of the world to come. The very
greatest genius, after all, is not the greatest thing in
the world, any more than the greatest city in the world
LEIGH HUNT. 215
is the country or the sky. It is a concentration of
some of its greatest powers, but it is not the greatest
diffusion of its might. It is not the habit of its success,
the stability of its sereneness. And this is what readers
like ourselves desire to feel and know. The greatest
use of genius is but to subserve to that end ; to further
the means of enjoying it, and to freshen and keep it
pure ; as the winds and thunders, which come rarely, are
purifiers of the sweet fields, which are abiding. . . .
We have imagined a book-loving man, or man able
to refresh himself with books, at every successive
period of his life ; — the child at his primer, the sanguine
boy, the youth entering the world, the man in the
thick of it, the man of alternate business and repose,
the retired man calmly considering his birth and his
death ; and in this one human being we include, of
course, the whole race and both sexes, mothers, wives,
and daughters, and all which they do to animate and
sweeten existence. Thus our invisible, or rather many-
bodied hero (who is the reader himself), is in the first
instance a baby; then a child under the ** School-
mistress " of Shenstone ; then the schoolboy with Gray
and Walpole, reading poetry and romance ; then '' Gil
Bias " entering the world ; then the sympathiser with
the ** John Buncles " who enjoy it, and the "Travellers"
who fill it with enterprise; then the matured man
beginning to talk of disappointments, and standing in
need of admonition "Against Inconsistency in his
Expectations " [the title of an admirable Essay by Mrs.
Barbauld] ; then the reassured man comforted by his
honesty and his just hopes, and refreshing himself with
his Club or his country-lodging, his pictures, or his
2i6 LEIGH HUNT.
theatre ; then the retiring, or retired, or finally old
man, looking back with tenderness on his enjoyments,
with regret for his errors, with comfort in his virtues,
and with a charity for all men, which gives him a right
to the comfort ; loving all the good things he ever
loved, particularly the books which have been his
companions and the childhood which he meets again
in the fields ; and neither wishing nor fearing to be
gathered into that kindly bosom of Nature, which
covers the fields with flowers, and is encircled with
the heavens. . . .
A universalist, in one high bibliographical respect,
may be said to be the only true reader ; for he is the
only reader on whom no writing is lost. Too many
people approve no books but such as are representatives
of some opinion or passion of their own. They read,
not to have human nature reflected on them, and so be
taught to know and to love everything, but to be
reflected themselves as in a pocket mirror, and so inter-
change admiring looks with their own narrow cast of
countenance. The universalist alone puts up with
difference of opinion, by reason of his own very
difference ; because his difference is a right claimed by
him in the spirit of universal allowance, and not a
privilege arrogated by conceit. He loves poetry and
prose, fiction and matter of fact, seriousness and mirth,
because he is a thorough human being, and contains
portions of all the faculties to which they appeal. A
man who can be nothing but serious, or nothing but
merry, is but half a man. The lachrymal or the risible
organs are wanting in him. He has no business to
have eyes or muscles like other men. The universalist
LEIGH HUNT. 217
alone can put up with him, by reason of the very
sympathy of his antipathy. He understands the defect
enough to pity, while he dislikes it. The universalist
is the only reader who can make something out of
books for which he has no predilection. He sees
differences in them to sharpen his reasoning ; sciences
which impress on him a sense of his ignorance ; nay,
languages which, if they can do nothing else, amuse
his eye and set him thinking of other countries. . . .
Our compilation, therefore, though desirous to please
all who are willing to be pleased, is ambitious to satisfy
this sort of person most of all. It is of his childhood
we were mostly thinking when we extracted the
"Schoolmistress." He will thoroughly understand
the wisdom lurking beneath the playfulness of its
author. He will know how wholesome as well as
amusing it is to become acquainted with books like
**Gil Bias" and "Joseph Andrews." -^^ will derive
agreeable terror from " Sir Bertram" and the "Haunted
Chamber;" will assent with delighted reason to every
sentence in "Mrs. Barbauld's Essay ;" will feel himself
wandering into solitudes with "Gray;" shake honest
hands with "Sir Roger de Coverley;" be ready to
embrace "Parson Adams," and to chuck "Pounce"
out of window, instead of the hat ; will travel with
"Marco Polo" and "Mungo Park;" stay at home
with "Thomson;" retire with "Cowley;" be in-
dustrious with "Hutton;" sympathizing with "Gay
and Mrs. Inchbald ; " laughing with (and at) "Buncle ; "
melancholy, and forlorn, and self-restored, with the
shipwrecked mariner of "De Foe." There are "Robin-
son Crusoes " in the moral as well as physical world,
2i8 LEIGH HUNT.
and even a universalist may be one of them ; — men,
cast on desert islands of thought and speculation \
without companionship ; without worldly resources ;
forced to arm and clothe themselves out of the remains
of shipwrecked hopes, and to make a home for their
solitary hearts in the nooks and corners of imagination
and reading. It is not the worse lot in the world.
Turned to account for others, and embraced with
patient cheerfulness, it may, with few exceptions, even
be one of the best. We hope our volume may light
into the hands of such men. Every extract which is
made in it, has something of a like second-purpose,
beyond what appears on its face. There is amuse-
ment for those who require nothing more, and instruc-
tion in the shape of amusement for those who choose
to find it. . . .
Our book may have little novelty in the least sense
of the word ; but it has the best in the greatest sense ;
that is to say, never-dying novelty ; — antiquity hung
with ivy-blossoms and rose-buds ; old friends with the
ever-new faces of wit, thought, and affection. Time
has proved the genius with which it is filled, *'Age
cannot wither it," nor "custom stale its variety." We
ourselves have read, and shall continue to read it to
our dying day; and we should not say thus much,
especially on such an occasion, if we did not know, that
hundreds and thousands would do the same, whether
they read it in this collection or not. — Introduction to
A Book for a Corner, Selections in Prose and Verse
from Authors the best suited to that mode of enjoyment^
with Comments on eachy and General Introduction.
1849.
LEIGH HUNT. ziq
I must therefore end life as I began it, in what
is perhaps my only true vocation, that of a love of
nature and books ; complaining of nothing, — grate-
ful, if others will not complain of me,— a little proud
perhaps (nature allows such balm to human weakness)
of having been found not unworthy of doing that for
the Good Cause by my sufferings, which I can no longer
pretend to do by my pen, — and possessed of one golden
secret, tried in the fire, which I still hope to recom-
mend in future writings ; namely, the art of finding as
many things to love as possible in our path through
life, let us otherwise try to reform it as we may, — Fare-
well Address in the Monthly Repository, 1838.
I am not aware that I have a single enemy, and I
accept the fortunes, good and bad, which have occurred
to me, with the same disposition to believe them the
best that could have happened, whether for the correc-
tion of what was wrong in me, or for the improvement
of what was right. I have never lost cheerfulness of
mind or opinion. What evils there are, I find to be,
for the most part, relieved with many consolations :
some I find to be necessary to the requisite amount of
good ; and every one of them I find come to a termi-
nation, for either they are cured and live, or are killed and
die ; and in the latter case I see no evidence to prove that
a little finger of them aches any more. — Autobiography.
[After giving some account of his religious views
and convictions, he thus concludes his " Auto-
biography"]:*
* When Hunt's ** Autobiography " appeared in 1850, Carlyle
read it with the deepest interest, and wrote to the author ex-
220 LEIGH HUNT.
Such are the doctrines, and such only, accompanied
by expositions of the beauties and wonders of God's great
pressing his admiration of the work. A letter more overflowing
with loving-kindness, and hearty recognition and sympathy, is
not to be found in the whole range of literary correspondence.
A verbatim reprint of this letter has never before appeared.
The following is a faithful reproduction of the original, of which
the compiler of this volume is the fortunate possessor : —
" Dear Hunt,
"I have just finished your 'Autobiography,* which has been
most pleasantly occupying all my leisure these three days ; and
you must permit me to write you a word upon it, out of the
fulness of the heart, while the impulse is still fresh, to thank you.
This good Book, in every sense one of the best I have read this
long while, has awakened many old thoughts, which never were
extinct, or even properly asleep^ but which (like so much else)
have had to fall silent amid the tempests of an evil time, —
Heaven mend it ! A word from me, once more, I know, will
not be unwelcome, while the world is talking of you.
** Well, I call this an excellently good Book ; by far the best
of the autobiographic kind I remember to have read in the
English language ; and indeed, except it be Boswell's of Johnson,
I do not know where we have such a Picture drawn of a human
Life, as in these three volumes. A pious, ingenious, altogether
human and worthy Book; imaging with graceful honesty and
free felicity, many interesting objects and persons on your life-
path, — and imaging throughout, what is best of all, a gifted,
gentle, patient, and valiant human soul, as it buffets its way thro*
the billows of the time, and will not drown, tho* often in danger ;
cannot be drowned, but conquers, and leaves a track of radiance
behind it : that, I think, comes out more clearly to me than in
any other of your Books ; and that I can venture to assure you
is the best of all results to realise in a Book or written record.
In fact this Book has been like an exercise of devotion to me :
I have not assisted at any sermon, liturgy or litany, this long
while, that has had so religious an effect on me. Thanks in the
name of all men ! And believe along with me that this Book
LEIGH HUNT. 221
book of the universe, which will be preached in the
temples of the earth, including those of our beloved
country, England, its beautiful old ivied turrets and their
green neighbourhood, then, for the first time, thoroughly
uncontradicted and heavenly ; with not a sound in them
more terrible than the stormy yet sweet organ, analogous
to the beneficent winds and tempests; and no thought of
here or hereafter, that can disturb the quiet aspect of
the graves, or the welcome of the new-born darling, and
that such a consummation may come slowly but surely,
without intermission in itsadvance, and without an injury
to a living soul, will be the last prayer, as it must needs-
be among the latest words of the author of this book .
[To some readers of these pages it may appear that
the passages from Leigh Hunt's writings occupy a dis-
proportionate space, when compared with the selections
given from other authors. In explanation, the compiler
would remark that, of all the authors quoted, this one
affords the greatest abundance, variety, and appropriate-
ness of thought on the subject-matter of the present
volume, viz., the consolations, companionship, and
pleasures of Books. On this special topic, and others
will be welcome to other generations as well as to ours — ^and long
may you live to write more Books for us ; and may the evening
sun be softer on you (and on me) than the noon sometimes was !
"Adieu, dear Hunt, (you must let me use this familiarity, for
I am an old fellow too now as well as you). I have often thought
of coming up to see you once more ; and perhaps I shall one of
these days (tho' horribly sick and lonely, and beset with spectral
lions, go whitherward I may); but whether I do or not, believe
for ever in my regard. And so God bless you.
•'Yours heartily,
"T. Carlyle.'*
222 LEIGH HUNT,
having close affinity to it, no other author has left behind
him so many beautiful thoughts ; nor can a more interest-
ing example be adduced of a long and anxious life finding
its best solace in the comfort of Books. Leigh Hunt
is one of the most striking exemplars of a genuine
Book-Lover — one to whom Books were a world of real,
exhaustless delights. With catholic tastes, and a very
wide range of sympathies, he was tolerant of every
variety and form of thought and opinion, and hospitably
entertained, without stint or limit, every intellectual
guest who came in the shape of a book. His refined
critical power, wide culture, and subtle perception of
beauty made him a matchless interpreter of our great
poets and dramatists — Chaucer, Spenser, Marlow,
Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher,
Middleton, Webster, Milton, Marvel, Dryden, Pope,
Coleridge, Keats, Shelley, and others — as exemplified in
his "Imagination and Fancy, " and ' ' Wit and Humour;" *
— in which the essayist and critic shows himself in-
trinsically competent to his theme, and "makes the
reader feel," as has been happily remarked, " that he
is taking a most delicious tour through every species of
poetical beauty with one deeply imbued with every
* The full titles of these two works are : —
"Imagination and Fancy; or Selections from the English
Poets, illustrative of those first requisites of their Art; with
markings of the best passages, critical notices of the writers, and
an essay in answer to the question, * What is Poetry?'" 1845.
" Wit and Humour : selected from the English Poets ; with an
illustrative essay and critical comments." 1846.
LEIGH HUNT. 223
point of view of the glorious scenery he has himself so
long dwelt amongst." He had also a keen relish for
the fine things that lie hidden in the pages of com-
paratively unknown and half-forgotten authors —
bringing to light quaint beauties and lurking flavours
unsuspected by the reader, as they were probably
undesigned by the writer. The excellent sense and
sanity of his mind, giving balance to his critical
faculties, his warm and generous sympathies, and that
goodness of heart which is an essential requisite of a
good critic, constitute him, without dispute, one of the
most genial and discriminating of literary guides.
** It is not every consummate man of letters of
whom it can be unhesitatingly affirmed that he
was true, brave, just, and pious." We cannot take
farewell of Hunt atid his writings in words more
appropriate than those used by his eldest son at the
conclusion of the introduction to his father's "Auto-
biography " : "To promote the happiness of his kind,
to minister to the more educated appreciation of order
and beauty, to open more widely the door of the library,
and more widely the window of the library looking out
upon nature — these were the purposes that guided his
studies, and animated his labours to the very last. "]*
* The best writers and finest critics of his time — Lamb, Keats,
Shelley, Hazlitt, Forster, Talfourd, Carlyle, Bulwer, Macaulay.
Dickens, Thackeray, Jerrold, Charles Cowden Clarke, Lord
Houghton, and many others — have borne cordial testimony to the
fine genius of this essayist, who remained to the last " true as
steel " to the best hopes of human nature.
224 LOVE PEACOCK— DE QUINCE V.
Love Peacock. 1785 — 1866.
[Dr. Folliott loquitur\ There is nothing more fit
to be looked at than the outside of a book. It is, as I
may say from repeated experience, a pure and unmixed
pleasure to have a goodly volume lying before you, and
to know that you may open it if you please, and need
not open it unless you please. It is a resource against
ennuii if ennui should come upon you. To have the
resource and not to feel the ennui^ to enjoy your bottle
in the present, and your book in the indefinite future, is
a delightful condition of human existence. There is
no place, in which a man can move or sit, in which
the outside of a book can be otherwise than an innocent
and becoming spectacle. — Crotchet Castle^ Chap, vii.,
** The Sleeping Venus. ''^
Thomas de Quincey. 1786 — 1859.
A great scholar, in the highest sense of the term, is
not one who depends simply on an infinite memory,
but also on an infinite and electrical power of combi-
nation ; bringing together from the four winds, like
the Angel of the Resurrection, what else were dust
from dead men's bones, into the unity of breathing
life.
And of this let every one be assured — that he owes
to the impassioned books which he has read, many a
thousand more of emotions than he can consciously
trace back to them. Dim by their origination, these
emotions yet arise in him, and mould him through life
like the forgotten incidents of childhood.
DE QUINCE V. 225
Books teach by one machinery, conversation by
another ; and if these resources were trained into-
correspondence to their own separate ideals, they might
become reciprocally the complements of each other.
At this hour, five hundred years since their creation,,
the tales of Chaucer, never equalled on this earth for
their tenderness, and for life of picturesqueness, are
read familiarly by many in the charming language of
their natal day, and by others in the modernisations
of Dryden, of Pope, and Wordsworth. At this hour,
one thousand eight hundred years since their creation,
the Pagan tales of Ovid, never equalled on this earth
for the gaiety of their movement and the capricious
graces of their narrative, are read by all Christendom.
This man's people and their monuments are dust ; but
he is alive : he has survived them, as he told us that
he had it in his commission to do, by a thousand years ;
" and shall a thousand more." — Essay on Pope.
Lord Brougham. 1778 — 1868.
There is something positively agreeable to all men,,
to all, at least, whose nature is not most grovelling
and base, in gaining knowledge for its own sake.
. . . This kind of gratification is of a pure and
disinterested nature, and has no reference to any of
the common purposes of life ; yet it is a pleasure — an
enjoyment. You are nothing the richer for it ; you do
not gratify your palate, or any other bodily appetite;
and yet it is so pleasing that you would give something
out of your pocket to obtain it, and would forego some
bodily enjoyment for its sake.
P
226 LORD BROUGHAM— WHATELY.
The pleasure derived from science is exactly of the
like nature, or rather it is the very same. For what
has been just spoken of is in fact science, which, in its
most comprehensive sense, only means knowledge^ and
in its ordinary sense means knowledge redticed to a
system; that is, arranged in a regular order, so as to
be conveniently taught, easily remembered, and readily
applied.
There is also a pleasure in seeing the uses to which
knowledge may be applied, wholly independent of
the share we ourselves may have in those practical
benefits. . . . The mere gratification of curiosity ;
the knowing more to-day than we knew yesterday;
the understanding clearly what before seemed obscure
and puzzling; the contemplation of general truths,
and the comparing together of different things, — is an
agreeable occupation of the mind; and, beside the
present enjoyment, elevates the faculties above low
pursuits, purifies and refines the passions, and helps
our reason to assuage their violence. — Practical Obser-
vations on the Education of the People,
Richard Whately. 1787 — 1863.
If, in reading books, a man does not choose wisely,
at any rate he has the chance offered to him of doing
so. After all, it is the will of Providence that man
should be exposed to the temptations of hearing truth
and falsehood ; of seeing a good and a bad example.
Wherever we go in life, even in the darkest alleys of
literature, a good and an evil example will always be
RICHARD WHATELY. 227
put before us ; and because this world is not heaven, •
we must be left to make our choice between good and
evil ; but the more a person's views are enlarged, and
the wider the choice that is offered to him, the better
hope there is that he may take the good and leave the
evil. All that we can do is to give him light — light in
every possible direction ; and if a man chooses to make
a bad use of his eyes and ears, and of his other faculties,
all that we can say is, we have done our best ; we cannot
make the world heaven ; but if we put it into the power
of men to cultivate their minds, and get a knowledge
of good sense, that is precisely the system which the
Almighty Himself has directed us to pursue, and which
is pursued by Himself in the government of His
creation. We must guide ourselves with His help,
according to our own responsibilities, and the faculties
He has endowed us with. We may say, as the inspired
prophet did in the name of his Heavenly Master to
his people, ''Behold, I set before you this day good
and evil; now, therefore, choose good." — Speech of
Archbishop Whately at the Manchester Athemeufn,
October, 1846.
He who not only understands fully what he is
reading, but is earnestly occupying his mind with the
matter of it, will be likely to read as if he understood
it, and thus to make others understand it ; and in like
manner, with a view to the impressiveness of the
delivery, he who not only feels it, but is exclusively
absorbed with that feeling, will be likely to read as if
he felt it, and to communicate the impression to his
hearers. But this cannot be the case if he is occupied
228 BARRY CORNWALL.
with the thought of what their opinion will be of this
reading, and how his voice ought to be regulated ; if,
in short, he is thinking of himself, and, of course, in
the same degree abstracting his attention from that
which ought to occupy it exclusively. It is not, indeed,
desirable that in reading the Bible, for example, or
anything that is not intended to appear as his own
composition, he should deliver what are avowedly
another's sentiments in the same style as if they were
such as arose in his own mind ; but it is desirable that
he should deliver them as if he were reporting another's
sentiments which were both fully understood and felt
in all their force by the reporter ; and the only way to
do this effectually — with such modulation of voice and
gesture as are suitable to each word and passage — is to
fix his mind earnestly on the meaning, and leave
nature and habit to suggest the utterance.
Bryan Waller Procter (Barry
Cornwall). 1787^1874.
All round the room my silent servants wait, —
My friends in every season, bright and dim
Angels and seraphim
Come down and murmur to me, sweet and low,
And spirits of the skies all come and go
Early and late ;
From the old world's divine and distant date,
From the sublimer few,
Down to the poet who but yester-eve
Sang sweet and made us grieve.
BARRY CORNWALL-LORD BRYON. 229
All come, assembling here in order due.
And here I dwell with Poesy, my mate,
With Erato and all her vernal sighs.
Great Clio with her victories elate,
Or pale Urania's deep and starry eyes.
Oh friends, whom chance and change can never
harm
"Whom Death the tyrant cannot doom to die
Within whose folding soft eternal charm
I love to lie,
And meditate upon your verse that flows.
And fertilizes wheresoe'er it goes.
Whether ....
Bryan Waller Procter (Barty Cornwall) :
An Autobiographical Fragment and Bio-
graphical Notes, with Personal Sketches
of Contemporaries, Unpublished Lyrics,
and Letters of Literary Friends. 1877.
Lord Byron. 1788 — 1824.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think ;
'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man uses
Instead of speech, may form a lasting link
Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces
Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this
Survives himself, his tomb, and all that's his.
Don Juan, Catito iii., s. 88.
s»30 DR. ARNOTT.
Dr. Arnott. 1788 — 1824.
In remote times the inhabitants of the earth were
divided into small states or societies, often at enmity
among themselves, and whose thoughts and interests
were confined much within their own narrow territories
and rude habits. In succeeding ages men found them-
selves belonging to larger communities, as when the
English heptarchy became united, or more lately when
England, Scotland, and Ireland have become one ;
but still distant kingdoms and quarters of the world
were of no interest to them, and often were totally
unknown. Now, however, a man feels that he is a
member of one vast more civilized society which covers
the face of the earth, and no part of the earth is in-
different to him. In England, for instance, a man of
small fortune, nay, even a journeyman mechanic who
is honest, sober, and intelligent, may cast his regards
around him, and say, with truth and exultation, **I
am lodged in a house that affords me conveniences and
comforts which some centuries ago even a king could
not command. Ships are crossing the seas in every
direction to bring what is useful to me from all parts
of the earth ; in China men are gathering the tea leaf
for me, in the West India Islands and elsewhere they
are preparing my sugar and my coffee; in America
they are cultivating cotton for me ; elsewhere they are
shearing the sheep to give me abundance of warm
clothing ; at home powerful steam-engines are spinning
and weaving for me and making cutlery, and pumping
the mines that minerals useful to me may be procured.
My patrimony was small, yet I have railway-trains
DR. ARNOTT. 231
running day and night on all the roads to carry my
correspondence and to bring the coal for my winter
fire ; nay, I have protecting fleets and armies around
my happy country, to render secure my enjoyments
and repose. Then T. have editors and printers, who
daily send me an account of what is going on throughout
the world, among these people who serve me. And
in a corner of my house I have books — the miracle of
all my possessions, more wonderful than the wishing-
cap of the Arabian tales, for they transport me instantly,
not only to all places, but to all times. By my books
I can conjure up before me to a momentary existence
many of the great and good men of past ages, and for
my individual satisfaction they seem to act again the
most renowned of their achievements ; the orators
declaim for me, the historians recite, the poets sing."
This picture is not overcharged, and might be much
extended ; such being the goodness and providence
which devised this world, that each individual of the
civilized millions that cover it, if his conduct be prudent,
may have nearly the same happiness as if he were the
single lord of all. — The Elements of Physics,
Arthur Schopenhauer. 1788 — 1860.
It is the case with literature as with life ; wherever
we turn we come upon the incorrigible mob of human-
kind, whose name is Legion, swarming everywhere,
damaging everything, as flies in summer. Hence the
multiplicity of bad books, those exuberant weeds of
literature which choke the true corn. Such books rob
232 ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.
the public of time, money, and attention, which ought
properly to belong to good literature and noble aims,
and they are written with a view merely to make money
or occupation. They are therefore not merely useless,
but injurious. Nine-tenths of our current literature has
no other end but to inveigle a thaler or two out of the
public pocket, for which purpose author, publisher,
and printer are leagued together. A more pernicious,
subtler, and bolder piece of trickery is that by which
penny-a-liners and scribblers succeed in destroying
good taste and real culture. . . . Hence, the
paramount importance of acquiring the art not to
read; in other words, of not reading such .books as
occupy the public mind, or even those which make a
noise in the world, and reach several editions in their
first and last year of existence. We should recollect
that he who writes for fools finds an enormous audi-
ence, and we should devote the ever scant leisure of
our circumscribed existence to the master-spirits of all
ages and nations, those who tower over humanity, and
whom the voice of Fame proclaims : only such writers
cultivate and instruct us. Of bad books we can never
read too little: of the good never too much. The
bad are intellectual poison and undermine the under-
standing. Because people insist on reading not the best
books written for all time, but the newest contem-
porary literature, writers of the day remain in the
narrow circle of the same perpetually revolving ideas,
and the age continues to wallow in its own mire. . .
Mere acquired knowledge belongs to us only like a
wooden leg or a wax nose. Knowledge attained by
means of thinking resembles our natural limbs, and is
ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER. 233
the only kind that really belongs to us. Hence the
difference between the thinker and the pedant. The
intellectual possession of the independent thinker is
like a beautiful picture which stands before us, a living
thing with fitting light and shadow, sustained tones,
perfect harmony of colour. That of the merely
learned man may be compared to a palette covered
with bright colours, perhaps even arranged with
some system, but wanting in harmony, coherence
and meaning. . . .
We find in the greater number of works, leaving out
the very bad, that their authors have thought, not
seen — written from reflection, not intuition. And
this is why books are so uniformly mediocre and
wearisome. For what an author has thought, the
reader can think for himself; but when his thought is
based on intuition, it is as if he takes us into a land we
have not ourselves visited. All is fresh and new. . , .
We discover the quality of a writer's thinking powers
after reading a few pages. Before learning what he
thinks, we see how he thinks — namely, the texture of
his thoughts ; and this remains the same, no matter
the subject in hand. The style is the stamp of
individual intellect, as language is the stamp of race.
We throw away a book when we find ourselves in a
darker mental region than the one we have just
quitted. Only those writers profit us whose under-
standing is quicker, more lucid than our own, by
whose brain we indeed think for a time, who quicken
our thoughts, and lead us whither alone we could not
find our way. — Parerga und Paralipoi7iena,
234 ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.
Not to my contemporaries, not to my countrymen,
no ! to humanity I confide this work, trusting that it
will not prove valueless, though its real value, as is the
case with much that is good, may be discovered in
distant times only. — Welt als Wille und Vo7'stellung.
[An account of the Life and Philosophy of this re-
markable thinker, written by Helen Zimmern, was
published in 1876. The reader may also consult the
following articles: — "The Philosophy of Schopen-
hauer, "in Westminster Review, April, 1853, understood
to be by John Oxenford ; " The Pessimist's View of
Life," The Cornhill Magazine, 1876; "Arthur Scho-
penhauer," by Dr. Francis Hueffer, in Fortnightly
Review, Dec, 1876; "The Literary Aspects of
Schopenhauer's Work," by the same author, in The
New Quarterly Magazine, July, 1877 ; "Schopenhauer
on Men, Books, and Music," by Miss Betham Edwards,
in Eraser's Magazine, June, 1879. Several volumes
relating to Schopenhauer and his Philosophy have been
recently published in Paris : — " Pensees, Maximes, et
Aphorismes;" "Aphorismes sur La Sagesse dans La
Vie;" "La Philosophic de Schopenhauer, par Th.
Ribot."
" The World as Will and Idea " (Welt als Wille und
Vorstellung), translated by R. B. Haldane, M.A., and
John Kemp, M.A. Vol. i. (to be completed in three
volumes) was published in 1883. "When this transla-
tion is completed," says the Times, "the English reader
will be in a position to make acquaintance with one of
the most striking and impressive works of the century."]
charles knight. 235
Charles Knight. 1791 — 1873.
Books are, no doubt, the readiest roads to knowledge,
but there may be a great deal of knowledge, and a great
deal of taste, without any very extensive acquaintance
with books. If I enter the premises of a working-man,
and find his garden deformed with weeds — his once
latticed porch broken and unseemly — his walls dis-
coloured — his hearth dirty — I know that there is little
self-respect in the master of that hovel, and that he
flies from his comfortless home to the nightly gratifi-
cation which the ale-house supplies. But show me the
trim crocus in the spring, or the gorgeous dahlia in the
autumn, flourishing in his neat enclosure — let me see
the vine or the monthly rose covering his cottage-walls
in regulated luxuriance — let me find within, the neatly-
sanded floor, the well-polished furniture, a few books,
and a print or two over his chimney, and I am satisfied
that -the occupiers of that cottage have a principle at
work within them which will do much to keep them
from misery and degradation. They have found out
unexpensive employments for their leisure ; they have
the key to the same class of enjoyments which
constitute a large portion of the happiness of the
best-informed ; they have secured a share of the
common inheritance of intellectual gratification. —
Speech delivered to the Members of the Windsor and
Et07i Public Library^ Oct., i^SS-
There are some, no doubt, amongst those whom
I have the honour of addressing, who have been
familiar long ago with the poetry and the philosophy
536 CHARLES KNIGHT. ■
that has sprung up, and flourished in their own soil,
and who, in advancing years, derive new pleasures
from their recollection. Those things which were the
delight of our jocund days, steal in upon the sober
consolations of our waning time — bright images, tender
echoes. Memory dwells upon the scenes in which
childhood was nourished, and youth walked fearlessly;
but it especially dwells upon the enduring productions
of mind which were treasured up when our fancies
were vivid, and our hopes ardent. Is not this a
reason, if any were needed, for asking the young man
to familiarize himself with the highest and the purest
things that belong to the imagination, to store up the
soundest things that are to be imparted by history and
philosophy ; to seek the companionship, in a word,
of the best books. ... It has been said that
mediocrity will be the result of the vast extension
of the reading public. I venture to think that the
mediocrity of a century ago was the result of the
confined space in which the then reading public
moved. — Speech at the Opening of the Sheffield
Athenceutn, May 5, 1847.
Lord Mahon (Philip Henry Stanhope).
1791— 1875.
Believe me, ladies and gentlemen, the pleasures of
reading deserve most careful cultivation. Other
objects which we have in this world, other pleasures
which we seek to pursue, depend materially on other
LORD MAHON.
«3T
circumstances, on the opinion or caprice of others, on
the flourishing or depressed state of an interest or
a profession, on connections, on friends, on oppor-
tunities, on the prevalence of one party or the other
in the State. Thus, then, it happens, that without
any fault of ours, with regard to objects dear to us, we'
may be constantly doomed to disappointment. In
the pleasure of reading, on the other hand, see how
much is at all times within your own power ; how
little you depend upon any one but yourselves .
see how little the man who can rely on the pleasures
of reading is dependent on the caprice or the will of
his fellow-men. See how much there is within his
own power and control ; — ^how by reading, if his
circumstances have been thwarted by any of the
fortuitous events to which I have just referred, how
often it is in his power, by these very studies, to better
his condition ; or, failing in that, how many hours he
has in which to obtain oblivion from it, when com-
muning with the great and good of other days. Surely,
then, all those who feel — and who does not?— the
variety and the vicissitudes of human life, ought, on
that very account, if they be wise, to cultivate in
themselves, and also to promote in others, an
enlightened taste for reading. Of the pleasures of
reading I will say, that there is no man so high as to
be enabled to dispense with them ; and no man so
humble who should be compelled to forego them.
Rely upon it, that in the highest fortune and the
highest station, hours of lassitude and weariness will
intrude, unless they be cheered by intellectual occu-
pation. Rely on it, also, that there is no life so
238 SIR JOHN HERSCHEL.
toilsome, so devoted to the cares of this world, and to
the necessity of providing the daily bread, but what it
will aiford intervals (if they be only sought out) in
which intellectual pleasures may be cultivated and
oblivion of other cares enjoyed. Depend upon it that
these are pleasures, which he who condemns, will find
himself a miserable loser in the end. — Address to the
members of the Manchester Athenceum^ Novetuber 1 1,
1848.
Sir John Herschel. 1792 — 1871.
There is a want too much lost sight of in our estimate
of the privations of the humbler classes, though it is
one of the most incessantly craving of all our wants,
and is actually the impelling power which, in the vast
inajority of cases, urges men into vice and crime. It
is the want of amusement. . , . Now I would
ask, what provision do we find for the cheap and
innocent and daily amusements of the mass of the
labouring population of this country? What sort of
resources have they to call up the cheerfulness of their
spirits, and chase away the cloud from their brow after
the fatigue of a day's hard work, or the stupefying
monotony of some sedentary occupation ? Why, really
very little— I hardly like to assume the appearance of
a wish to rip up grievances by saying how little. The
pleasant field walk and the village green are becoming
rarer and rarer every year. . . . The beer-shop and
the public-house, it is true, are always open, and always
full, but it is not by those institutions that the cause of
moral and intellectual culture is advanced. The truth
SIR JOHN HERSCHEL. 239
is, that under the pressure of a continually condensing
population, the habits of the city have crept into the
village — the demands of agriculture have become
sterner and more imperious, and while hardly a foot
of ground is left uncultivated, and unappropriated,
there is positively not space left for many of the
cheerful amusements of rural life. . . .
I hold it, therefore, to be a matter of very great
consequence, independent of the kindness of the
thing — that those who are at their ease in this world
should look about and be at some pains to furnish
available means of harmless gratification to the in-
dustrious and well-disposed classes, who are worse
provided for than themselves in every respect, but
who, on that very account, are prepared to prize more
highly every accession of true enjoyment, and who
really want it more. To do so is to hold out a bonus
for the withdrawal of a man from mischief in his idle
hours — it is to break that strong tie which binds many
a one to evil associates and brutal habits — the want of
something better to amuse him, — by actually making
his abstinence become its own reward.
Now, of all the amusements which can possibly be
imagined for a hard-working man, after his daily toil,
or in its intervals, there is nothing like reading an
entertaining book, supposing him to have a taste for
it, and supposing him to have the book to read. It
calls for no bodily exertion, of which he has had
enough or too much. It relieves his home of its dull-
ness and sameness, which, in nine cases out of ten, is
what drives him out to the ale-house, to his own ruin
and his family's. It transports him into a livelier, and
240 SIR JOHN HERSCHEL.
gayer, and more diversified and interesting scene, and
while he enjoys himself there he may forget the evils
of the present moment, fully as much as if he were
ever so drunk, with the great advantage of finding
himself the next day with his money in his pocket, or
at least laid out in real necessaries and comforts for
himself and his family, — and without a headache. Nay,
it accompanies him to his next day's work, and if the
book he has been reading be anything above the very
idlest and lightest, gives him something to think of
besides the mere mechanical drudgery of his every day
occupation, — something he can enjoy while absent^
and look forward with pleasure to return to.
But supposing him to have been fortunate in the
choice of his book, and to have alighted upon one
really good and of a good class. What a source of
domestic enjoyment is laid open ! What a bond of
family union ! He may read it aloud, or make his wife
read it, or his eldest boy or girl, or pass it round from
hand to hand. All have the benefit of it — all contribute
to the gratification of the rest, and a feeling of common
interest and pleasure is excited. Nothing unites people
like companionship in intellectual enjoyment. It does
more, it gives them mutual respect, and to each
among them self-respect — that corner-stone of all
virtue. . . ,
I recollect an anecdote told me by a late highly-
respected inhabitant of Windsor as a fact which he
could personally testify, having occurred in a village
where he resided several years, and where he actually
was at the time it took place. The blacksmith of the
village had got hold of Richardson's novel of "Pamela,
SIR JOHN HERSCHEL. 241
or Virtue Rewarded," and used to read it aloud in the
long summer evenings, seated on his anvil, and never
failed to have a large and attentive audience. It is a
pretty long-winded book — but their patience was fully
a match for the author's prolixity, and they fairly
listened to it all. At length, when the happy turn of
fortune arrived, which brings the hero and heroine
together, and sets them living long and happily
according to the most approved rules — the congregation
were so delighted as to raise a great shout, and procuring
the church keys, actually set the parish bells ringing.
Now let any one say whether it is easy to estimate the
amount of good done in this simple case. Not to speak
of the number of hours agreeably and innocently spent
— not to speak of the good-fellowship and harmony
promoted — here was a whole rustic population fairly
won over to the side of good — charmed — and night
after night spell -bound within that magic circle which
genius can trace so effectually, and compelled to bow
before that image of virtue and purity which (though at
a great expense of words) no one knew better how to
body forth with a thousand life-like touches than the
author of that work.
If I were to pray for a taste which should stand me
in stead under every variety of circumstances, and be a
source of happiness and cheerfulness to me through
life, and a shield against its ills, however things might
go amiss, and the world frown upon me, it would be a
taste for reading. I speak of it of course only as a
worldly advantage, and not in the slightest degree as
superseding or derogating from the higher office and
surer and stronger panoply of religious principles — but
Q
242 SIR JOHN HERSCHEL,
as a taste, an instrument and a mode of pleasurable
gratification. Give a man this taste, and the means of
gratifying it, and you can hardly fail of making a happy
man, unless, indeed, you put into his hands a most
perverse selection of books. You place him in contact
with the best society in every period of history — with
the wisest, the wittiest— with the tenderest, the bravest,
and the purest characters who have adorned humanity.
You make him a denizen of all nations — a cotemporary
of all ages. The world has been created for him. It
is hardly possible but the character should take a higher
and better tone from the constant habit of associating
in thought with a class of thinkers, to say the least of
it, above the avejrage of humanity. It is morally
impossible but that the manners should take a tinge of
good breeding and civilization from having constantly
before one's eyes the way in which the best-bred and
the best-informed men have talked and conducted
themselves in their intercourse with each other. There
is a gentle, but perfectly irresistible coercion in a habit
of reading well directed, over the whole tenor of a
man's character and conduct, which is not the less
effectual because it works insensibly, and because it is
really the last thing he dreams of. It cannot, in short,
be better summed up, than in the words of the Latin
** EmoUit mores, nee sinit esse feros."
It civilizes the conduct of men — and suffers them not
to remain barbarous.
The reason why I have dwelt so strongly upon the
point of amusement, is this— that it is really the only
handle, at least the only innocent one, by which we
SIR JOHN HERSCHEL. 243
can gain a fair grasp of the attention of those who have
grown up in a want of instruction, and in a careless-
ness of their own improvement. ... If then we
would generate a taste for reading, we must, as our
only chance of success, begin by pleasing. And what
is more, this must be not only the ostensible, but the
real object of the works we offer. The listlessness and
want of sympathy with which most of the works written
expressly for circulation among the labouring classes,
are read by them, if read at all, arises mainly from this
— that the story told, of the lively or friendly style
assumed, is manifestly and palpably only a cloak for
the instruction intended to be conveyed— a sort of
gilding of what they cannot well help fancying must
be a pill, when they see so much and such obvious
pains taken to wrap it up.
But try it on the other tack. Furnish them liberally
with books not written expressly for them as a class —
but published for their betters (as the phrase is), and
those the best of their kind. You will soon find that
they have the same feelings to be interested by the
varieties of fortune and incident — the same discernment
to perceive the shades of character — the same relish for
striking contrasts of good and evil in moral conduct, and
the same irresistible propensity to take the good side
— the same perception of the sublime and beautiful in
nature and art, when distinctly placed before them by
the touches of a master — and what is most of all to the
present purpose, the same desire having once been
pleased, to be pleased again. In short, you will find
that in the higher and better class of works of fiction
and imagination duly circulated, you possess all you
244 SIR JOHN HERSCHEL.
require to strike your grappling-iron into their souls,
and chain them, willing followers, to the car of
advancing civilization. . .
The novel, in its best form, I regard as one of the most
powerful engines of civilization ever invented . . .
the novel as it has been put forth by Cervantes and
Richardson, by Goldsmith, by Edgeworth, and Scott.
In the writings of these and such as these, we have a
stock of works in the highest degree enticing and
interesting, and of the utmost purity and morality —
full of admirable lessons of conduct, and calculated in
every respect to create and cherish that invaluable habit
of resorting to books for pleasure. Those who have
once experienced the enjoyment of such works will not
easily learn to abstain from reading, and will not
willingly descend to an inferior grade of intellectual
privilege— they have become prepared for reading of a
higher order— and may be expected to relish the finest
strains of poetry, and to draw with advantage from the
purest wells of history and philosophy. Nor let it be
thought ridiculous or over-strained to associate the idea
of poetry, history or philosophy, with the homely garb
and penurious fare of the peasant. . . . There is
always this advantage in aiming at the highest results —
that the failure is never total, and that though the end
accomplished may fall far short of that proposed, it
cannot but reach far in advance of the point from which
we start. There never was any great and permanent
good accomplished but by hoping for and aiming at
something still greater and better.
A taste for reading once created, there can be little
difficulty in directing it to its proper objects. . . .
JULIUS C. HARE. 245
But the first step necessary to be taken is to set
seriously about arousing the dormant appetite by
applying the stimulant ; to awaken the torpid intel-
lectual being from its state of inaction to a sense of its
existence and of its wants. The after-task, to gratify
them, and while gratifying to enlarge and improve
them, will prove easy in comparison. — An Address to
the Subscribers to the Windsor and' Eton Public Library
and Reading Room, 2^th January j 1833.
Julius C. Hare. 1795 — 1855.
For my own part, I have ever gained the most profit,
and the most pleasure also, from the books which have
made me think the most ; and when the difficulties
have once been overcome, there are the books which
have struck the deepest root, not only in my memory and
understanding, but likewise in my affections. . . .
Above all, in the present age of light reading, that is
of reading hastily, thoughtlessly, indiscriminately,
unfruitfully, when most books are forgotten as soon as
they are finished, and very many sooner, it is well if
something heavier is cast now and then into the midst
of the literary public. This may scare and repel the
weak, it will rouse and attract the stronger, and
increase their strength, by making them exert it. In
the sweat of the brow, is the mind as well as the body
to eat its bread. Nil sine magfio Miisa labore dedit
mortalibus. . . .
Desultory reading is indeed very mischievous,
by fostering habits of loose, discontinuous thought,
by turning the memory into a common sewer for
246 THOMAS CARLYLE.
rubbish of all thoughts to float through, and by
relaxing the power of attention, which of all our
faculties most needs care, and is most improved by it.
But a well-regulated course of study will no more
weaken the mind than hard exercise will weaken the
body ; nor will a strong understanding be weighed
down by its knowledge, any more than oak is by its
leaves, or than Samson was by his locks. He whose
sinews are drained by his hair, must already be a
weakling. — Guesses at 7 ruth.
Thomas Carlyle. 1795 — 1881.
Excepting one or two individuals, I have little
society that I value very highly ; but books are a
ready and effectual resource. May blessings be upon
the head of Cadmus, the Phoenicians, or whoever it
was that invented books ! I may not detain you with
the praises of an art that carries the voice of man to
the extremity of the earth and to the latest generations ;
but it is lawful for the solitary wight to express the
love he feels for those companions so steadfast and
unpresuming, that go or come without reluctance,
and that, when his fellow-animals are proud or stupid
or peevish, are ever ready to cheer the languor of his
soul, and gild the barrenness of life with the treasures
of bygone times. — Letter to Robert Mitchell (an inti-
mate college-friend), Kirkcaldy^ Feh'uary i6th^ 18 18
(in his 2'^rdyear).
Yet wherefore should we murmur ? A share of evil,
greater or less (the difference of shares is not worth
THOMAS CARLVLE. 247
mentioning), is the unalterable doom of mortals, and
the mind may be taught to abide in peace. Complaint
is generally despicable, always worse than unavailing.
It is an instructive thing, I think, to observe Lord
Byron, surrounded with the voluptuousness of an Italian
seraglio, chanting a mournful strain over the wretched-
ness of human life — and then to contemplate the poor
but lofty-minded Epictetus, the slave of a cruel master
too ; and to hear him lifting up his voice to far distant
generations in these unforgotten words. [Quotation
from the " Enchiridion " of Epictetus.] But a truce
to moralizing ; suffice it with our Stoic, to suffer and
abstain. — Letter to Thomas Murray (another intimate
friend )y Kirkcaldy, 2%th July, 1818.
Do not fear that I shall read you a homily on that
hackneyed theme — contentment. Simply I wish to
tell you that in days of darkness — for there are days
when my support (pride, or whatever it is) has enough
to do — I find it useful to remember that Cleanthes,
whose memorable words may last yet other two
thousand years, never murmured when he laboured by
night, as a street-porter, that he might hear the lectures
of Zeno by day ; and that Epictetus, the ill-used slave
of a cruel tyrant's as wretched minion, wrote that
** Enchiridion " which may fortify the soul of the latest
inhabitant of the earth. — Letter to Robert Mitchell,.
Kirkcaldy, 6th November, 18 18.
And herein lies the highest merit of a piece, and the
proper art of reading it. We have not read an author
till we have seen his object, whatever it may be, as he
248 THOMAS CARLYLE.
saw it. Is it a matter of reasoning, and has he reasoned
stupidly and falsely ? We should understand the cir-
cumstances which, to his mind, made it seem true, or
persuaded him to write it, knowing that it was not so.
In any other way we do him injustice if we judge him.
Is it of poetry ? His words are so many symbols, to
which we ourselves must furnish the interpretation ; or
they remain, as in all prosaic minds the words of poetry
ever do, a dead letter : indications they are, barren in
themselves, but, by following which, we also may reach,
or approach, that Hill of Vision where the poet stood,
beholding the glorious scene which it is the purport
of his poem to show others.
A reposing state, in which the Hill were brought
under us, not we obliged to mount it, might indeed
for the present be more convenient ; but, in the end,
it could not be equally satisfying. Continuance of
passive pleasure, it should never be forgotten, is here,
as under all conditions of mortal existence, an impossi-
bility. Everywhere in life, the true question is, not
what we gain, but what we do : so also in intellectual
matters, in conversation, in reading, which is more
precise and careful conversation, it is not what we
receive, but what we are made to give, that chiefly
contents and profits us. True, the mass of readers
will object ; because, like the mass of men, they are
too indolent. But if any one affect, not the active
and watchful, but the passive and somnolent line of
study, are there not writers expressly fashioned for him,
■enough and to spare ? It is but the smaller number of
books that become more instructive by a second perusal :
the great majority are as perfectly plain as perfect
THOMAS CARLYLE. 249
triteness can make them. Yet, if time is precious,
no book that will not improve by repeated readings
deserves to be read at all. And were there an artist
of a right spirit ; a man of wisdom, conscious of his
high vocation, of whom we could know beforehand
that he had not written without purpose and earnest
meditation, that he knew what he had written, and had
embodied in it, more or less, the creations of a deep
and noble soul, — should we not draw near to him
reverently, as disciples to a master ; and what task
could there be more profitable than to read him as we
have described, to study him even to his minutest
meanings? For, were not this to think as he had
thought, to see with his gifted eyes, to make the very
mood and feeling of his great and rich mind the mood
also of our poor and little one ? — Miscellaneous Essays:
* ' Goethe's Helena. " 1828.
I thank Heaven I have still a boundless appetite for
reading. I have thoughts of lying buried alive here for
many years, forgetting all stuff about "reputation," suc-
cess, and so forth, and resolutely setting myself to gain
insight by the only method not shut out from me — that
of books. Two articles (of fifty pages) in the year will
keep me living ; employment in that kind is open
enough. For the rest, I really find almost that I do
best when forgotten by men, and nothing above or
around me but the imperishable Heaven. It never
wholly seems to me that I am to die in this wilderness ;
a feeling is always dimly with me that I am to be
called out of it, and have work fit for me before I
depart, the rather as I can do either way. Let not soli-
250 THOMAS CARLYLE,
tude, let not silence and unparticipating isolation make
a savage of thee — these, too, have their advantages. —
Journal, Craigenputtock, September yd, 1832. (See
Froude^s Life of Carlyle, vol, ii.,/. 309.)
No book, I believe, except the Bible, has been so
universally read and loved by Christians of all
tongues and sects as Thomas a Kempis' " De Imita-
tione Christi. " It gives me pleasure to think that the
Christian heart of our good mother may also derive
nourishment and strength from what has already
nourished and strengthened so many. [He had sent
his mother a copy of the book in February, 1833.]—
Fronde's Life of Carlyle, vol. ii., p. 337.
" Visible and tangible products of the past, again, I
reckon up to the extent of three : Cities, with their
cabinets and arsenals; their tilled Fields, to either or
to both of which divisions roads with their bridges may
belong; and thirdly Books. In which third, truly,
the last invented, lies a worth far surpassing that of the
two others. Wondrous indeed is the virtue of a true
book ! Not like a dead city of stones, yearly crumbling,
yearly needing repair ; more like a tilled field, but then
a spiritual field ; like a spiritual tree, let me rather say,
it stands from year to year, and from age to age (we
have books that already number some hundred and
fifty human ages) ; and yearly comes its new produce
of leaves (commentaries, deductions, philosophical,
political systems ; or were it only sermons, pamphlets,
journalistic essays), every one of which is talismanic
and thaumaturgic, for it can persuade men. O thou
THOMAS CARLYLE. 251
who art able to write a book, which once in the two
centuries or oftener there is a man gifted to do, envy-
not him whom they name city-builder, and inexpres-
sibly pity him whom they name conqueror or city-
burner ! Thou, too, art a conqueror and victor ; but
of the true sort, namely, over the Devil. Thou, too,
hast built what will outlast all marble and metal, and
be a wonder-bringing city of the mind, a temple and
seminary and prophetic mount, whereto all kindreds of
the earth will pilgrim."— 6"^;^^;' Resartus, 1833.
Our pious Fathers, feeling well what importance lay
in the speaking of man to men, founded churches, made
endowments, regulations ; everywhere in the civilised
world there is a Pulpit, environed with all manner of
complex dignified appurtenances and furtherances, that
therefrom a man with the tongue may, to best advan-
tage, address his fellow-men. They felt that this was
the most important thing ; that without this there was
no good thing. It is a right pious work, that of theirs ;
beautiful to behold ! But now with the art of Writing,
with the art of Printing, a total change has come over
that business. The Writer of a Book, is not he a
Preacher preaching not to this parish or that, on this day
or that, but to all men in all times and places ? . . .
Certainly the Art of Writing is the most miraculous
of all things man has devised. Odin's Runes were the
first form of the work of a Hero ; Books, written
words, are still miraculous Runes, the latest form ! In
Books lies the soul of the whole Past Time ; the arti-
culate audible voice of the Past, when the body and
material substance of it has altogether vanished like a
252 THOMAS CARLVLE.
dream. Mighty fleets and armies, harbours and
arsenals, vast cities, high-domed, many-engined, —
they are precious, great : but what do they become ?
Agamemnon, the many Agamemnons, Pericleses, and
their Greece ; all is gone now to some ruined fragments,
dumb mournful wrecks and blocks : but the Books of
Greece ! There Greece, to every thinker, still very
literally lives ; can be called-up again into life. No
magic Rune is stranger than a Book. All that Man-
kind has done, thought, gained or been : it is lying as
in magic preservation in the pages of Books. They
are the chosen possession of men.
Do not Books still accomplish miracles as Runes
were fabled to do? They persuade men. Not the
wretchedest circulating-library novel, which foolish
girls thumb and con in remote villages, but will help to
regulate the actual practical weddings and households
of those foolish girls. So " Celia " felt, so " Clifford "
acted : the foolish Theorem of Life, stamped into those
young brains, comes out as a solid Practice one day.
Consider whether any Rune in the wildest imagination
of Mythologist ever did such wonders as, on the actual
firm Earth, some Books have done ! What built St.
Paul's Cathedral ? Look at the heart of the matter, it
was that divine Hebrew Book, — the word partly of the
man Moses, an outlaw tending his Midianitish herds,
four thousand years ago, in the wildernesses of Sinai !
It is the strangest of things, yet nothing is truer. With
the Art of Writing, of which Printing is a simple, an
inevitable and comparatively insignificant corollary, the
true reign of miracles for mankind commenced. It
related, with a wondrous new contiguity and perpetual
THOMAS CARLYLE. 253
closeness, the Past and Distant with the Present in
time and place ; all times and all places with this our
actual Here and Now. All things were altered for
men ; all modes of important work of men : teaching,
preaching, governing and all else. . . .
Once invent Printing, you metamorphosed all Uni-
versities, or superseded them ! The Teacher needed
not now to gather men personally round him, that he
might speak to them what he knew ; print it in a Book,
and all learners, far and wide, for a trifle, had it each
at his own fireside, much more effectually to learn it !
. If we think of it, all that a University, 01
final highest School can do for us, is still but what the
first School began doing, — teach us to read. We learn
to read^ in various languages, in various sciences ; we
learn the alphabet and letters of all manner of Books.
But the place where we are to get knowledge, even
theoretic knowledge, is the Books themselves ! It
depends on what we read, after all manner of Pro-
fessors have done their best for us. The true University
of these days is a Collection of Books. . . .
Coleridge remarks very pertinently somewhere, that
wherever you find a sentence musically worded, of true
rhythm and melody in the words, there is something
deep and good in the meaning too. For body and
soul, word and idea, go strangely together here, as
everywhere.
I many a time say, the writers of Newspapers,
Pamphlets, Poems, Books, these are the real working
effective Church of a modern country. Nay not only
our preaching, but even our worship, is not it too
accomplished by means of Printed Books ? The noble
254 THOMAS CARLYLE,
sentiment which a gifted soul has clothed for us in
melodious words, which brings melody into our hearts,
— is not this essentially, if we will understand it, of the
nature of worship ? There are many, in all countries,
who, in this confused time, have no other method of
worship. He who, in any way, shows us better than
we knew before that a lily of the fields is beautiful,
does he not show it us as an effluence of the Fountain
of all Beauty ; as the handwritings made visible there,
of the great Maker of the Universe ? He has sung for
us, made us sing with him a little verse of a sacred
Psalm. Essentially so. How much more he who
sings, who says, or in any way brings home to our
heart the noble doings, feelings, darings and endurances
of a brother man ! ' He has verily touched our hearts
as with a live codlfrom the altar. Perhaps there is no
worship more authentic. . . .
On all sides, are we not driven to the conclusion
that, of the things which man can do or make here be-
low, by far the most momentous, wonderful and worthy
are the things we call Books ! Those poor bits of rag-
paper with black ink on them ; — from the Daily
Newspaper to the sacred Hebrew Book, what have
they not done, what are they not doing ! — For indeed,
whatever be the outward form of the thing (bits of
paper, as we say, and black ink), is it not verily, at
bottom, the highest act of man's faculty that produces
a Book ? It is the Thought of man ; the true thauma-
turgic virtue ; by which man works all things
whatsoever. All that he does, and brings to pass, is
the vesture of a Thought. This London City, with
all its houses, palaces, steam engines, cathedrals, and
THOMAS CARLYLE.
255
huge immeasurable traffic and tumult, what is it but
a Thought, but millions of Thoughts made into One ;
— a huge immeasurable Spirit of a Thought, em-
bodied in brick, in iron, smoke, dust, Palaces,
Parliaments, Hackney Coaches, Katherine Docks, and
the rest of it ! Not a brick was made but some man
had to think of the making of that brick. — The thing
we called '* bits of paper with traces of black ink," is
the Jfurest embodiment a Thought of man can have.
No wonder it is, in all ways, the activest and noblest.
If a book come from the heart, it will contrive to
reach other hearts ; all art and author-craft are of small
account to that. — Lectures on Heroes : *' The Hero as
Man of Letters. " 1 840.
Possibly too you may have heard it said that the
course of centuries has changed all this; and that "the
true University of our days is a Collection of Books."
And beyond doubt, all this is greatly altered by the
invention of Printing, which took place about midway
between us and the origin of Universities. Men
have not now to go in person to where a Professor is
actually speaking ; because in most cases you can get
his doctrine out of him through a book ; and can then
read it, and read it again and again, and study it.
That is an immense change, that one fact of Printed
Books. And I am not sure that I know of any Uni-
versity in which the whole of that fact has yet been
completely taken in, and the studies moulded in
complete conformity with it. . . .
It remains, however, practically a most important
truth, what I alluded to above, that the main use of
256 THOMAS CARLYLE.
Universities in the present age is that, after you have
done with all your classes, the next thing is a collec-
tion of books, a great library of good books, which
you proceed to study and to read. What the Univer-
sities can mainly do for you, — what I have found the
University did for me, is. That it taught me to read,
in various languages, in various sciences ; so that I
could go into the books which treated of these things,
and gradually penetrate into any department I wanted
to make myself master of, as I found it suit me.
Whatever you may think of these historical points,
the clearest and most imperative duty lies on every one
of you to be assiduous in your reading. Learn to be
good readers, — which is perhaps a more difficult thing
than you imagine. Learn to be discriminative in your
reading ; to read faithfully, and with your best atten-
tion, all kinds of things which you have a real interest
in, a real not an imaginary, and which you find to be
really fit for what you are engaged in. . . . The
most unhappy of all men is the man who cannot tell
what he is going to do, who has got no work cut-out
for him in the world, and does not go into it. For
work is the grand cure of all the maladies and miseries
that ever beset mankind, — honest work, which you
intend getting done. . . .
I do not know whether it has been sufficiently
brought home to you that there are two kinds of books.
When a man is reading on any kind of subject, in most
departments of books, — in all books, if you take it in a
wide sense,— he will find that there is a division into
good books and bad books. Everywhere a good kind
of book and a bad kind of book. I am not to assume
THOMAS CARLVLE. 257
that you are unacquainted, or ill-acquainted with this
plain fact ; but I may remind you that it is becoming a
very important consideration in our day. And we
have to cast aside altogether the idea people have,
that if they are reading any book, that if an ignorant
man is reading any book, he is doing rather better
than nothing at all. I must entirely call that in ques-
tion ; I even venture to deny that. It would be much
safer and better for many a reader, that he had no con-
cern with books at all. There is a number, a frightfully
increasing number, of books that are decidedly, to the
readers of them, not useful. But an ingenious reader
will learn, also, that a certain number of books
were written by a supremely noble kind of jDeople,
— ^not a very great number of books, but still a
number fit to occupy all your reading industry, do
' adhere more or less to that side of things. In short, as
I have written it down somewhere else, I conceive that
books are like men's souls ; divided into sheep and
goats. Some few are going up, and carrying us up,
heavenward ; calculated, I mean, to be of priceless
advantage in teaching, — in forwarding the teaching of
all generations. Others, a frightful multitude, are
going down, down ; doing ever the more and the wider
and the wilder mischief. Keep a strict eye on that
latter class of books, my young friends ! — And for the
rest, in regard to all your studies and readings here, and
to whatever you may learn, you are to remember that
the object is not particular knowledges, — not that of
getting higher and higher in technical perfections, and
all that sort of thing. There is a higher aim lying at the
rear of all that, especially among those who are intended
R
258 THOMAS CARLVLE.
for literary or speaking pursuits, or the sacred profes-
sion. You are ever to bear in mind that there lies
behind that the acquisition of what may be called
wisdom ; — namely, sound appreciation and just decision
as to all the objects that come round you, and the habit
of behaving with justice, candour, clear insight, and
loyal adherence to fact. — Rectorial Address at Edin-
burgh, 2nd April, 1866,
carlyle's style.
"With a little labour, it is true, we have become
reconciled to it, and we can tell every reader that it is
worth some labour. It is not to be forgotten that this
<*The French Revolution') is a history of a very
different order from any that has yet been attempted
in our language, and in which the usually approved
style of historical narrative, the nervous simplicity of
Hume, or the gorgeous march of Gibbon, would have
been, not to say misplaced, but actually impossible of
application. Every original thing must speak its own
language. Consider the work as much a poem as a
history, and the regular groupings and inversion of
words will no longer seem singular — consider it as the
intense outpouring of the heart of a great thinker made
in the manner of a soliloquy as of one thinking aloud —
do anything that will reconcile you to a style which is
at first very strange and unusual — reckon it worth some
labour, and be content to make some sacrifice of leisure
and of taste — rather than throw down one of the most
remarkable books of our age in ignorant, short-sighted
disgust. We repeat that we wish the style altered in
many places, as in matters of quiet and level considera-
THOMAS CARLYLE. 259
tion ; but in the major portion of the book, we would
not have the alteration of a word. It is the very
language of the season and the men — rivetting breath-
less attention, and stirring the deepest yearnings of the
affections. The finest eloquence or the miost ruthless
logic relieves in their proper seasons the grotesque, the
pathetic, the ludicrous, or the horrible. — Albany Fon-
blanqtie, in ^^ London Examiner" September 17, 1837.
Mr. Froude, writing on the same subject, says :
**His style, in some respects, is of almost unequalled
excellence. It is admirable for every purpose of de-
scription — nervous, natural, and vivid, to a degree
which cannot be exaggerated. There is hardly to be
found in the whole range of English literature a book
which by mere power of style produced so great and
permanent effect as * The French Revolution ; a
History.'" — Eraser^ s Magazine^ 1866, vol. Ixxii.
'* In the name of all ends and consequences, what
odds about the manner, if we have the matter ? Why
curl up our noses at the form, if we have the substance ?
What odds what sort of a trumpet it is, if it be a
trumpet ? What matter what kind of a dialect it be,
if it can be mastered, and if it contain secrets worthy
to be mastered?" — Letters on Carlyle, by " Caliban,"
in ''The Truth Seeker,'' 1850.
* * His writing has in it his own power, which is a
power altogether independent of his eccentricities of
language. Sometimes no other mode of speech could
possibly be so vigorous, picturesque, or animating." —
Newspaper Paragraph.
26o dr. arnold— judge talfourd.
Thomas Arnold. 1795 — 1842.
Keep your view of men and things extensive, and
depend upon it that a mixed knowledge is not a super-
ficial one. As far as it goes, the views that it gives
are true ; but he who reads deeply one class of writers
only, gets views which are almost sure to be perverted,
and which are not only narrow but false. Adjust your .
proposed amount of reading to your time and inclina-
tion; but whether that amount be large or small, let it
be varied in its kind, and widely varied. If I have a
confident opinion on any one point connected with the
improvement of the human mind it is on this, — Stank/ s
Life of Arnold: Letter to C.J, Vaughan.
Thomas Noon Talfourd. 1795 — 1854.
How important then is it, that throughout our land,
but more especially here where all the greatest of the
material instruments have their triumphant home, the
spiritual agencies should be quickened into kindred
activity ; that the brief minutes of leisure and repose
which may be left us should become hours of that true
time which is dialled in heaven. . . . The solitary
leisure of the clerk, of the shopman, of the apprentice,
of the overseer, of every worker in all departments of
labour, from the highest to the lowest, shall be glad-
dened, at will, by those companions to whom the
"serene creators of immortal things," in verse and
prose, have given him perpetual introduction, and who
will never weary, or betray, or forsake him. — Speech
at the Manchester Athenawn, October 23, 1845.
hartley coleridge, 261
Hartley Coleridge. 1796 — 1849.
Books, no less than their authors, are liable to get
ragged, and to experience that neglect and contempt
which generally follows the outward and visible signs
of poverty. We do therefore most heartily commend
the man, who bestows on a tattered and shivering
volume, such decent and comely apparel, as may
protect it from the insults of the vulgar, and the more
cutting slights of the fair. But if it be a rare book,
" the lone survivor of a numerous race," the one of its
family that has escaped the trunk-makers and pastry-
cooks, we would counsel a little extravagance in
arraying it. Let no book perish, unless it be such an
one as it is your duty to throw into the fire. There is
no such thing as a worthless book, though there are
some far worse than worthless ; no book which is not
worth preserving, if its existence may be tolerated;
as there are some men whom it may be proper to hang,
but none who should be suffered to starve. To reprint
books that do not rise to a certain pitch of worth, is
foolish. It benefits nobody so much as it injures the
possessors of the original copies. It is like a new
coinage of Queen Anne's farthings. That any thing is
in being, is a presumptive reason that it should remain
in being, but not that it should be multiplied.
The binding of a book should always suit its com-
plexion. Pages, venerably yellow, should not be
cased in military morocco, but in sober brown Russia.
Glossy hot pressed paper looks best in vellum. We
have sometimes seen a collection of old whitey-brown
black letter ballads, &c., so gorgeously tricked out,
262 HARTLEY COLERIDGE.
that they remind us of the pious liberality of the
Catholics, who dress in silk and gold the images of
saints, part of whose saintship consisted in wearing
rags and hair-cloth. The costume of a volume should
also be in keeping with its subject, and with the
character of its author. How absurd to see the works
of William Pen, in flaming scarlet, and George Fox's
Journal in Bishop's purple ! Theology should be
solemnly gorgeous. History should be ornamented
after the antique or gothic fashion. Works of science,
as plain as is consistent with dignity. Poetry, simplex
inunditiis. — Biographia Borealis ; or Lives of Distin-
guished Northerns : " lVillia7n Roscoe."
CoNNOP Thirlwall. 1797 — 1875.
I flatter myself that I can sympathise with your
enjoyment of a quiet day. A life of constant society
would to me be perfectly intolerable, while I was never
yet tired by what is called solitude (being indeed some
of the choicest society to one who likes a book).
Nobody can be more interested in the correctness of
Dr. 's views on reading than myself.
My practice is quite the reverse of his. My reading
covers a pretty large area, but at many points is very
superficial, and, therefore, I am not an impartial judge.
I cannot, however, assent to his opinion — as you state
it. But if the maxim runs, "Better read one good
book eight times than many once," I should need to
know something more about the many. Are they
supposed to be also good? And if so, on the same
BISHOP THIRLWALL. 263
or different subjects? I should quite agree that it is
better to study one good book on any subject accurately
than to hurry through many, even though equally good,
on the same subject. But if, after I had read one book
seven times, the question vsras whether I should give it
an eighth reading or should skim over the work of
another writer, though of inferior merit, on the same
subject, I should have no doubt that my knowledge of
the subject and my capacity of judging would be more
enlarged by a hasty perusal of the new book, and that
I should understand the first better than if I read it
again. I suspect that a man of one or very few books
may be familiar with their contents, but be little the
better for them for want of means of comparing
different views with one another.
A person who was a very great reader and hard
thinker told me that he never took up a book except
with the view of making himself master of some subject
which he was studying, and that while he was so
engaged he made all his reading converge to that point.
In this way he might read parts of many books, but
not a single one "from end to end." This I take to
be an excellent method of study, but one which implies
the command of many books as well as of much
leisure.
It must, however, be remembered that superficial
is a relative term. There is hardly a department,
however narrow, in the whole range of human
knowledge that is not absolutely unfathomable and
inexhaustible, and its chief adepts would be the first to
own or proclaim that no human life is long enough to
make any one completely master of it. This holds not
264 BISHOP THIRLWALL.
only with regard to the higher ologies — theology,
philology, physiology, geology, zoology, &c. — but
even to their minutest ramifications. Lives, I believe,
have been spent and may be spent on such pursuits as
numismatics and heraldry, which are branches of
history, and involve a great extent of historical reading;
but I also believe that the same may be said of some
of the minutest compartments of animal and vegetable
life. The study can never be exhausted. But would
a life be well spent in the acquisition of a relatively
profound knowledge of beetles or grasses, or coins or
blazonry, to the exclusion of everything else ?
Yet I think Dr. 's theory logically leads to this.
I believe that nothing is forgotten, so that the
remembrance of it may not be revived. How often
do scenes and words of more than sixty years ago
recur to my mind with the vividness of impressions of
yesterday !
Was it not Admiral Beaufort who was once very
nearly drowned, and while under water had a vision of
his whole past life in all its details?— Z^//<?rj io a
Friend, by Connop Thh'hvall, Bishop of St, David s,
[A letter from Admiral Sir Frederick Beaufort,
descriptive of the incident here referred to, was pub-
lished in Sir John Barrow's " Autobiography," and is
given in the Appendix to Bishop Thirl wall's " Letters
to a Friend," Enlarged Edition, 1882. The subject
is also treated in Miss Martineau's ** Biographical
.Sketches. "]
A. B, ALCOTT. 265
A. Bronson Alcott. b. 1799 [Living].
Good books, like good friends, are few and chosen ;
the more select the more enjoyable ; and like these
are approached with diffidence, nor sought too familiarly
nor too often, having the precedence only when friends
tire. The most mannerly of companions, accessible
at all times, in all moods, they frankly declare the
author's mind, without giving offence. Like living
friends they too have their voice and physiognomies,
and their company is prized as old acquaintances. We
seek them in our need of counsel or of amusement,
without impertinence or apology, sure of having our
claims allowed. A good book justifies our theory of
personal supremacy, keeping this fresh in the memory
and perennial. What were days without such fellow-
ship ? We were alone in the world without it. Nor
does our faith falter though the secret we search for
and do not find in them will not commit itself to litera-
ture, still we take up the new issue with the old
expectation, and again and again, as we try our friends
after many failures at conversation, believing this visit
will be the favored hour and all will be told us. Nor
do I know what book I can well spare, certainly none
that has admitted me, though it be but for the moment
and by the most oblique glimpse, into the mind and
personality of its author ; though few there are that
prefer such friendly claim to one's regard, and satisfy
expectation as he turns their leaves. Our favorites
are few ; since only what rises from the heart reaches
it, being caught and carried on the tongues of men
wheresoever love and letters journey.
266 A. B. ALCOTT.
Nor need we wonder at their scarcity or the value
we set upon them ; life, the essence of good letters as
of friendship, being its own best biographer, the artist
that portrays the persons and thoughts we are, and are
becoming. And the most that even he can do, is but
a chance stroke or two at this fine essence housed in
the handsome dust, but too fugitive and coy to be caught
and held fast for longer than the passing glance ; the
master touching ever and retouching the picture he
leaves unfinished.
"My life has been the poem I would have writ.
But I could not both live and utter it."
. . . Any library is an attraction. And there is
an indescribable delight — who has not felt it that
deserves the name of scholar — in mousing at choice
among the alcoves of antique book-shops especially,
and finding the oldest of these sometimes newest of
the new, fresher, more suggestive than the book just
published and praised in the reviews. And the
pleasure scarcely less of cutting the leaves of the new
volume, opening by preference at the end rather than
title-page, and seizing the author's conclusions at a
glance. Very few books repay the reading in course.
Nor can we excuse an author if his page does not tempt
us to copy passages into our common places, for quota-
tion, proverbs, meditation, or other uses. A good
book is fruitful of other books ; it perpetuates its fame
from age to age, and makes eras in the lives of its
readers. — Tablets : ' ' Books. "
Next to a friend's discourse, no morsel is more
delicious than a ripe book, a book whose flavor is as
A. B. ALCOTT. 267
refreshing at the thousandth tasting as at the first.
Books when friends weary, conversation flags, or
nature fails to inspire. The best books appeal to the
deepest in us and answer the demand. A book loses
if wanting the personal element, gains when this is
insinuated, or comes to the front occasionally, blending
history with mythology.
My favorite books have a personality and com-
plexion as distinctly drawn as if the author's portrait
were framed into the paragraphs and smiled upon me
as I read his illustrated pages. Nor could I spare
them from my table or shelves, though I should not
open the leaves for a twelve-month ; — the sight of
them, the knowledge that they are within reach,
accessible at any moment, rewards me when I invite
their company. Borrowed books are not mine while
in hand. I covet ownership in the contents, and fancy
that he who is conversant with these is the rightful
owner, and moreover, that the true scholar owes to
scholars a catalogue of his chosen volumes, that they
may learn from whence his entertainment during leisure
moments. Next to a personal introduction, a list of
one's favourite authors were the best admittance to his
character and manners. . . .
Without Plutarch, no library were complete. Can
we marvel at his fame, or overestimate the surpassing
merits of his writings ? It seems as I read as if none
before, none since, had written lives, as if he alone
were entitled to the name of biographer, — such intimacy
of insight is his, laying open the springs of character,
and through his parallels portraying his times as no
historian had done before. ... It is good exer-
268 A. B, ALCOTT,
cise, good medicine, the reading of his books, — good
for to-day, as in times it was preceding ours, salutary
reading for all times.
Montaigne also comes in for a large share of the
scholar's regard. Opened anywhere, his page is
sensible, marrowy, quotable. He may be taken up,
too, and laid aside carelessly without loss, so inconse-
quent is his method, and he so careless of his wealth.
Professing nature and honesty of speech, his page has
the suggestions of the landscape, is good for striking
out in any direction, suited to any mood, sure of yielding
variety of information, wit, entertainment, — not to be
commended, to be sure, without grave abatements, to
be read with good things growing side by side with
things not such and tasting of the apple. Still, with
every abatement, his book is one of the ripest and
mellowist, and, bulky as it is, we wish there were more
of it. He seems almost the only author whose Access
warrants in every stroke of his pen his right to guide
it ; he of the men of letters, the prince of letters ;
since writing of life, he omits nothing of its substance,
but tells all with a courage unprecedented. His frank-
ness is charming. So his book has indescribable
attractions, being as it were a Private Book, — his
diary self-edited, and offered with an honesty that
wins his readers, he never having done bestowing his
opulent hospitalities on him, gossiping sagely, and
casting his wisdom in sport to any who care for it.
Everywhere his page is alive and rewarding, and we
are disappointed at finding his book comes to an end
like other books. — Concord Days : " Books J'^
A. B. ALCOTT. 269
One cannot celebrate books sufficiently. After
saying his best, still something better remains to be
spoken in their praise. As with friends, one finds new
beauties at every interview, and would stay long in the
presence of those choice companions. As with friends,
he may dispense with a wide acquaintance. Few and
choice. The richest minds need not large libraries.
That is a good book which is opened with expectation
and closed with profit.
An author who sets his reader on sounding the
depths of his own thoughts serves him best, and at the
same time teaches the modesty of authorship.
The more life embodied in the book, the more com*
panionable. Like a friend, the volume salutes one
pleasantly at every opening of its leaves, and entertains ;
we close it with charmed memories, and come again
and again to the entertainment. The books that
charmed us in youth recall the delight ever afterwards ;
we are hardly persuaded there are any like them, any
deserving equally our affections. Fortunate if the best
fall in our way during this susceptible and forming
period of our lives.
I value books for their suggestiveness even more than
for the information they may contain, works that may
be taken in hand and laid aside, read at moments, con-
taining sentences that quicken my thoughts and prompt
to following these into their relations with life and
things. I am stimulated and exalted by the perusal
of books of this kind, and should esteem myself
fortunate if I might add another to the few which the
world shall take to its affections. — Table Talk:
^^ Learning.''''
870 MACAl/LAV.
Thomas Babington Macaulay.
1800 — 1859.
There is scarcely any delusion which has a better
claim to be indulgently treated than that under the
influence of which a man ascribes every moral excellence
to those who have left imperishable monuments of their
genius. The causes of this error lie deep in the inmost
recesses of human nature. We are all inclined to judge
of others as we find them. Our estimate of a character
always depends much on the manner in which that
character affects our own interests and passions. We
find it difficult to think well of those by whom we are
thwarted or depressed ; and we are ready to admit
every excuse for the vices of those who are useful or
agreeable to us. This is, we believe, one of those
illusions to which the whole human race is subject, and
which experience and reflection can only partially
remove. It is, in the phraseology of Bacon, one of the
idola tribus. Hence it is that the moral character of a
man eminent in letters or in the fine arts is treated
often by contemporaries, almost always by posterity,
with extraordinary tenderness. The world derives
pleasure and advantage from the performances of such
a man. The number of those who suffer by his per-
sonal vices is small, even in his own time, when
compared with the number of those to whom his talents
are a source of gratification. In a few years all those
whom he has injured disappear. But his works remain,
and are a source of delight to millions. The genius of
Sallust is still with us. But the Numidians whom he
plundered, and the unfortunate husbands who caught
MACAULAY. 271
him in their houses at unseasonable hours, are forgotten.
We suffer ourselves to be delighted by the keenness of
Clarendon's observation, and by the sober majesty of
his style, till we forget the oppressor and the bigot in
the historian. Falstaff and Tom Jones have survived
the gamekeepers whom Shakspeare cudgelled, and the
landladies whom Fielding bilked. A great writer is
the friend and benefactor of his readers ; and they
cannot but judge of him under the deluding influence
of friendship and gratitude. We all know how
unwilling we are to admit the truth of any disgraceful
story about a person whose society we like, and from
whom we have received favours ; how long we struggle
against evidence, how fondly, when the facts cannot
be disputed, we cling to the hope that there may be
some explanation or some extenuating circumstance
with which we are unacquainted. Just such is the
feeling which a man of liberal education naturally
entertains towards the great minds of former ages.
The debt which he owes to them is incalculable.
They have guided him to truth. They have filled his
mind with noble and graceful images. They have
stood by him in all vicissitudes, comforters in sorrow,
nurses in sickness, companions in solitude. These
friendships are exposed to no danger from the occur-
rences by which other attachments are weakened or
dissolved. Time glides on; fortune is inconstant;
tempers are soured ; bonds which seemed indissoluble
are daily sundered by interest, by emulation, or by
caprice. But no such cause can affect the silent
converse which we hold with the highest of human
intellects. That placid intercourse is disturbed by no
272 MACAULAV.
jealousies or resentments. These are the old friends
who are never seen with new faces, who are the same
in wealth and in poverty, in glory and in obscurity.
With the dead there is no rivalry. In the dead there
is no change. Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is
never petulant. Demosthenes never comes un-
seasonably. Dante never stays too long. No differ-
ence of political opinion can alienate Cicero. No
heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet. — Critical and
Historical Essays : * * Lord Bacon, " .
Compare the literary acquirements of the great men
of the thirteenth century with those which will be within
the reach of many who will frequent our reading room.
As to Greek learning, the profound man of the
thirteenth century was absolutely on a par with the
superficial man of the nineteenth. In the modern
languages, there was not, six hundred years ago, a
single volume which is now read. The library of our
profound scholar must have consisted entirely of Latin
books. We will suppose him to have had both a large
and a choice collection. We will allow him thirty,
nay forty manuscripts, and among them a Virgil, a
Terence, a Lucan, an Ovid, a Statius, a great deal of
Livy, a great deal of Cicero. In allowing him all this,
we are dealing most liberally with him ; for it is much
more likely that his shelves were filled with treatises
on school divinity and canon law, composed by writers
whose names the world has very wisely forgotten.
But, even if we suppose him to have possessed all that
is most valuable in the literature of Rome, I say with
perfect confidence that, both in respect of intellectual
MAC AC/LAV. 273
improvement, and in respect of intellectual pleasures,
he was far less favourably situated than a man who
now, knowing only the English language, has a book-
case filled with the best English works. Our great
man of the Middle Ages could not form any conception
of any tragedy approaching Macbeth or Lear, or of any
comedy equal to Henry the Fourth or Twelfth Night.
The best epic poem that he had read was far inferior to
the Paradise Lost ; and all the tomes of his philosophers
were not worth a page of the Novum Organum,
A large part of what is best worth knowing in
ancient literature, and in the literature of France,
Italy, Germany, and Spain, has been translated into
our own tongue. It is scarcely possible that the
translation of any book of the highest class can be
equal to the original. But, though the finer touches
may be lost in the copy, the great outlines will remain.
An Englishman who never saw the frescoes in the
Vatican may yet, from engravings, form some notion of
the exquisite grace of Raphael, and of the sublimity
and energy of Michael Angelo. And so the genius of
Homer is seen in the poorest version of the Iliad ;
the genius of Cervantes is seen in the poorest version
of Don Quixote. Let it not be supposed that I wish
to dissuade any person from studying either the ancient
languages or the languages of modem Europe. Far
from it. I prize most highly those keys of knowledge ;
and I think that no man who has leisure for study
ought to be content until he possesses several of them.
I always much admired a saying of the Emperor
Charles the Fifth. "When I learn a new language,"
s
274 MACAULAV.
he said, "I feel as if I had got a new soul." But I
would console those who have not time to make
themselves linguists by assuring them that, by means of
their own mother tongue, they may obtain ready access
to vast intellectual treasures, to treasures such as might
have been envied by the greatest linguists of the age of
Charles the Fifth, to treasures surpassing those which were
possessed by Aldus, by Erasmus, and by Melancthon.
And thus I am brought back to the point from which
I started. I have been requested to invite you to fill
your glasses to the Literature of Britain ; to that
literature, the brightest, the purest, the most durable
of all the glories of our country ; to that literature, so
rich in precious truth and precious fiction ; to that
literature which boasts of the prince of all poets and of
the prince of all philosophers ; to that literature which
has exercised an influence wider than that of our
commerce, and mightier than that of our arms; to
that literature which has taught France the principles
of liberty, and has furnished Germany with models of
art ; to that literature which forms a tie closer than
the tie of consanguinity between us and the common-
wealths of the valley of the Mississippi ; to that
literature before the light of which impious and cruel
superstitions are fast taking flight on the banks of the
Ganges ; to that literature which will, in future ages,
instruct and delight the unborn millions who will have
turned the Australasian and Cafl"rarian deserts into
cities and gardens . To the Literature of Britain, then !
And, wherever British literature spreads, may it be
attended by British virtue and by British freedom ! —
Speech delivered at the Opening of the Edinburgh
Philosophical histittde^ November 4, 1846.
WILLIAM CHAMBERS. i^r^
William Chambers. 1800 — 1883.
I was now to have an opportunity of learning prac-
tically how far my weekly earnings as a bookseller's
aj^prentice would go in defraying the cost of board
and lodging. In short, at little above fourteen years
of age, I was thrown on my own resources. From
necessity, not less than from choice, I resolved at all
hazards to make the weekly four shillings serve for
everything. I cannot remember entertaining the
slightest despondency on the subject. ... As
favourable for carrying out my aims at an indepen-
dent style of living, I had the good-fortune to be
installed in the dwelling of a remarkably precise and
honest widow, a Peebles woman, who, with two
grown-up sons, occupied the top story of a building in
the West Port. My landlady had the reputation of
being excessively parsimonious, but as her honesty was
of importance to one in my position, and as she con-
sented to let me have a bed, cook for me, and allow
me to sit by her fireside — the fire, by the way, not
being much to speak of — for the reasonable charge of
eighteenpence a week, I was thought to be lucky in
finding her disposed to receive me within her establish-
ment. To her dwelling, therefore, I repaired with my
all, consisting of a few articles of clothing and two or
three books, including a pocket Bible— the whole con-
tained in a small blue-painted box, which I carried on
my shoulder along the Grassmarket.
I made such attempts as were at all practicable,
while an apprentice, to remedy the defects of my
276 WILLIAM CHAMBERS.
education at school. Nothing in that way could be
done in the shop, for there reading was proscribed.
But allowed to take home a book for study, I gladly
availed myself of the privilege. The mornings in
summer, when light cost nothing, were my chief
reliance. Fatigued with trudging about, I was not
naturally inclined to rise, but on this and some other
points I overruled the will, and forced myself to get
up at five o'clock, and have a spell at reading until it
was tirne to think of moving off — my brother, when he
was with me, doing the same. In this way I made
some progress in French, with the pronunciation of
which I was already familiar from the speech of the
French prisoners of war at Peebles. I likewise dipped
into several books of solid worth — such as Smith's
Wealth of Nations, Locke's Human Understanding,
Paley's Moral Philosophy, and Blair's Belles-Lettrcs —
fixing the leading facts and theories in my memory by
a note-book for the purpose. In another book, I kept
for years an accurate account of my expenses, not
allowing a single halfpenny to escape record.
In the winter of 1815-16, when the cold and cost of
candle-light would have detained me in bed, I was so
fortunate as to discover an agreeable means of spending
my mornings. . . . From this hopeful personage,
whom it was my duty to look after, I one day had a pro-
position, which he had been charged to communicate.
If I pleased, he would introduce me to his occasional
employer, the baker in Canal Street, who, he said, was
passionately fond of reading, but without leisure for its
gratification. If I would go early — very early — say five
WILLIAM CHAMBERS. 277
o'clock in the morning, and read aloud to him and his
two sons, while they were preparing their batch, I
should be regularly rewarded for my trouble with
a penny roll newly drawn from the oven. . .
Behold me, then, quitting my lodgings in the West
Port, before five o'clock in the winter mornings, and
pursuing my way across the town to the cluster of
sunk streets below the North Bridge, of which Canal
Street was the principal. The scene of operations was
a cellar of confined dimensions, reached by a flight of
steps descending from the street, and possessing a small
back window immediately beyond the baker's kneading
board. Seated on a folded-up sack in the sole of the
window, with a book in one hand and a penny candle
stuck in a bottle near the other, I went to work for the
amusement of the company. The baker was not
particular as to subject. All he stipulated for was
something droll and laughable. Aware of his tastes, I
tried him first wdth the jocularities oi Roderick Random,
which was a great success, and produced shouts of
laughter. I followed this up with other works of
Smollett, also with the novels of Fielding, and with
Gil Bias; the tricks and grotesque rogueries in this
last -mentioned work of fiction giving the baker and his
two sons unqualified satisfaction. My services as a
reader for two and a half hours every morning were
unfailingly recompensed by a donation of the antici-
pated roll, with which, after getting myself brushed
of the flour, I went on my way to shop-opening, lamp-
cleaning, and all the rest of it, at Calton Street. —
Memoir of Robert Chambers ; with Autobiographic
Reminiscetices of Williaiti Chambers,
278 james crosslev.
James Crossley (Late President of the
Cheetham Society). 1800 — 1883.
Who is not delighted to meet in a place utterly
barren and unpromising, with something akin to his
habits, and congenial to his pursuits? . . . To
know what pleasure is, we ought to meet with the
thing, which, of all others, we most want, in the place,
where, of all others, we least expect to find it. . . .
We were led into these speculations by a late visit
to the library, founded by Humphrey Cheetham, in
Manchester ; a venerable institution, rendered more
striking, by presenting somewhat of the appearance of
a college, amidst the hurry and business of a large
manufacturing town. It is pleasing to pass from the
noise and dissonance of a crowded street, into the com-
paratively still and silent court of a spacious antique
mansion, with low-browed roofs, and narrow windows,
apparently of the architecture of the time of James
the First, where the only habitants seem to be a little
population of boys, in their grotesque liveries, according
well with their ancient domicile. To feel that there
is such a place amidst warehouses, factories, and shops,
is some satisfaction, as it shows you are not completely
immersed in trade and calculation, but that there is
still amidst wool shops, and cotton rooms, a little zoar
set apart for better things. As you enter the door
leading towards the library, from the court on the left,
you are struck with a spacious and lofty hall — whose
appearance reminds you of ancient feasts, and old
English hospitality — which is now appropriated as the
dining room of the children, who are educated by the
JAMES CROSS LEV. 97^
bounty of the founder. You proceed up a flight of
stone stairs to the library, where the books are dis-
posed in compartments, secured by wires from the
encroachments of the profane.
As you pass along the two galleries, plentifully stored
with the physic of the soul, to the reading room, you
cannot but perceive, that their contents are not much
similar to those of a modern circulating library. Dapper
duodecimos give place to the venerable majesty of the
folio. If you look among the shelves, you will find,
instead of the Scotch novels, or Anastasius, Wagensal's
Tela Ignea, or the works of Erasmus. It is not the
library of a modern dilitanti, but of an English scholar
of the old school, in which, Aquinas, and Duns Scotus,
may yet be seen, and by them their worthy brother
Durandus Bradwardine and Bonaventuro.
There is something very substantial in the appearance
of a library of this description. . . . All within it
contributes to withdraw us to the past. The mind is
left here to resign itself to its own fancies without
being recalled by some startling incongruity to the
recollections of the present ; and for aught which
strikes us in the rapidity of a first impression, we
might imagine it the spot where Bacon was accus-
tomed to study, and Raleigh delighted to muse. It
is impossible to enter a large library, especially when
in appearance so antique as the one of which we are
now writing, without feeling an inward sensation of
reverence, and without catching some sparks of noble
emulation, from the mass of mind which is scattered
around you. The very dullest, and least intellectual
of the sons of earth, must be conscious of the high and
28o JAMES CROSS LEY.
lofty society into which he is intruding ; a society
which no combination of living talent can ever hope to
parallel. . . . We feel, as we reverence the
mighty spirits around us, that we are in some sort their
brothers ; and the very homage which we pay to their
majesty is itself the bond of our alliance. . . .
Through a door studded with nails in the ancient
fashion, you pass into the reading-room, an antique
apartment, with oaken casements, massive chairs of
such heaviness and contexture, as utterly to defy all
muscular power, and tables of make and workmanship
truly patriarchal, one of which you are informed by
your guide, is composed of as many pieces as there are
days in a year, 365. Around are disposed dusky
looking portraits of eminent divines, who have been
born in or near Manchester, Whitaker, Nowell,
Latimer, and Bradford, of the latter of whom the
facetious Fuller saith, **He was a most holy and
mortified man, who secretly in his closet would so
weep for his sins, one would have thought he would
never have smiled again, and then appearing in public,
he would be so harmlessly pleasant, one would think
he had never wept before. " No such marks of celestial
benignity are here visible in his countenance ; he looks
truly as grim-visaged as Herod himself in the Massacre
of the Innocents. Over the fire-place, surmounted by
his coat of arms, is the portrait of Humphrey Cheetham
himself, the charitable "dealer in Manchester commo-
dities," as he has been called, to whose beneficence
this excellent institution is owing. . , . The
windows of this room are in unison with the rest of its
structure, and though they do not absolutely "exclude
JAMES CROSS LEV. 281
the light," yet there is a certain degree of dimness in
it, which does not ill agree with the dark pannels and
beams by which it is encased and over-hung. At the
farther end is a recess, which being almost windowed
round, is rendered a little lightsomer than the other
parts of the room. It is pleasant to sit in this
sequestered nook, the locus benedicHis of this ancient
place, and view from thence the gallery with its shelves
of books, sinking by degrees into duskiness. . . .
Still pleasanter is it to resign the mind to those
fantasies, which, in a place like this, are wont to rise
and steal upon it with a soft but potent fascination —
and to suffer the imagination to raise up its visions of
the worthies of olden time. To embody and imper-
sonate our forefathers, while we are tarrying in their
edifice, and while we are drinking "at the pure wells
of EngHsh undefiled," to picture to ourselves the
worthies who stood and guarded at its fountain. To
create and call forth figures for our sport, like those in
the Tempest, airy and unsubstantial, clad in ruffs and
doublets, and passing by us with stiff mien and haughty
stateliness; introducing to our eyes a succession of
" maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees, tilts
and tournaments, trophies, triumphs, and plays," till
we can see the whole court of Elizabeth, and the great
master of the dance, the graceful Sir Christopher
Hatton,
" Lead the brawls.
While seals and maces dance before him."
We are transported visibly to the times when the
Euphues and the Arcadia were the light reading of
282 JAMES CROSS LEY.
maids of honour, when queens harangued universities
in Latin, and kings amused themselves by writing of
demon ology and tobacco. The theological tomes
around us seem to communicate something of their
influence to us, and to dip us " five fathom deep" in
the controversies of the times. We can almost join in
alacrity in the crusade against .the Beast " who had
filled the world with her abominations," and sally out
with bishops for our leaders, and a ponderous folio for
our armour of proof.
The works around us naturally bring their authors
before our eye. We can see Hooker in his quiet
country parsonage, beholding ** God's blessings spring
out of his mother earth, and eating his own bread
in peace and privacy." We can see Sidney amongst
the shades of Penshurst writing on poetry, with
all the enthusiasm of a poet, and proving, that
" poesie is full of virtue, breeding delightfulness, and
void of no gift that ought to be in the noble name
of learning." We can see Bacon in his closet, con-
ceiving in his mighty mind the greatest birth of time,
and unbent by misfortune, and undejected by disgrace,
illuminating philosophy " with all the weight of
matter, worth of subject, soundness of argument, life
of invention, and depth of judgment." We can see
Selden amidst bulls, breviats, antiphoners, and monkish
manuscripts, laying up the stores of his vast learning,
and awaiting from posterity the rewards which were
denied him by a prejudiced clergy. We can be present
with Burton, whilst enjoying the delights of voluntary
solitariness, and walking alone in some grove, betwixt
wood and water, by a brook side, to meditate upon
JAMES CROSS LEY. 283,
some delightsome and pleasant subject, and hear him
declaring in ecstasy, "what an incomparable delight it
is so to melancholize and build castles in the air."
And last, though second to none of his contemporaries,
we can be witness to the lonely musings of him, **who
untamed in war, and indefatigable in literature, as
inexhaustible in ideas as exploits, after having brought
a new world to light, wrote the history of the old in a
prison." , , .
If thy footsteps lead thee, good reader, to the
venerable place which has suggested these specu-
lations, let us advise thee to amuse thyself with
something suitable, and not incongruous with its
character. There is a fitness in all things. There are
other places for perusing the ephemeral productions of
the day, circulating libraries for novels, and commercial
rooms for newspapers. If these be the food for which
thy mind is most disposed, to such places be thy walks
confined. But go not to the library of Humphrey
Cheetham, without opening one of the ** time-honoured
guests. " If classical learning be the study most grati-
fying to thy palate, take down the Basil edition of
Horace, with the notes of eighty commentators, and
read through the commentaries on the first ode, thou
wilt find it no very easy or dispatchable matter. If
divinity be thy pursuit, let one of the compendious
folios of Caryl on Job minister to thy amusement, and
thus conduce to thy attainment of that virtue of which
Job was so eminently the possessor. If Natural
History present more attractions to thee than classical
learning or divinity, Ulysses Aldrovandus will find
thee employment enough, without resorting to the
284 EARL OF SHAFTESBURY,
latter publications of Pennant or BufFon. But should
thy thoughts, good reader, have a different direction,
and all these studies be less agreeable to thee than the
study of light reading, take with thee Pharamond to
thy corner, or that edifying and moral work, Mat.
Ingelo's Bentivoglio and Urania ; and so needest thou
have no fear of being too violently interested in thy
subject to leave off with pleasure. — Article on the
Cheetham Library, Blackwood's Magazine, June, 1821.
Earl of Shaftesbury (Anthony Ashley
Cooper), b. 1801 [Living].
I am not going to speak with disparagement of the
library of reference, but I am going to speak with
peculiar admiration and affection of the library of
circulation ; and for this reason : — ^because it tends to
purify and maintain that which is the very strength of
a nation, the very glory of a people ; — among all the
ordinances of God, the most merciful and the most
amicable — the domestic system of the country. And I
hope that many a husband, and many a brother,
availing himself of the opportunity offered, will carry
the book to his own fireside, and make his wife and
his children, or his mother and his sister, partake of
his studies, and tend to elevate and purify the female
mind ; for, depend upon this, that a country may
stand for a time the corruption of the male sex; it
<;annot stand for an instant the utter corruption of the
female sex. If the men are corrupted, I have some
hope; if the women are corrupted, I am in utter
despair. And see how it must be : — is it not the case
ROBERT CHAMBERS. 285
that for the first eight years of life the children are
almost exclusively under the care of the mother ?
Does not the child imbibe at its mother's knees the
first lessons of piety and of prayer? Is it not truths
that many of the most eminent saints and servants of
God traced, not to their fathers, but to their mothers,
the first institution in religious life? And I myself
have heard many a man declare that in his after-life of
profligacy, and of sorrow, he had been recalled to a
sense of God and of eternity, by remembering in an
hour of privation and of difficulty, some holy and
happy word that fell from the lips of his blessed and
sainted mother. Therefore it is that I rejoice in this
lending library. I rejoice in the spirit you now
manifest, because I think that you show that you have
received my words with kindness and affection, and
that you will endeavour to do that which, be assured,
will conduce to your own honour, to your domestic
happiness, and to the security of the kingdom. —
Speech at the Inauguration of the Manchester Free:
Library, September 2, 1852.
Robert Chambers. 1802 — 187 1.
English literature gives all who can enjoy it a fund
of pleasure, of the great amount of which we are not
apt to be quite aware till we run over a few of the
items. There are the Waverley Novels — in direct
contemplation, only the talk of an old-fashioned Scotch
gentleman, who died a few years ago — or, in a still
more gross consideration, but a few masses of printed
paper. Yet, in effect, what are they ! To how many
586 ROBERT CHAMBERS.
thousands upon thousands has life been made less
painful or more delightful by these charming tales !
The world would have gone on without them, no
•doubt, but it would not have gone on so agreeably.
There would have been an infinite deal less happiness
in it during the last twenty-five years, if they had not
been written.
Thousands of other things there are in our literature,
which we feel to be amongst the most precious of our
possessions and privileges. Cowper's Task is as good
as an estate to every reading-man in the kingdom.
There are some of Burns's songs, the loss of which, if
it were possible, would be to me more deplorable, as
far as I am personally concerned, than the total repeal
of the Habeas Corpus Act. The blotting out of the
Vicar of Wakefield from most minds, would be more
grievous than to know that the island of Borneo had
sunk in the sea. . . . Going back a little farther,
how does the heart leap up when we recollect the
many admirable things of Fielding and Smollett.
Parson Adams himself gilds the whole time. What
simplicity, what true goodness ! — ^verily, the world's
history gives us few characters equal to him — and yet
we feel that he is natural.
There are some books usually read in youth, and
without which youth would not be what it is. Of
these are Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver. How youth
passed long ago, when there was no Crusoe to waft it
away in fancy to the Pacific, and fix it upon the lonely
doings of the shipwrecked mariner, is inconceivable;
but we can readily suppose that it must have been
essentially diff"erent. The first reading of Crusoe is
ROBERT CHAMBERS. 287
now a feature in every man's biography. Gulliver is
not so indispensable, but yet the having him is much to
be rejoiced in.
The Arabian Nights' Entertainments are not ours by
birth, but they have nevertheless taken their place
amongst the similar things of our own which constitute
the national literary inheritance. They bring us into a
considerably different world from any other we are
acquainted with. The caliph, the cadi, the Moham-
medan faith, genii, enchanters, are the prominent
novelties they display to us. There is a fine want of
precise outline about everything in the book. We see
as through some prismatically-disturbing medium.
, . . Altogether, it is a glorious book, and one to
which we cannot well shew enough of respect.
Come we now to Pope, that prince of sayers of acute
and exquisite things — that most mellifluous of all the
rhetorical class of poets amongst whom he flourished.
Fashion has set him a little aside, which it can never
do with an author who has not written in some measure
according to a fashion ; but he was a fine spirit and a
great poet, nevertheless, and English literature would
shew a mighty blank indeed were he taken out of it.
. Dryden is even better than Pope. He has
immense masculine energies. There is a lashing
strength about his verse that no other writer ap-
proaches. His works are the farewell of the sound
old English, for which the stiffened and glistered
language of the last century was the substitute, and
which there has latterly been a disposition to revive.
Dryden is also much out of view, but most undeservedly.
Few know what a treasure of thought and expression
288 ROBERT CHAMBERS.
lies in his Hind and Panther, and Fables. We are
apt, in the large attention we pay to modern literature,
to set down him and Pope in our minds as scarcely
poets at all, or at the best good versifiers; but when
we open their works, and actually read them, we cease
to wonder that our fathers and grandfathers talked of
these men as something only a little lower than the
gods.
A class of compositions altogether apart from all
that have yet been adverted to remains to be noticed.
These are the songs and ballads, whether of England
or of Scotland. No era can be mentioned for these
compositions : they have glimpsed forth from the
darkness of past ages, as stars come by night into the
sky, without any one being able to tell exactly when
they first became visible. No authors' names can be
mentioned for them: they have sprung forth like the
unbidden beauty of the prairie, which no one can tell
how it became planted. Involuntary gushings they
would appear to have been of that "faculty divine"
which has resided at all times in the bosoms of the
people, and may or may not have regular professors,
as the accident of culture may direct. . . . Nor
less are the charms of the song-class of our traditionary
poetry. The "Cowdenknowes" will be for ever vocal
with the sweetest of verse, and the " Marion of the
Ewe-Buchts " must shine as a star until all time.
What is above written gives but the heads of the
wealth which we possess under the name of English
literature. The addition of the inferior and yet
worthy names would swell the account, like the
putting down of ciphers on the right-hand side of a
ROBERT CHAMBERS. 289
number. And is not this substantial wealth, albeit it
is not of the kind which the political economists insist
so much upon, that kind which, as they say, has an
exchangeable value? Does any man think otherwise,
let him only reflect what would be our condition if no
literature, ancient or modern, existed. The accumula-
tion of these stores of the thoughts and fancies of
eminent minds, is just like the construction of public
works in a country ; and a country without a literature
is like a country in which as yet no roads have been
formed, no bridges thrown over rivers, nor any halls of
popular assembly built. But England is in both these
respects a wealthy country. It has been put by our
fathers into our hands, furnished with an amount of
physical conveniences and sources of comfort beyond
all precedent, and endowed with an intellectual in-
heritance such as no other country ever had. Evils
manifold may affect it, if some will have the case to be
so ; but, amidst all that troubles her, there still remain,
unsullied, intact, ever ready for the solacement of her
thinking sons, the deathless productions of her intel-
lectual great. — Chambers's Journal: " What English
Literature Gives us. "
What I would speak of now is the engrossing and
all-absorbing quality of books. Reflection itself, of
course, possesses the same attribute, in a less degree ;
but we cannot sit down to reflect at a moment's
notice — deeply or earnestly enough to forget what is
passing around us— and be perfectly sure of doing it,
any more than we can be sure of going to sleep when
we wish to do so. Now, a congenial book can be
T
290 ROBERT CHAMBERS.
taken up by any lover of books, with the certainty of
its transporting the reader within a few minutes to a
region immeasurably removed from that which he
desires to quit. . . . Books are the blessed chloro-
form of the mind. We wonder how folks in trouble
did without them in old time.
It is not a very high claim that is here set forth on
behalf of Literature — that of Pass-time, and yet what
a blessed boon even that is ! Conceive the hours of
i7iertia (a thing different from idleness) that it has mer-
cifully consumed for us ! hours wherein nothing could
be done, nothing, perhaps, be thought, of our own
selves, by reason of some impending calamity.
I am writing of the obligation which we owe to
Literature, and not to Religion ; yet I cannot but feel
"thankful" — using the word in its ordinary and de-
votional sense — to many a book which is no sermon,
nor tract, nor commentary, nor anything of that kind
at all. Thus, I have cause to revere the name of
Defoe, who reached his hand down through a century
and a half to wipe away bitter tears from my childish
eyes. The going back to school was always a dreadful
woe to me, casting its black shadow far into the latter
part of my brief holidays. I have had my share of
suffering and sorrow since, like other men, but I have
seldom felt so absolutely wretched as when, a little
boy, I was about to exchange my pleasant home-life
for the hardships and uncongenialities of school. . . . •
And yet, I protest, I had but to take up Robinson
Crusoe, and in a very few minutes I was out of all
thought of the approaching calamity. ... I had
travelled over a thousand leagues of sea ; I was in my
ROBERT CHAMBERS. 291
snug weil-fortified cave, with the ladder upon the right
side of it, " so that neither man nor beast could get at
me," with my half-a-dozen muskets loaded, and my
powder distributed in separate parcels, so that not even
a thunderbolt should do me any irreparable injury.
Or, if not quite so secure, I was visiting my summer
plantation among my goats and corn, or shooting, in
the still astonished woods, birds of marvellous beauty ;
or lying upon my stomach upon the top of the hill,
watching through my spy -glass the savages putting to
sea, and not displeased to find myself once more alone
in my own little island. No living human being could
just then have done me such a service as dead Defoe.
Again, during that agonising period which intervened
between my proposal of marriage by letter to Jemima
Anne, and my reception of her reply, how should I
ever have kept myself alive, save for the chivalrous
aid of the Black Knight in Ivanhoe. To him, mainly,
assisted by Rebecca, and (I am bound to say) by that
scoundrel Brian de Bois Guilbert, are my obligations
due, that I did not — through the extremities of despair
and hope, suffered during that interval — become a
drivelling idiot.
When her answer did arrive — in the negative— what
was it which preserved me from the noose, the razor,
or the stream, but Mr. Carlyle's French Revolution.
In the woes of poor Louis Capet, I forgot my own.
. . . Who, having a grateful heart, can forget these
things, or deny the Blessedness of Books ? If it were
only for the hours of weary waiting which they have
consumed for me at desolate railway stations, I pay
them grateful homage.
292 ROBERT CHAMBERS.
Nay, under far more serious circumstances, when
disappointment has lain heavy on my soul, and once
when ruin itself seemed overshadowing me and mine,
what escape have I not found from irremediable woes
in taking the hand of Samuel Johnson (kindly intro-
duced to that great man by Mr. Boswell), and hearing
him discourse with wondrous wisdom upon all things
under heaven, sometimes at a club of wits and men of
letters, and sometimes at a common tavern table, and
sometimes even in an open boat upon the Hebridean
seas.
I often think, if such be the fascination exercised
by books upon their readers, how M^ondrous must be
the enchantment wrought upon the Writers themselves !
What human sorrow can afflict, what prosperity dazzle
them, while they are describing the fortunes of the
offspring of their own imagination ? They have only
to close their study door, and take their magic pen in
hand, and lo ! they are at once transported from this
weary world of duns, and critics, and publishers, into
whatever region and time they will. Yes, truly, it is
for authors themselves, more than for any other order
of men whatever, to acknowledge the Blessedness of
Books. — Chambers's J'ournal: " The Blessedness of
Books:'
My brother William and I lived in lodgings together.
Our room and bed cost three shillings a week. . . .
The woman who kept the lodgings was a Peebles
woman, who knew and wished to be kind to us. She.
was, however, of a very narrow disposition,' partly the
result of poverty. I used to be in great distress for
CHIEF JUSTICE COCK BURN, 293
want of fire. I could not afford either that or candle
myself. So I have often sat beside her kitchen fire —
if fire it could be called, which was only a little heap
of embers — reading Horace and conning my dictionary
by a light which required me to hold the books almost
close to the grate. What a miserable winter that was !
Yet I cannot help feeling proud of my trials at that
time. My brother and I — he then between fifteen and
sixteen, I between thirteen and fourteen — had made a
resolution together that we would exercise the last
degree of self-denial. My brother actually saved
money out of his income. I remember seeing him take
five-and-twenty shillings out of a closed box which he
kept to receive his savings ; and that was the spare
money of only a twelvemonth. — Memoir of Robert
Chambers ; with Autobiographic Re77iiniscences of
William Chambers.
Alexander (Lord Chief Justice)
COCKBURN. 1802 — 1880.
Happy is he who, when the day's work is done,
finds his rest, and solace, and recreation in communion
with the master minds of the present and of the past —
in study, in literature, and the enjoyment of pleasures
which are to be derived from this source. If I might
address to the younger portion of the community a few
words of advice and exhortation — trusting to one who
has been as hard a worker as the hardest workers
amongst you — I would say there is no rest, no recrea-
tion, no refreshment to the wearied and jaded body
and mind, worn by work and toil, equal to the intel-
294 VICTOR HUGO.
lectual pleasures to which I have just been referring.
Let them bear in mind that the time will come when
the pleasures that now allure them and draw them away
from intellectual pursuits will come to an end. Old
age will take the place of bodily vigour. Let them
again trust to one who is advancing fast in declining
years — there is no enjoyment to equal the enjoyment
of the great intellectual treasures which are always, at
hand and always at your disposal. . . . With the
prolonged cultivation of the intellect in continued
study, together with the continued worship and admi-
ration of all that is pure and holy, sublime and beautiful
in nature, in letters, and in art, the mind may be made
to preserve its energy and vigour long after old age has
crept upon us. . . , Happy those who take to
study and find in knowledge, in learning, and in those
invaluable and priceless treasures, which the great
geniuses, who have thought and written for us, have
left us, as an undying inheritance, a lasting, a pure, an
unmixed pleasure. — Address to the viemhej's of the
Manchester Athenceum, January 22, 1875.
Victor Hugo. h. 1802 [Living].
Tu viens d'incendier la Bibliotheque ?
— Oui.
J'ai mis le feu 1^.
— Mais c'est un crime inouT,
Crime commis par toi centre toi-meme, infame !
Mais tu viens de tuer le rayon de ton ame !
C'est ton propre flambeau que tu viens de souffler !
Ce que ta rage impie et folle ose bruler,
VICTOR HUGO. 29S
C'est ton bien, ton tresor, ta dot, ton heritage !
Le livre, hostile au maitre, est k ton avantage.
Le livre a toujours pris fait et cause pour toi.
Une bibliotheque est un acte de foi
Des generations tenebreuses encore
Qui rendent dans la nuit temoignage ^ I'aurore.
Quoi ! dans ce venerable amas des verites,
Dans ces chefs-d'oeuvre pleins de foudre et de clartes,
Dans ce tombeau des temps devenu repertoire,
Dans les siecles, dans I'homme antique, dans I'histoire,
Dans le passe, le9on qu'epelle I'avenir,
Dans ce qui commen5a pour ne jamais finir,
Dans les poetes ! quoi, dans ce gouffre des bibles,
Dans le divin monceau des Eschyles terribles,
Des Homeres, des Jobs, debout sur I'horizon,
Dans Moliere, Voltaire et Kant, dans la raison,
Tu jettes, miserable, une torehe enflammee !
De tout I'esprit humain tu fais de la fumee !
As-tu done oublie que ton liberateur,
C'est le livre ? le livre est la sur la hauteur ;
II luit ; parce qu'il brille et qu'il les illumine,
II detruit I'echafaud, la guerre, la famine ;
II parle ; plus d'esclave et plus de paria.
Ouvre un livre. Platon, Milton, Beccaria.
Lis ces prophetes, Dante, ou Shakspeare, ou Corneille;.
L'ame immense qu'ils ont en eux, en toi s'eveille ;.
Ebloui, tu te sens le meme homme qu'eux tous ;
Tu deviens en lisant grave, pensif et doux ;
Tu sens dans ton esprit tous ces grands hommes croltre ;
lis t'enseignent ainsi que I'aube eclaire un cloitre ;
A mesure qu'il plonge en ton coeur plus avant,
Leur chaud rayon t'apaise et te fait plus vivant ;
296 VICTOR HUGO,
Ton ame interrogee est prete \ leur repondre ;
Tu te reconnais bon, puis meilleur ; tu sens fondre
Comme la neige au feu, ton orgueil, tes fureurs,
Le mal, les prejuges, les rois, les empereurs !
Car la science en I'homme arrive la premiere.
Puis vient la liberte. Toute cette lumiere,
C'est a toi, comprends done, et c'est toi qui I'eteins !
Les buts reves par toi sont par le livre atteints.
Le livre en ta pensee entre, il defait en elle
Les liens que I'erreur k la verite mele.
Car tout conscience est un noeud gordien.
II est ton medecin, ton guide, ton gardien.
Ta haine, il la guerit ; ta demence, il te I'ote.
Voila ce que tu perds, helas, et par ta faute !
Le livre est ta richesse ^ toi I c'est le savoir,
Le droit, la verite, la vertu, le devoir,
Le progres, la raison dissipant tout delire.
Et tu detruis cela, toi !
— ^Je ne sais pas lire.
V Annie Terrible, Juin^ viii. : ^^ A Qui
La Faute ? "
[To Miss Mathilde Blind, the accomplished translator
'of Strauss's "The Old Faith and the New," author of
"The Prophecy of St. Oran, and other Poems," and
" George Eliot," in the Eminent Women Series, the
compiler is indebted for the following spirited rendering
of Victor Hugo's indignant remonstrance. The lines
here translated constitute an occurrence in one of the
itwelve divisions (Juin) of " L'Annee Terrible," 1871.
VICTOR HUGO. 297
The remonstrance is supposed to be addressed to a
Communist, whose incendiary rage has just destroyed
a Parisian Library. After having been eloquently
reproached for quenching the light of reason in his •
own soul, and destroying his own heritage, the
Communist replies in that epigrammatic ending so
characteristic of Victor Hugo, and so crushingly
unanswerable : " I cannot read,"]
Translation.
'Tis you then burned the library ?
I did,
I brought the fire.
— O most unheard-of crime.
Crime, wretch, which you upon yourself commit !
Why, you have quenched the light of your own soul !
'Tis your own torch which you have just put out !
That which your impious madness has dared burn,
Was your own treasure, fortune, heritage !
The Book (the master's bugbear) is your gain 1
The Book has ever taken side with you.
A Library implies an act of faith
Which generations still in darkness hid
Sign in their night in witness of the dawn.
What ! miscreant, you fling your flaming torch
Into this pile of venerable truths.
These master-works that thunder forth and lighten,
Into this tomb become time's inventory,
Into the ages, the antique man, the past
Which still spells out the future — history
Which having once begun will never end,
298 VICTOR HUGO.
Into the poets ! Into this mine of Bibles
And all this heap divine — dread -^schylus,
Homer, and Job upright against th' horizon,
Moliere, Voltaire and Kant you set on fire !
Thus turning human reason into smoke !
Have you forgotten that your liberator
Is this same Book ? The Book that's set on high
And shines ; because it lightens and illumes ;
It undermines the gallows, war and famine ;
It speaks; the Slave and Pariah disappear.
Open a Book. Plato, Beccaria, Milton,
Those prophets, Dante, Shakspeare or Corneille,
Shall not their great souls waken yours in you ?
Dazzled you feel the same as each of them ;
Reading you grow more gentle, pensive, grave ;
Within your heart you feel these great men grow ;
They teach you as the dawn lights up a cloister.
And as their warm beams penetrate your heart
You are appeased and thrill with stronger life ;
Your soul interrogated answers theirs;
You feel you're good, then better ; — as snow in fire-
Then melt away your pride, your prejudice.
Evil and rage and Kings and Emperors !
For Science, see you, first lays hold of men,
Then Liberty, and all this flood of light,
Mark me, 'tis you who have extinguished it !
The goal you dreamt of by the Book was reached ;
The Book enters your thoughts and there unties
The bonds wherein truth was by error held,
For each man's conscience is a Gordian knot.
The Book is your physician, guardian, guide :
It heals your hate, and cures your frenzied mood.
LORD LYTTON, 299
See what you lose by your own fault, alas !
Why, know the Book's your wealth ! The Book means
truth,
Knowledge and Duty, Virtue, Progress, Right,
And Reason scattering hence delirious dreams.
And you destroy this, you !
I cannot read.
Lord Lytton (E. L. Bulwer). 1803 — 1873.
"I say, then, that books, taken indiscriminately,
are no cure to the diseases and afflictions of the mind.
There is a world of science necessary in the taking
them. I have known some people in great sorrow fly .
to a novel, or the last light book in fashion. One
might as well take a rose- draught for the plague !
Light reading does not do when the heart is really
heavy. I am told that Goethe, when he lost his son,
took to study a science that was new to him. Ah !
Goethe was a physician who knew what he was about.
In a great grief like that, you cannot tickle and divert
the mind ; you must wrench it away, abstract, absorb —
bury it in an abyss, hurry it into a labyrinth. There-
fore, for the irremediable sorrows of middle life and
old age, I recommend a strict chronic course of science
and hard reasoning — Counter-irritation. Bring the
brain to act upon the heart ! If science is too much
against the grain (for we have not all got mathematical
heads,) something in the reach of the humblest under-
standing, but sufficiently searching to the highest — a
new language — Greek, Arabic, Scandinavian, Chinese,
or Welsh ! For the loss of fortune, the dose should
be applied less directly to the understanding — I would
300 LORD LYTTON.
administer something elegant and cordial. For as the
heart is crushed and lacerated by a loss in the affections,
so it is rather the head that aches and suffers by the
loss of money. Here we find the higher class of poets
a very valuable remedy. For observe that poets of
the grander and more comprehensive kind of genius
have in them two separate men, quite distinct from
each other — the imaginative man, and the practical,
circumstantial man ; and it is the happy mixture of
these that suits diseases of the mind, half imaginative
and half practical. There is Homer, now lost with
the gods, now at home with the homeliest, the very
. *poet of circumstance,' as Gray has finely called him ;
and yet with imagination enough to seduce and coax
the dullest into forgetting, for a while, that little spot
on his desk which his banker's book can cover. There
is Virgil, far below him, indeed —
' Virgil the wise.
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies,'
as Cowley expresses it. But Virgil still has genius
enough to be two men — to lead you into the fields, not
only to listen to the pastoral reed, and to hear the bees
hum, but to note how you can make the most of the
glebe and the vineyard. There is Horace, charming
man of the world, who will condole with you feelingly
on the loss of your fortune, and by no means under-
value the good things of this life ; but who will yet
show you that a man may be happy with a vile modicum
or parva rura. There is Shakspeare, who, above all
poets, is the mysterious dual of hard sense and empy-
real fancy — and a great many more, whom I need not
LORD LYTTON. 301
name ; but who, if you take to them gently and quietly,
will not, like your mere philosopher, your unreasonable
stoic, tell you that you have lost nothing ; but who will
insensibly steal you out of this world, with its losses
and crosses, and slip you into another world, before
you know where you are ! — a world where you are just
as welcome, though you carry no more earth of your
lost acres with you than covers the sole of your shoe.
Then, for hypochondria and satiety, what is better than
a brisk alterative course of travels, — especially early,
out-of-the-way, marvellous, legendary travels ! How
they freshen up the spirits ! How they take you out
of the humdrum yawning state you are in. See, with
Herodotus, young Greece spring up into life ; or note
with him how already the wondrous old Orient world
is crumbling into giant decay ; or go with Carpini and
Rubruquis to Tartary, meet * the carts of Zag'athai
laden with houses, and think that a great city is
travelling towards you.' Gaze on that vast wild em-
pire of the Tartar, where the descendants of Jenghis
* multiply and disperse over the immense waste desert,
which is as boundless as the ocean.' Sail with the
early northern discoverers, and penetrate to the heart
of winter, among sea-serpents and bears, and tusked
morses, with the faces of men. Then, what think you
of Columbus, and the stern soul of Cortes, and the
kingdom of Mexico, and the strange gold city of the
Peruvians with that audacious brute, Pizarro ? and the
Polynesians, just for all the world like the ancient
Britons? and the American Indians, and the South-
Sea Islanders ? how petulant, and young, and adven-
turous, and frisky your hypochondriac must get upon
302 LORD LYTTON.
a regimen like that ! Then, for that vice of the mind
which I call sectarianism — not in the religious sense of
the word, but little, narrow prejudices, that make you
hate your next-door neighbour, because he has his eggs
roasted when you have yours boiled ; and gossiping
and prying into people's affairs, and backbiting, and
thinking heaven and earth are coming together, if
some broom touch a cobweb that you have let grow
over the window-sill of your brains — what like a large
and generous, mildly aperient (I beg your pardon, my
dear) course of history ! How it clears away all the fumes
of the head ! — better than the hellebore with which the
old leeches of the middle ages purged the cerebellum.
There, amidst all that great whirl and sturmbad (storm-
bath), as the Germans say, of kingdoms and empires,
and races and ages, how your mind enlarges beyond
that little, feverish animosity to John Styles ; or that
unfortunate prepossession of yours, that all the world
is interested in your grievances against Tom Stokes
and his wife !
*' I can only touch, you see, on a few ingredients in
this magnificent pharmacy — its resources are boundless,
but require the nicest discretion. I remember to have
cured a disconsolate widower, who obstinately refused
every other medicament, by a strict course of geology.
I dipped him deep into gneiss and mica schist. Amidst
the first strata, I suffered the watery action to expend
itself upon cooling crystallised masses ; and, by the
time I had got him into the tertiary period, amongst
the transition chalks of Maestricht, and the conchi-
ferous marls of Gosau, he was ready for a new wife.
Kitty, my dear ! it is no laughing matter. I made no
LORD LYTTON. 303
less notable a cure of a young scholar at Cambridge,
who was meant for the church, when he suddenly
caught a cold fit of freethinking, with great shiverings,
from wading out of his depth in Spinosa. None of
the divines, whom I first tried, did him the least good
in that state ; so I turned over a new leaf, and doctored
him gently upon the chapters of faith in Abraham
Tucker's book, (you should read it, Sisty ;) then I threw
in strong doses of Fichte ; after that I put him on the
Scotch metaphysicians, with plunge-baths into certain
German transcendentalists ; and having convinced him
that faith is not an unphilosophical state of mind, and
*hat he might believe without compromising his under-
standing — for he was mightily conceited on that score —
I threw in my divines, which he was now fit to digest ;
and his theological constitution, since then, has become
so robust, that he has eaten up two livings and a
deanery ! In fact, I have a plan for a library, that,
instead of heading its compartments, 'Philology,
Natural Science, Poetry,' &c., one shall head them
according to the diseases for which they are severally
good, bodily and mental — up from a dire calamity, or
the pangs of the gout, down to a fit of the spleen or a
slight catarrh ; for which last your light reading comes
in with a whey-posset and barley-water. But," con-
tinued my father, more gravely, "when some one
sorrow, that is yet reparable, gets hold of your mind
like a monomania — when you think, because heaven
has denied you this or that, on which you had set your
heart, that all your life must be a blank — oh ! then diet
yourself well on biography — the biography of good
and great men. See how little a space one sorrow
304 LORD LYTTON.
really makes in life. See scarce a page, perhaps, given
to some grief similar to your own ; and how trium*
phantly the life sails on beyond it ! Vou thought the
wing was broken ! — Tut — tut — it was but a bruised
feather! See what life leaves behind it when all is
done ! — a summary of positive facts far out of the
region of sorrow and suffering, linking themselves
with the being of the world. Yes, biography is the
medicine here ! Roland, you said you would try my
prescription — here it is," — and my father took up a
book, and reached it to the Captain.
My uncle looked over it — *'Life of the Reverend
Robert Hall." "Brother, he was a Dissenter, and
thank heaven! I am a church-and-state man, to the
back-bone ! "
" Robert Hall was a brave man, and a true soldier
under the Great Commander," said my father, artfully.
The Captain mechanically carried his forefinger to
his forehead in military fashion, and saluted the book
respectfully.
*'I have another copy for you, Pisistratus — that is
mine which I have lent Roland. This, which I bought
for you to-day, you will keep ."
*' Thank you, sir," said I, listlessly, not seeing what
great good the "Life of Robert Hall" could do me,
or why the same medicine should suit the old weather-
beaten uncle, and the nephew yet in his teens.
"I have said nothing," resumed my father, slightly
bowing his broad temples, "of the Book of Books, for
that is the lignum vitce^ the cardinal medicine for all.
These are but the subsidiaries." — The Caxtons: "^
Family Picture,''''
LORD LYTTON, 305
Laws die, Books never.
Richelieti. Act i., Scene 2.
Beneath the rule of men entirely great
The pen is mightier than the sword. Behold
The arch-enchanter's wand ! . . .
. . . Take away the sword —
States caji be saved without it.
Richelieu. Act ii., Scene 2.
Ye ever-living and imperial Souls,
Who rule us from the page in which ye breathe,
What were our wanderings if without your goals ?
As air and light, the glory ye dispense.
Becomes our being — who of us can tell
What he had been, had Cadmus never taught
The art that fixes into form the thought —
Had Plato never spoken from his cell,
Or his high harp blind Homer never strung ? —
Kinder all earth hath grown since genial Shakspeare
sung !
The Wise
(Minstrel or Sage) out of their books are clay ;
But in their books, as from their graves, they rise,
Angels — that, side by side, upon our way.
Walk with and warn us !
Hark ! the world so loud
And they^ the movers of the world, so still !
We call some books immoral ! Do they live ?
If so, believe me, time hath made them pure.
U
3o6 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
In Books, the veriest wicked rest in peace —
God wills that nothing evil should endure ;
The grosser parts fly off and leave the whole.
As the dust leaves the disembodied soul !
All books grow homilies by time ; they are
Temples, at once, and Landmarks. In them, we
"Who but for them, upon that inch of ground
We call *' The Present," from the cell could see
No daylight trembling on the dungeon bar ;
Turn, as we list, the globe's great axle round,
Traverse all space, and number every star,
And feel the Near less household than the Far !
There is no Past, so long as Books shall live !
A disinterr'd Pompeii wakes again
For him who seeks yon well.
The Souls of Books,
Ralph Waldo Emerson. 1803 — 1882.
But it is not less true that there are books which are
of that importance in a man's private experience, as
to verify for him the fables of Cornelius Agrippa, of
Michael Scott, or of the old Orpheus of Thrace, —
books which take rank in our life with parents and
lovers and passionate experiences, so medicinal, so
stringent, so revolutionary, so authoritative, — books
which are the work and the proof of faculties so com-
prehensive, so nearly equal to the world which they
paint, that, though one shuts them with meaner ones,
he feels his exclusion from them to accuse his way of
living.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 307
Consider what you have in the smallest chosen
library. A company of the wisest and wittiest men
that could be picked out of all civil countries, in a
thousand years, have set in best order the results of
their learning and wisdom. The men themselves were
hid and inaccessible, solitary, impatient of interruption,
fenced by etiquette ; but the thought which they did
not uncover to their bosom friend is here written out
in transparent words to us, the strangers of another
age. We owe to books those general benefits which
'Come from high intellectual action. Thus, I think, we
often owe to them the perception of immortality.
They impart sympathetic activity to the moral power.
Go with mean people, and you think life is mean.
Then read Plutarch, and the world is a proud place,
peopled with men of positive quality, with heroes and
demigods standing around us, who will not let us
sleep. Then they address the imagination : only
poetry inspires poetry. They become the organic
culture of the time. College education is the reading
of certain books which the common sense of all scholars
agrees will represent the science already accumulated.
If you know that, — for instance, in geometry, if you
have read Euclid and Laplace, — your opinion has some
value ; if you do not know these, you are not entitled
to give any opinion on the subject. Whenever any
sceptic or bigot claims to be heard on the questions of
intellect and morals, we ask if he is familiar with the
books of Plato, where all his pert objections have once
for all been disposed of. If not, he has no right to
our time. Let him go and find himself answered
there.
3o8 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Meantime the colleges, whilst they provide us with
libraries, furnish no professor of books ; and, I think,
no chair is so much wanted. In a library we are sur-
rounded by many hundreds of dear friends, but they
are imprisoned by an enchanter in these paper and
leathern boxes; and though they know us, and have
been waiting two, ten, or twenty centuries for us, —
some of them, — and are eager to give us a sign, and
unbosom themselves, it is the law of their limbo that
they must not speak until spoken to ; and as the
enchanter has dressed them, like battalions of infantry,
in coat and jacket of one cut, by the thousand and ten
thousand, your chance of hitting on the right one is to
be computed by the arithmetical rule of Permutation
and Combination, — not a choice out of three caskets,
but out of half a million caskets all alike. But it
happens, in our experience, that in this lottery there
are at least fifty or a hundred blanks to a prize. It
seems, then, as if some charitable soul, after losing
a great deal of time among the false books, and
alighting upon a few true ones which made him happy
and wise, would do a right act in naming those which
have been bridges or ships to carry him safely over
dark morasses and barren oceans, into the heart of
sacred cities, into palaces and temples. This would be
best done by those great masters of books who from
time to time appear, — the Fabricii, the Seldens, Mag-
liabecchis, Scaligers, Mirandolas, Bayles, Johnsons,
whose eyes sweep the whole horizon of learning. But
private readers, reading purely for love of the book,
would serve us by leaving each the shortest note of
what he found. — Society and Solitude.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 309
In the highest civilization the book is still the highest
delight. He who has once known its satisfactions is
provided with a resource against calamity. Like
Plato's disciple who has perceived a truth, **he is
preserved from harm until another period." . . .
We find in Southey's " Common-place Book " this
said of the Earl of Strafford : '* I learned one rule of
him," says Sir G. Radcliffe, '* which I think worthy to
be remembered. When he met with a well-penned
oration or tract upon any subject, he framed a speech
upon the same argument, inventing and disposing what
seemed fit to be said upon that subject, before he read
the book ; then, reading, compared his own with the "
author's, and noted his own defects and the author's
art and fulness; whereby he drew all that ran in the
author more strictly, and might better judge of his own
wants to supply them." . . .
Original power is usually accompanied with assimi-
lating power, and we value in Coleridge his excellent
knowledge and quotations perhaps as much, possibly
more, than his original suggestions. If an author
give us just distinctions, inspiring lessons, or imagina-
tive poetry,' it is not so important to us whose they
are. If we are fired* and guided by these, we know
him as a benefactor, and shall return to him as long as
he serves us so well. We may like well to know what
is Plato's, and what is Montesquieu's or Goethe's part,
and what thought was always dear to the writer
himself; but the worth of the sentences consists in
their radiancy and equal aptitude to all intelligence.
They fit all our facts like a charm. We respect our-
selves the more that we know them.
3IO RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Next to the originator of a good sentence is the first
quoter of it. Many will read the book before one
thinks of quoting a passage. As soon as he has done
this, that line will be quoted east and west. Then
there are great ways of borrowing. Genius borrows
nobly. When Shakspeare is charged with debts to
his authors, Landor replies : *' Yet he was more
original than his originals. He breathed upon dead
bodies and brought them into life." And we must
thank Karl Ottfried Miiller for the just remark,
"Poesy, drawing within its circle all that is glorious
and inspiring, gave itself but little concern as to where
its flowers originally grew." So Voltaire usually
imitated, but with such superiority that Dubuc said:
"He is like the false Amphitryon ; although the
stranger, it is always he who has the air of being
master of the house." Wordsworth, as soon as he
heard a good thing, caught it up, meditated upon
it, and very soon reproduced it in his conversation and
writing. If De Quincey said, " That is what I told
you," he replied, "No; that is mine — mine, and not
yours. " On the whole, we like the valor of it. 'T is
on Marmontel's principle, "I pounce on what is mine,
wherever I find it ;" and on Bacon's broader rule, " I
take all knowledge to be my province." It betrays
the consciousness that truth is the property of no
individual, but is the treasure of all men. And
inasmuch as any writer has ascended to a just view of
man's condition, he has adopted this tone. In so far
as the receiver's aim is on life, and not on literature,
will be his indifference to the source. The nobler the
truth or sentiment, the less imports the question of
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 311
authorship. It never troubles the simple seeker from
whom he derived such or such a sentiment. Whoever
expresses to us a just thought makes ridiculous the
pains of the critic who should tell him where such a
word had been said before. **It is no more according
to Plato than according to me." Truth is always
present : it only needs to lift the iron lids of the mind's
eye to read its oracles. But the moment there is the
purpose of display, the fraud is exposed. In fact, it is
as difficult to appropriate the thoughts of others, as it
is to invent. Always some steep transition, some
sudden alteration of temperature, of point of view,
betrays the foreign interpolation. . . .
We are as much informed of a writer's genius by
what he selects as by what he originates. We read
the quotation with his eyes, and find a new and fervent
sense ; as a passage from one of the poets, well recited,
borrows new interest from the rendering. As the
journals say, "the italics are ours." The profit of books
is according to the sensibility of the reader. The pro-
foundest thought or passion sleeps as in a mine, until an
equal mind and heart finds and publishes it. . . .
In hours of high mental activity we sometimes do
the book too much honor, reading out of it better
things than the author wrote, — reading, as we say,
between the lines. You have had the like experience
in conversation : the wit was in what you heard, not
in what the speakers said. Our best thought came
from others. We heard in their words a deeper sense
than the speakers put into them, and could express
ourselves in other people's phrases to finer purpose
than they knew. . . ,
312 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
We cannot overstate our debt to the Past, but the
moment has the supreme claim. The Past is for us :
but the sole terms on which it can become ours are its
subordination to the Present. Only an inventor knows
how to borrow, and every man is or should be an
inventor. We must not tamper with the organic
motion of the soul. 'T is certain that thought has its
own proper motion, and the hints which flash from it,
the words overheard at unawares by the free mind, are
trustworthy and fertile, when obeyed, and not per-
verted to low and selfish account. This vast memory
is only raw material. The divine gift is ever the
instant life, which receives and uses and creates, and
can well bury the old in the omnipotency with which
Nature decomposes all her harvest for recomposition. —
Letters and Social Aims: ' * Quotation and Originality, '*
" Literature is the record of the best thoughts.
Every attainment and discipline which increases a
man's acquaintance with the invisible world, lifts his
being. Every thing that gives him a new perception
of beauty, multiplies his pure enjoyments. A river of
thought is always running out of the invisible world
into the mind of man. Shall not they who received
the largest streams spread abroad the healing waters?
** Homer and Plato and Pindar and Shakspere serve
many more than have heard their names. Thought is
the most volatile of all things. It can not be con-
tained in any cup, though you shut the lid never so
light. Once brought into the world, it runs over the
vessel which received it into all minds that love it.
The very language we speak thinks for us by the subtle
RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 313
distinctions which already are marked for us by its
words, and every one of them is the contribution of
the wit of one and another sagacious man in all the
centuries of time. Consider that it is our own state of
mind at any time that makes our estimate of life and
the world. . . . Now, if you can kindle the
imagination by a new thought, by heroic histories, by
uplifting poetry, instantly you expand,— are cheered,
inspired, and become wise, and even prophetic. Music
works this miracle for those who have a good ear;
what omniscience has music ! so absolutely impersonal,
and yet every sufferer feels his secret sorrow reached.
Yet to a scholar the book is as good or better. There
is no hour of vexation which, on a little reflection,
will not find diversion and relief in the library. His
companions are few ; at the moment he has none ;
but, year by year, these silent friends supply their
place. Many times the reading of a book has made
the fortune of the man, — has decided his way of life.
It makes friends. 'Tis the tie between men to have
been delighted with the same book. Every one of us is
always in search of his friend ; and when, unexpectedly,
he finds a stranger enjoying the rare poet or thinker who
is dear to his own solitude, it is like finding a brother.
" In books I have the history or the energy of the
past. Angels they are to us of entertainment, sym-
pathy, and provocation. With them many of us spend
the most of our life, — these silent guides, these tractable
prophets, historians, and singers, whose embalmed life
is the highest feat of art ; who now cast their moon-
light illumination over solitude, weariness, and fallen
fortunes. You say 'tis a languid pleasure. Yes ; but
314 RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
its tractableness, coming and going, like a dog at youf
bidding, compensates the quietness, and contrast with
the slowness of fortune, and the inaccessibleness of
persons. You meet with a man of science, a good
thinker or good wit ; but you do not know how to
draw out of him that which he knows. But the book
is a sure friend, always ready at your first leisure,
opens to the very page you desire, and shuts at your
first fatigue, as possibly your professor might not.
"It is a tie between men to have read the same
book; and it is a disadvantage not to have read the
book your mates have read, or not to have read it at
the same time, so that it may take the place in your
culture it does in theirs, and you shall understand
their allusions to it, and not give it more or less
emphasis than they do. . . .
" In saying these things for books, I do not for
a moment forget that they are secondary, mere means,
and only used in the off-hours, only in the pause, and,
as it were, the sleep, or passive state, of the mind.
The intellect reserves all its rights. Instantly, when
the mind itself wakes, all books, all past acts are
forgotten, huddled aside as impertinent in the august
presence of the creator. Their costliest benefit is that
they set us free from ourselves ; for they wake the
imagination and the sentiment, and in their inspira-
tions we dispense with books. Let me add, then,
read proudly, — put the duty of being read invariably on
the author. If he is not read, whose fault is it? I am
quite ready to be charmed, but I shall not make believe
I am charmed." — Address on the Dedication of the
Free Library in Concord, May, ^^IZ-
RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 315
"Let us not forget the genial miraculous force we
have known to proceed from a book. We go musing
into the vault of day and night ; no constellation shines,
no muse descends, the stars are white points, the roses
brick-colored dust, the frogs pipe, mice peep, and
wagons creak along the road. We return to the house
and take up Plutarch or Augustine, and read a few
sentences or pages, and lo! the air swims with life;
the front of heaven is full of fiery shapes ; secrets
of magnanimity and grandeur invite us on every hand ;
life is made up of them. Such is our debt to a book. " —
The Dial, 1840 : " Thoughts on Modern Literature. ^^
"Whenever I have to do with young men and
women, he said, I always wish to know what their
books are ; I wish to defend them from bad ; I wish
to introduce them to good ; I wish to speak of the
immense benefit which a good mind derives from
reading, probably much more to a good mind from
reading than from conversation. It is of first im-
portance, of course, to select a friend ; for a young
man should find a friend a little older than himself,
or whose mind is a little older than his own, in order
to wake up his genius. That service is performed
oftener for us by books. I think, if a very active
mind, if a young man of ability, should give you his
honest experience, you would find that he owed more
impulse to books than to living minds. The great
masters of thought, the Platos, — not only those that we
call sacred writers, but those that we call profanes, —
hav£; acted on the mind with more energy than any com-
panions. I think that every remarkable person whom
3i6 RICHARD COBDEN.
you meet will testify to something like that, that the fast-
opening mind has found more inspiration in his book
than in his friend. We take the book under great advan-
tages. We read it when we are alone. We read it with
an attention not distracted. And, perhaps, we find there
our own thought, a little better, a little maturer, than it
is in ourselves." — Address to the Students ( coloured) of
Howard University, Washington, January, 1872.
Richard Cobden. 1804 — 1865.
Gentlemen, I exhort you to maintain this and kindred
institutions on every ground, public and private. I
have had many changes, I have seen many phases of
society, probably as many as most. I do not say this
egotistically, because I am merely now going to eluci-
date a thought. I have seen many phases of society,
I have had many excited means of occupation, and of
gratification; but I tell you honestly and conscientiously,
that if I want to look back to that which has given me
the purest satisfaction of mind, it is in those pursuits
which are accessible to every member of the Athenaeum.
I have not found the greatest enjoyment in the exciting
plaudits of a public meeting; I have not found the
greatest pleasure or interest in intercourse, sometimes
with men of elevated sphere abroad, where others
would think probably that you were privileged to meet
such men ; I come back to you conscientiously to declare
that the purest pleasures I have ever known are those
accessible to you all ; it is in the calm intercourse with
intelligent minds, and in the communion with the
departed great, through books, by our own firesides. —
Address to the memhci's of the Manchester Athenceum,
November 18, 1847.
f. d. maurice. 317
Frederick Denison Maurice. 1805 — 1872.
Sir Walter Scott has also kindled a healthy desire
among us for real histories, not merely historical novels.
The demand has been met by many authors, whose
patient industry as well as their power of exhibiting
acts, and the sources of acts, surely promise that they
shall live. Charles Lamb said, in one of his exquisite
essays, 'that there were some histories written in the
last age which cannot be called books at all. They
were merely the pasteboard covers * ' History of Eng-
land," or " History of the World," which careful
librarians put into their shelves when their books are
absent. Some of the historians that our age has pro-
duced are books in the truest sense of the word. They
illustrate great periods in our own annals, and in the
annals of other countries. They show what a divine
discipline has been at work to form men : they teach
us that there is such a discipline at work to form us into
men. That is the test to which I have urged that all
books must at last be brought : if they do not bear it
their doom is fixed. They may be light or heavy, the
penny sheet, or the vast folio; they may speak of
things seen or unseen ; of Science or Art; of what has
been, or what is to be ; they may amuse us, weary us,
flatter us, or scorn us; if they do not assist to make us
better or more substantial men, they are only providing
fuel for a fire larger and more utterly destructive than
that which consumed the library of the Ptolemies. —
The Friendship of Books ^ and other Lectures, by the
Rev. F. D. Maurice. On Books: An Address" delivered
to the Leicester Literary and Philosophical Society,
November y 1865.
3i8 SAMUEL PALMER,
Samuel Palmer (Artist). 1805 — 1881.
" There is nothing like poetry," said Charles James
Fox, who might often be found engrossed by Virgil's
Eclogues in the intervals of a very different career.
I think we may extend his remark, and say, "There is
nothing like books." Of all things sold incomparably
the cheapest ; of all pleasures the least palling : they
take up little room, keep quiet when they are not
wanted, and, when taken up, bring us face to face
with the choicest men who have ever lived, at their
choicest moments. As my walking companion in the
country I was so un-Enghsh as, on the whole, to prefer
my pocket Milton, which I carried for twenty years, to
the not unbeloved bull-terrier "Trimmer," who accom-
panied me for five ; for Milton never fidgeted, frightened
horses, ran after sheep, or got run over by a goods-
van. — Memoir of Samuel Palmer , the artist^ by A, H,
Palmer^ 1 882.
Lord Beaconsfield (Benjamin Disraeli).
1805— 1881.
The idea that human happiness is dependent on the
cultivation of the mind, and on the discovery of truth,
is, next to the conviction of our immortality, the idea
the most full of consolation to man ; for the cultivation
of the mind has no limits, and truth is the only thing
that is eternal. Indeed, when you consider what a
man is who knows only what is passing under his own
eyes, and what the condition of the same man must be
LORD BEACONSFJELD. 319
who belongs to an institution like the one which has
assembled us together to-night, is it — ought it to
be — a matter of surprise that, from that moment to the
present, you have had a general feeling throughout the
civilised world in favour of the diffusion of knowledge?
A man who knows nothing but the history of the
passing hour, who knows nothing of the history of the
past, but that a certain person whose brain was as
vacant as his own occupied the same house as himself,
who in a moment of despondency or of gloom has no
hope in the morrow because he has read nothing that
has taught him that the morrow has any changes —
that man, compared with him who has read the most
ordinary abridgment of history, or the most common
philosophical speculation, is as distinct and different
an animal as if he had fallen from some other planet,
was influenced by a different organization, working for
a different end, and hoping for a different result. It
is knowledge . that equalizes the social condition of
man — that gives to all, however different their political
position, passions which are in common, and enjoy-
ments which are universal. Knowledge is like the
mystic ladder in the patriarch's dream. Its base rests
on the primeval earth — its crest is lost in the shadowy
splendour of the empyrean ; while the great authors
who for traditionary ages have held the chain of
science and philosophy, of poesy and erudition, are
the angels ascending and descending the sacred scale,
and maintaining, as it were, the communication between
man and heaven. — Speech to the members of the Man-
chester AtheitceuMy October 23, 1844.
320 BE A CONSFIELD—LONGFELL O IV.
An Author may influence the fortunes of the world
to as great an extent as a statesman or a warrior ; and
the deeds and performances by which this influence is
created and exercised, may rank in their interest and
importance with the decisions of great Congresses, or
the skilful valour of a memorable field. M. de Voltaire
was certainly a greater Frenchman than Cardinal Flury,
the Prime Minister of France in his time. His actions
were more important ; and it is certainly not too much
to maintain that the exploits of Homer, Aristotle,
Dante, or my Lord Bacon were as considerable events
as anything that occurred at Actium, Lepanto, or
Blenheim. A Book may be as great a thing as a
Battle, and there are systems of Philosophy that have
produced as great revolutions as any that have disturbed
the social and political existence of our centuries.
Memoir of Isaac Disraeli^ by his Son^ Benjamin
Disraeli (Lord Beaconsfield). Prefixed to posthumous
Edition of ** Curiosities of Literature^
H. W. Longfellow. 1807 — 1882.
O precious evenings ! all too swiftly sped.
Leaving us heirs to amplest heritages
Of all the best thoughts of the greatest sages,
And giving tongues unto the silent dead !
Sonnet to Mrs. Fanny Kefuble,
[The following touching sonnet is the last emanation
from the pen of a poet whose writings will always be
loved and admired for their purity, tenderness, and
simplicity] \-^
LONGFELLOW. 32
My Books.
Sadly as some old medioeval knight
Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
The sword two-handed and the shining shield
Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
While secret longings for the lost delight
Of tourney or adventure in the field
Came over him, and tears but half concealed
Trembled and fell upon his beard of white.
So I behold these books upon their shelf,
My ornaments and arms of other days ;
Not wholly useless, though no longer used.
For they remind me of my other self,
Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways,
In which I walked, now clouded and confused.
December, 18S1.
George S. Hillard (American Jurist and
Author), b, 1808, d. ?
In books, be it remembered, w^e have the best
products of the best minds. We should any of us
esteem it a great privilege to pass an evening with
Shakspeare or Bacon, were such a thing possible.
But, were we admitted to the presence of one of these
illustrious men, we might find him touched with in-
firmity or oppressed with weariness, or darkened
with the shadow ot a recent trouble, or absorbed by
intrusive and tyrannous thoughts. To us the oracle
might be dumb, and the light eclipsed. But, when
V
322 GEORGE S. HILLARD.
we take down one of these volumes, we run no such
risk. Here we have their best thoughts embalmed in
their best words ; immortal flowers of poetry, wet
with Castalian dews, and the golden fruit of Wisdom
that had long ripened on the bough before it was
gathered. Here we find the growth of the choicest
seasons of the mind, when mortal cares were forgotten,
and mortal weaknesses were subdued; and the soul,
stripped of its vanities and its passions, gave forth its
highest emanations of truth and beauty. We may be
sure that Shakspeare never out-talked his Hamlet,
nor Bacon his Essays. Great writers are indeed best
known through their books. How little, for instance,
do we know of the life of Shakspeare ; but how much
do we know of him !
For the knowledge that comes from books, I would
claim no more than it is fairly entitled to. I am well
aware that there is no inevitable connection between
intellectual cultivation, on the one hand, and individual
virtue or social well-being, on the other. "The tree
of knowledge is not the tree of life." I admit that
genius and learning are sometimes found in combina-
tion with gross vices, and not unfrequently with
contemptible weaknesses ; and that a community at
once cultivated and corrupt is no impossible monster.
But it is no over-statement to say, that, other things
being equal, the man who has the greatest amount of
intellectual resources is in the least danger from inferior
temptations, — if for no other reason, because he has
fewer idle moments. The ruin of most men dates
from some vacant hour. Occupation is the armour of
the soul ; and the train of Idleness is borne up by all
GEORGE S. HILLARD. 323
the vices. I remember a satirical poem, in which the
Devil is represented as fishing for men, and adapting
his baits to the taste and temperament of his prey ; but
the idler, he said, pleased him most, because he bit the
naked hook. To a young man away from home,
friendless and forlorn in a great city, the hours of peril
are those between sunset and bed time ; for the moon
and the stars see more of evil in a single hour than the
sun in his whole day's circuit. The poet's visions of
evening are all compact of tender and soothing images.
It brings the wanderer to his home, the child to his
mother's arms, the ox to his stall, and the weary
labourer to his rest. But to the gentle-hearted youth
who is thrown upon the rocks of a pitiless city, and
stands ** homeless among a thousand homes," the
approach of evening brings with it an aching sense of
loneliness and desolation, which comes down upon the
spirit like darkness upon the earth. In this mood his
best impulses become a snare to him; and he is led
astray because he is social, affectionate, sympathetic,
and warm-hearted. If there be a young man thus cir-
cumstanced within the sound of my voice, let me say
to him that books are the friends of the friendless, and
that a library is the home of the homeless. A taste for
reading will always carry you into the best possible
society, and enable you to converse with men who will
instruct you by their wisdom, and charm you by their
wit ; who will soothe you when fretted, refresh you
when weary, counsel you when perplexed, and
sympathise with you at all times.- — Address before the
Mercantile Library Association of Boston. 1850.
324 caroline norton.
Mrs. Norton (C. E. S. Stirling-
Maxwell). 1808 — 1877.
To My Books,
Silent companions of the lonely hour,
Friends, who can never alter or forsake,
Who for inconstant roving have no power,
And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take.
Let me return to You ; this turmoil ending
Which worldly cares have in my spirit wrought,
And, o'er your old familiar pages bending,
Refresh my mind with many a tranquil thought :
Till, haply meeting there, from time to time.
Fancies, the audible echo of my own,
'Twill be like hearing in a foreign clime
My native language spoke in friendly tone,
And with a sort of welcome I shall dwell
On these, my unripe musings, told so well.
Robert Aris Willmott. 1809 — 1862.
An affecting instance of the tenderness and the
compensations of Learning is furnished by the old age
of Usher, when no spectacles could help his failing
sight, and a book was dark except beneath the strongest
light of the window. Hopeful and resigned he con-
tinued his task, following the sun from room to room
through the house he Hved in, until the shadows of
the trees disappeared from the grass, and the day was
gone. How strange and delightful must have been
his feelings, when the sunbeam fell brilliantly upon
some half-remembered passage, and thought after
ROBERT ARIS IVILLMOTT. 325
thought shone out from the misty words, like the
features of a familiar landscape in a clearing fog.
Pleasant it would be for us, in our gloomier hours of
time and sadness, if we might imitate that Indian bird
which, enjoying the sunshine all the day, secures a
faint reflection of it in the night, by sticking glow-
worms in the walls of its nest. And something of this
light is obtained from the books read in youth, to be
remembered in age —
"And summer's green all girded up in sheaves."
Coleridge said that the scenes of his childhood were
so deeply written on his mind, that when upon a still,
shining day of summer he shut his eyes, the river Otter
ran murmuring down the room, with the soft tints of
its waters, the crossing plank, the willows on the
margin, and the coloured sands of its bed. What
lover of books does not know the sweeter memories
that haunt his solitude ! — Pleasures, Objects , and Ad-
vantages of Literature,
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
1809 — 1861.
Or else I sate on in my chamber green,
And lived my life, and thought my thoughts,
and prayed
My prayers without the vicar ; read my books,
Without considering whether they were fit
To do me good. Mark, there. We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits,— so much help
326 ELIZABETH B. BROWNING.
By SO much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound.
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth —
*Tis then we get the right good from a book.
Books, books, books \
I had found the secret of a garret-room
Piled high with cases in my father's name,
Piled high, packed large, — where, creeping in
and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the
ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap.
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read !
My books ! At last because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.
Aurora Leigh.
John Hill Burton. 1809 — 1881.
As to collectors, it is quite true that they do not in
general read their books successively straight through,
and the practice of desultory reading, as it is some-
times termed, must be treated as part of their case,
and if a failing, one cognate with their habit of col-
lecting. They are notoriously addicted to the practice
JOHN HILL BURTON. 327
of standing arrested on some round of a ladder, where,
having mounted up for some certain book, they have
by wayward chance fallen upon another, in which,
at the first opening, has come up a passage which
fascinates the finder as the eye of the Ancient Mariner
fascinated the wedding-guest, and compels him to stand
there, poised on his uneasy perch, and read. Perad-
venture the matter so perused suggests another passage
in some other volume which it will be satisfactory
and interesting to find, and so another and another
search is made, while the hours pass by unnoticed, and
the day seems all too short for the pursuit which is a
luxury and an enjoyment, at the same time that it fills
the mind with varied knowledge and wisdom. — The
B 00k- Hunter : ** The Desultory Reader^ or Bohemian
of Literature, ^^
To every man of our Saxon race endowed with full
health and strength, there is committed, as if it were
the price he pays for these blessings, the custody of a
restless demon, for which he is doomed to find ceaseless
excitement, either in honest work, or some less profit-
able or more mischievous occupation. Countless have
been the projects devised by the wit of man to open up
for this fiend fields of exertion great enough for the
absorption of its tireless energies, and none of them is
more hopeful than the great world of books, if the
demon is docile enough to be coaxed into it. Then
will its erratic restlessness be sobered by the immensity
of the sphere of exertion, and the consciousness that,
however vehemently and however long it may struggle,
the resources set before it will not be exhausted when
328 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
the life to which it is attached shall have faded away ;
^nd hence, instead of dreading the languor of inaction,
it will have to summon all its resources of promptness
and activity to get over any considerable portion of the
ground within the short space allotted to the life of
man. — The Book- Hunter : " The Collector and the
Scholar. "
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
b. 1809 [Living].
Society is a strong solution of books. It draws the
virtue out of what is best worth reading, as hot water
draws the strength of tea-leaves. If I were a prince,
I would hire or buy a private literary teapot, in which
I would steep all the leaves of new books that promised
well. The infusion would do for me without the vege-
table fibre. You understand me ; I would have a
person whose sole business should be to read day and
night, and talk to me whenever I wanted him to. I
know the man I would have : a quick-witted, out-
spoken, incisive fellow ; knows history, or at any rate
has a shelf full of books about it, which he can use
handily, and the same of all useful arts and sciences ;
knows all the common plots of plays and novels, and
the stock company of characters that are continually
coming on in new costume ; can give you a criticism of an
octavo in an epithet and a wink, and you can depend
on it ; cares for nobody except for the virtue there is
in what he says ; delights in taking off big-wigs and
professional gowns, and in the disembalming and un-
bandaging of all literary mummies. Yet he is as
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 329
tender and reverential to all that bears the mark of
genius— that is, of a new influx of truth or beauty —
as a nun over her missal. In short, he is one of those
men that know everything except how to make a
living. Him would I keep on the square next my
own royal compartment on life's chessboard. To him
I would push up another pawn, in the shape of a comely
and wise young woman, whom he would, of course,
take — to wife. For all contingencies I would liberally
provide. In a word, I would, in the plebeian, but
expressive phrase, "put him through " all the material
part of life ; see him sheltered, warmed, fed, button-
mended, and all that, just to be able to lay on his talk
when I liked— with the privilege of shutting it off at
will.
I believe in reading, in a large proportion, by subjects
rather than by authors. Some books must be read
tasting, as it were, every word. Tennyson will bear
that as Milton would, as Gray would — for they tasted
every word themselves as Ude or Careme would taste
• z.potage meant for a king or a queen. But once become
familiar with a subject, so as to know what you wish
to learn about it, and you can read a page as a flash of
lightning reads it.
I like books, I was born and bred among them, and
have the easy feeling, when I get into their presence,
that a stable-boy has among horses. I don't think I
undervalue them either as companions or as instructors.
But I can't help remembering that the world's great
men have not commonly been great scholars, nor its
330 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
great scholars great men. The Hebrew patriarchs
had small libraries, I think, if any ; yet they represent
to our imaginations a very complete idea of manhood,
and I think, if we could ask in Abraham to dine with
us men of letters next Saturday, we should feel
honoured by his company.
What I wanted to say about books is this: that
there are times in which every active mind feels itself
above any and all human books.
You talk about reading Shakspeare, using him as
an expression for the highest intellect, and you wonder
that any common person should be so presumptuous as
to suppose his thought can rise above the text which
lies before him. But think a moment. A child's
reading of Shakspeare is one thing, and Coleridge's
or Schlegel's reading of him. is another. The satura-
tion-point of each mind differs from that of every other.
But I think it is as true for the small mind which can
only take up a little as for the great one which takes
up much, that the suggested trains of thought and
feeling ought always to rise above — ^not the author, •
but the reader's mental version of the author, whoever
he may be.
I think most readers of Shakspeare sometimes find
themselves thrown into exalted mental conditions like
those produced by music. Then they may drop the
book, to pass at once into the region of thought with-
out words. We may happen to be very dull folks, you
and I, and probably are, unless there is some particular
reason to suppose the contrary. But we get glimpses ,
now and then of a sphere of spiritual possibilities, ,
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 331
where we, dull as we are now, may sail in vast circles
round the largest compass of earthly intelligences.
I always believed in life rather than in books. I
suppose every day of earth, with its hundred thousand
deaths and something more of births, — with its loves
and hates, its triumphs and defeats, its pangs and
blisses, has more of humanity in it than all the books
that were ever written, put together. I believe the
flowers growing at this moment send up more fragrance
to heaven than was ever exhaled from all the essences
ever distilled.
Books are the negative pictures of thought, and the
more sensitive the mind that receives their images, the
more nicely the finest lines are reproduced. — The
Atitocrat of the Breakfast- Table, by Oliver Wendell
Holmes^ M.D.
Truth is tough. It will not break, like a bubble,
at a touch ; nay, you may kick it about all day, like a
football, and it will be round and full at evening. Does
not Mr. Bryant say, that Truth gets well if she is run
over by a locomotive, while Error dies of lockjaw if she
scratches her finger ? I never heard that a mathema-
tician was alarmed for the safety of a demonstrated
proposition. I think, generally, that fear of open
discussion implies feebleness of inward conviction,
and great sensitiveness to the expression of individual
opinion is a mark of weakness. — The Ptvfessor at the
Breakfast- Table.
The first thing, naturally, when one enters a scholar's
study or library, is to look at his books. One gets a
332 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
notion very speedily of his tastes and the range of his
pursuits by a glance round his book-shelves.
Of course, you know there are many fine houses
where the library is a part of the upholstery, so to
speak. Books in handsome binding kept locked under
plate-glass in showy dwarf book-cases are as important
to stylish establishments as servants in livery, who sit
with folded arms, are to stylish equipages. I suppose
those wonderful statues with the folded arms do some-
times change their attitude, and I suppose those books
with the gilded backs do sometimes get opened, but it
is nobody's business whether they do or not, and it is
not best to ask too many questions.
This sort of thing is common enough, but there is
another case that may prove deceptive if you undertake
to judge from appearances. Once in a while you will
come on a house where you will find a family of readers
and almost no library. Some of the most indefatigable
devourers of literature have very few books. They
belong to book clubs, they haunt the public libraries,
they borrow of friends, and somehow or other get hold
of everything they want, scoop out all it holds for
them, and have done with it. When / want a book,
it is as a tiger wants a sheep. I must have it with one
spring, and, if I miss it, go away defeated and hungry.
And my experience with public libraries is that the
first volume of the book I inquire for is out, unless I
happen to want the second, when that is out.
Yes, — he said, — I have a kind of notion of the way
in which a library ought to be put together — no, I
don't mean that, I mean ought to grow. I don't pre-
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 333
tend to say that mine is a model, but it serves my turn
well enough, and it represents me pretty accurately.
A scholar must shape his own shell, secrete it, one
might almost say, for secretion is only separation, you
know, of certain elements derived from the materials
of the world about us. And a scholar's study, with the
books lining its walls, is his shell.
I've told you that I take an interest in pretty much
everything, and don't mean to fence out any human
interests from the private grounds of my intelligence.
Then, again, there is a subject, perhaps I may say there
is more than one, that I want to exhaust, to know to
the very bottom. And besides, of course I must have
my literary hare7?t, my pare aux cerfs, where my
favorites await my moments of leisure and pleasure, — -
my scarce and precious editions, my luxurious typo-
graphical masterpieces; my Delilahs, that take my
head in their lap : the pleasant story-tellers and the
like; the books I love because they are fair to look
upon, prized by collectors, endeared by old associations,
secret treasures that nobody else knows anything about ;
books, in short, that I like for insufficient reasons it
may be, but peremptorily, and mean to like and to love
and to cherish till death us do part.
Every library should try to be complete on some-
thing, if it were only on the history of pin-heads. I
don't mean that I buy all the trashy compilations on
my special subjects, but I try to have all the works of
any real importance relating to them, old as well as
new. — The Poet at the Breakfast- Table,
334 william ewart gladstone,
William Ewart Gladstone.
h. 1809 [Living].
Be slow to stir enquiries which you do not mean parti-
cularly to pursue to their proper end. Be not afraid to
suspend your judgment, or feel and admit to yourself
how narrow are the bounds of knowledge. Do not
too readily assume that to us have been opened royal
roads to truth, which were heretofore hidden from the
whole family of man ; for the opening of such roads
would not be so much favour as caprice. If it is bad
to yield a blind submission to authority, it is not less
an error to deny to it its reasonable weight. Eschewing
a servile adherence to the past, regard with reverence
and gratitude, and accept its accumulations in inward
as well as outward things, as the patrimony which it
is your part in life both to preserve and to improve. —
Speech at Distribution of Prizes to the Pupils of Liver-
pool College^ 1872.
One who is now beginning at any rate to descend
the hill of life naturally looks backwards as well as
forwards, and we must be becoming conscious that the
early part of this century has witnessed, in this and
other countries, what will be remembered in future
times as a splendid literary age. The elder among us
have lived in the lifetime of many great men who have
passed to their rest ; the younger have heard them
familiarly spoken of, and still have their works in
their hands, as I trust they will continue to be in the
hands of all generations. I am afraid we cannot hope
that literature — it would be contrary to all the ex-
perience of former times were we to hope — should be
WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE. 335
equably sustained at that extraordinary high level
which belongs, roughly speaking, to the first fifty
years after the Peace of 18 15. That was a great
period in England, in Germany, in France, and in
Italy. I think we can hardly hope that it should
continue on a perfect level at so high an elevation.
Undoubtedly the cultivation of literature will ever be
dear to the people of this country ; but we must
remember what is literature, and what is not. In the
first place, we should be all agreed that book-making is
not literature. The business of book-making, I have
no doubt, may thrive, and will be continued upon
a constantly extending scale from year to year. But
that we may put aside. For my own part, if I am to
look a little forward, what I anticipate for the re-
mainder of the century is an age, not so much of
literature proper — not so much of great, permanent,
and splendid additions to those works in which beauty
is embodied as an essential condition of production, —
but I rather look forward to an age of research ! This
is .an age of great research, in science, in history, in all
the branches of enquiry that throw light upon the
former condition, whether of our race, or of the world
which it inhabits ; and it may be hoped that, even if
the remaining years of the century be not so brilliant
as some of its former periods, in the production of
works, great in themselves, and immortal, still they
may add largely to the knowledge of mankind. And
if they make such additions to the knowledge of man-
kind, they will be preparing materials of a new tone
and of new splendour in the realm of literature. There
is a sunrise and a sunset. There is a transition from
336 WILLIAM EWART GLADSTONE.
the light of the sun to the gentler light of the moon.
There is a rest in Nature which seems necessary in
all her great operations. And so with all the great
operations of the human mind. But do not let us
despond if we seem to see a diminished efficacy in the
production of what is essentially and immortally great.
Our sun is hidden only for a moment. He is like the
day-star of Milton, which
" Anon repairs his drooping head
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky."
Speech at the Royal Academy Dinner, 1877.
It was said of Socrates that he called down philo-
sophy from heaven. But the enterprise of certain
enlightened publishers has taught them to work for
the million, and that is a very important fact. When
I was a boy I used to be fond of looking into a book-
seller's shop, but there was nothing to be seen there
that was accessible to the working man of that day.
Take a Shakspeare, for example. I remember very
well that I gave £2. i6s. od. for my first copy; but
you can get an admirable copy for 3s. Those books are
accessible now which formerly were quite inaccessible.
We may be told that you want amusement, but that
does not include improvement. There are a set of
worthless books written now and at times which you
should avoid; which profess to give amusement; but
in reading the works of such authors as Shakspeare
and Scott there is the greatest possible amusement in
its best form. Do you suppose when you see men
engaged in study that they dislike it ? No. There is
LORD HOUGHTON, ^37
labour no doubt of a certain kind — mental labour, but
it is so associated with interest all along that it is
forgotten in the light it carries in its performance, and
no people know that better than the working classes.
I want you to understand that multitudes of books are
constantly being prepared and placed within reach of
the population at large, for the most part executed by
writers of a high stamp having subjects of the greatest
interest, and which enable you, at a moderate price,
not to get cheap literature which is secondary in its
quality, but to go straight into the very heart — if I may so
say, into the sanctuary of the temple of literature — and
become acquainted with the greatest and best works
that men of our country have produced. It is not to
be supposed that working-men, on coming home from
labour, are to study Euclid and works of that character ;
and it is not to be desired unless in the case of very
special gifts ; but what is to be desired is that some
effort should be made by men of all classes, and
perhaps by none more than the labouring class, to lift
ourselves above the level of what is purely frivolous,
and to endeavour to find our amusement in making
ourselves acquainted with things of real interest and
beauty. — Speech m aid of the Backley Institute and
Reading Room^ 1878.
Lord Houghton (Richard Monckton
MiLNEs). h, 1809 [Living].
I think it impossible to overrate the political utility
of such an institution as this. Think what a book is —
what each one of these volumes is. It is a portion of
338 LORD HOUGHTON-.
the eternal mind, caught in its process through the
world, stamped in an instant, and preserved for
eternity. Think what it is ; that enormous amount of
human sympathy and intelligence that is contained in
these volumes ; and think what it is that this sympathy
should be communicated to the masses of the people.
Compare the state oi the man who is really well
acquainted with the whole past of literature upon the
subject on which he is speaking, and with which his
mind is embued, with that of the solitary artisan, upon
whom, perhaps, the light of genius has dawned in
some great truth — ^in some noble aspiration — in some
high idea — ^resting there, unable to accomplish itself,
unable to reahse its meaning, and probably ending in
nothing but discontent or despair. Compare the state
of that man, such as he would be without books, with
what that man may be with books. So that it is only
books that can save him from the most exaggerated
conclusions, from the falsest doctrines, and all those
evils which may damage and even destroy the masses
of mankind. It is only, remember, what lies in these
books that makes all the difference between the wildest
socialism* that ever passed into the mind of a man in
this hall, and the deductions and careful processes of
the mind of the student who will sit at these tables —
who will learn humility by seeing what others have
taught before him ; and who will gain from the
sympathy of ages, intelligence and sense for himself. —
Speech at the Inauguration of the Manchester Free
Lib7'ary^ September 2, 1852.
*The building in which the Free Library was first located
was previously a Socialist Hall.
theodore parker, 339
Theodore Parker. i8io — 1860.
The pleasures of the intellect not creative, but only
recipient, have never been fully appreciated. What a
joy is there in a good book, writ by some great master
of thought, who breaks into beauty, as in summer the
meadow into grass and dandelions and violets, with
geraniums, and manifold sweetness. As an amuse-
ment, that of reading is worth all the rest. What
pleasure in science, in literature, in poetry, for any man
who will but open his eye and his heart to take it in.
What delight an audience of men who never speak,
take in some great orator, who looks into their faces,
and speaks into their hearts, and then rains a meteoric
shower of stars, falling from his heaven of genius before
their eyes; or, far better still, with a whole day of sun-
light warms his audience, so that every manly and
womanly excellence in them buds and blossoms with
fragrance, one day to bear most luscious fruit before
God, fruit for mortality, fruit for eternity not less. I
once knew a hard-working man, a farmer and mechanic,
who in the winter-nights rose a great while before day,
and out of the darkness coaxed him at least two hours
of hard study, and then when the morning peeped over
the eastern hills, he yoked his oxen and went forth to
his daily work, or in his shop he laboured all day long ;
and when the night came, he read aloud some simple
book to his family; but when they were snugly laid
away in their sleep, the great-minded mechanic took
to his hard study anew ; and so, year out and year in,
he went on, neither rich nor much honoured, hardly
entreated by daily work, and yet he probably had a
340 DR. yOHN BROWN.
happiness in his heart and mind which the whole
county might have been proud to share.
I fear we do not know what a power of immediate
pleasure and permanent profit is to be had in a good
book. The books which help you most are those which
make you think the most. The hardest way of learning
is by easy reading ; every man that tries it finds it so.
But a great book that comes from a great thinker, —
it is a ship of thought, deep freighted with truth, with
beauty too. It sails the ocean, driven by the winds of
heaven, breaking the level sea of life into beauty where
it goes, leaving behind it a train of sparkling loveliness,
widening as the ship goes on. And what treasures it
brings to every land, scattering the seeds of truth,
justice, love, and piety, to bless the world in ages yet
to come. — Lessons from The World of Matter and The
World of Man.
John Brown. i8io — 1882.
If our young medical student would take our advice,
and for an hour or two twice a week take up a volume of
Shakspeare, Cervantes, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Cowper,
Montaigne, Addison, Defoe, Goldsmith, Fielding,
Scott, Charles Lamb, Macaulay, Jeffrey, Sydney
Smith, Helps, Thackeray, &c., not to mention
authors on deeper and more sacred subjects— they
would have happier and healthier minds, and make
none the worse doctors. If they, by good fortune —
for the tide has set in strong against the literce
humaniores — have come off with some Greek or
Latin, we would supplicate for an ode of Horace, a
couple of pages of Cicero or of Pliny once a month,
DR. JOHN BROWN. 341
and a page of Xenophon. French and German should
'be mastered either before or during the first years of
study. They will never afterwards be acquired so
easily or so thoroughly, and the want of them may be
bitterly felt when too late.
But one main help, we are persuaded, is to be found
in studying, and by this we do not mean the mere
reading, but the digging into and through, the
energizing upon, and mastering such books as we
have mentioned at the close of this paper. * These
are not, of course, the only works we would re-
commend to those who wish to understand thoroughly,
and to make up their minds, on these great subjects as
wholes; but we all know too well that our Art is long,
broad, and deep, — and Time, opportunity, and our
little hour, brief and uncertain, therefore, we would
recommend those books as a sort of game of the mind, a
mental exercise— like cricket, a gymnastic, a clearing of
the eyes of their mind as with euphrasy, a strengthening
their power over particulars, a getting fresh, strong
* I. Arnauld's Port-Royal Logic ; translated by T. S.
Baynes. — 2. Thomson's Outlines of the Necessary Laws of
Thought. — 3. Descartes on the Method of Rightly Conducting
the Reason, and Seeking Truth in the Sciences. — 4. Coleridge's
Essay on Method.— 5. Whately's Logic and Rhetoric ; new and
cheap edition. — 6. Mill's Logic; new and cheap edition. — 7.
Dugald Stewart's Outlines. — 8. Sir John Herschel's Preliminary
Dissertation. — 9. Quarterly Review, vol. Ixviii. ; Article upon
Whewell's Philosophy of Inductive Sciences. — 10. Isaac Taylor's
Elements of Thought.— 11. Sir William Hamilton's edition of
Reid ; Dissertations ; and Lectures.— 12. Professor Eraser's
Rational Philosophy. — 13. Locke on the Conduct of the Under-
standing.
542 DR. JOHN BROW NT.
views of worn out, old things, and, above all, a learning
the right use of their reason, and by knowing their own
ignorance and weakness, finding true knowledge and
strength. Taking up a book like Arnauld, and reading
a chapter of his lively, manly sense, is like throwing
your manuals, and scalpels, and microscopes, and
natural (most unnatural) orders out of your hand and
head, and taking a game with the Grange Club, or a
run to the top of Arthur Seat. Exertion quickens your
pulse, expands your lungs, makes your blood warmer
and redder, fills your mouth with the pure waters of
relish, strengthens and supples your legs ; and though
on your way to the top you may encounter rocks, and
baffling debris, and gusts of fierce winds rushing out
upon you from behind corners, just as you will find in
Arnauld, and all truly serious and honest books of the
kind, difficuUies and puzzles, winds of doctrine, and
deceitful mists ; still you are rewarded at the top by the
wide view. You see, as from a tower, the end of all.
You look into the perfections and relations of things.
You see the clouds, the bright lights, and the ever-
lasting hills on the far horizon. You come down the
hill a happier, a better, and a hungrier man, and of a
better mind . But, as we said, you must eat the book,
you must crush it, and cut it with your teeth and
swallow it ; just as you must walk up, and, not be
carried up the hill, much less imagine you are there,
or look upon a picture of what you would see were
you up, however accurately or artistically done ; no —
you yourself must do both. — Jlorcs Stcbsecivce: " With
Brains, Sir!" by John Brozvti, M.D., Author of
*' Rab and His Friettds."
JV. M. THACKERAY— JOHN BRIGHT. 343
W. M. Thackeray. i8ii — 1863.
Novels are sweets. All people with healthy literary
appetites love them — almost all women ; a vast number
of clever, hard-headed men, judges, bishops, chan-
cellors, mathematicians, are notorious novel-readers,
as well as young boys and sweet girls, and their kind,
tender mothers. — Roundabout Papers,
John Bright, b. 181 1 [Living].
What is a great love of books ? It is something like
a personal introduction to the great and good men of
all past times. Books, it is true, are silent as you see
them on their shelves ; but, silent as they are, when I
enter a library I feel as if almost the dead were present^
and I know if I put questions to these books they will
answer me with all the faithfulness and fulness which
has been left in them by the great men who have left
the books with us. Have none of us, or may I not
say are there any of us who have not, felt some of this
feeling when in a great library — I don't mean a library
quite so big as that in the British Museum or the
Bodleian Library at Oxford, where books are so many
that they seem rather to overwhelm one — but libraries
that are not absolutely unapproachable in their mag-
nitude? When you are within their walls, and see
these shelves, these thousands of volumes, and consider
for a moment who they are that wrote them, who has
gathered them together, for whom they are intended,
how much wisdom they contain, what they tell the
future ages, it is impossible not to feel something of
J44 JOHN BRIGHT,
solemnity and tranquillity when you are spending time
in rooms like these ; and if you come to houses of less
note you find libraries that are of great estimation and
which in a less degree are able to afford mental aliment
to those who are connected with them; and I am
bound to say — and if anyone cares very much for any-
thing else they will not blame me — I say to them, you
may have in a house costly pictures and costly orna-
ments, and a great variety of decoration, yet, so far as
my judgment goes, I would prefer to have one com-
fortable room well stocked with books to all you can
give me in the way of decoration which the highest art
can supply. The only subject of lamentation is — one
feels that always, I think, in the presence of a library —
that life is too short, and I am afraid I must say also
that our industry is so far deficient that we seem to
have no hope of a full enjoyment of the ample repast
that is spread before us. In the houses of the humble
a little library in my opinion is a most precious pos-
session.
Some twenty years ago I was in Sutherlandshire,
on the Helmsdale river, engaged in the healthful
occupation of endeavouring to get some salmon
out of it. In the course of the day, walking down
the river, I entered the cottage of a shepherd.
There was no one at home, I think, but the shepherd's
wife or mother, I forget which, but she was an elderly
woman, matronly, very kind and very courteous to us.
Whilst I was in the house I saw upon the window-sill
a small and very thin volume, and I took the liberty of
going up to it, and taking it in my hand, I found, to
my surprise and delight, that it was an edition which I
JOHN BRIGHT, 345
had never met with before — an edition of ** Paradise
Regained " — the work of a poet unsurpassed in any
country or in any age, and a poem as to which I
believe great authorities admit that if "Paradise Lost "
did not exist "Paradise Regained" would be the finest
poem in our language. I said I was surprised and
delighted down in this remote country, in this solitary
house, in this humble abode of the shepherd, I found
this volume which seemed to me to transfigure the
cottage. I felt as if that humble dwelling was illumined,
as it was, indeed, by the genius of Milton, and, I may
say, I took the liberty of asking how the volume came
there, and who it was that read it. I learned that the
good woman of the house had a son who had been
brought up for the ministry, and I think at the time I
was there he was then engaged in his labours as a
Presbyterian minister in the colony of Canada. Now
whenever I think of some of the rivers of Scotland,
when I think of the river Helmsdale, if I turn, as
my mind does, to that cottage, I always see, and shall
never forget, that small, thin volume which I found
on the window-sill, and the finding of which seemed to
me to lift the dwellers in that cottage to a somewhat
higher sphere. . . . My own impression is that
there is no greater blessing that can be given to an
artisan's family than a love of books. The home
influence of such a possession is one which will guard
them from many temptations and from many evils.
How common it is — ^in all classes too common — but
how common it is amongst what are termed the
working classes — I have seen it many times in my
district — where even an industrious and careful parent
346 JOHN BRIGHT.
has found that his son or his daughter has been to him
a source of great trouble and pain. No doubt, if it
were possible, even in one of these homes, to have one
single person who was a lover of books, and knew how
to spend an evening usefully with a book, and who
could occasionally read something from the book to
the rest of the family, perhaps to his aged parents,
how great would be the blessing to the family, how
great a safeguard would be afforded ; and then to the
men themselves, when they come — as in the case
which I have mentioned — to the feebleness of age, and
when they can no longer work, and when the sands of
life are as it were ebbing out, what can be more advan-
tageous, what more a blessing, than in these years of
feebleness — may be sometimes of suffering — it must be
often of solitude — if there be the power to derive
instruction and amusement and refreshment from books
which our great library will offer to every one ? To
the young especially this is of great importance, for if
there be no seed-time, there will certainly be no harvest,
and the youth of life is the seed-time of life. I see in
this great meeting a number of young men. It is im-
possible for anybody to confer upon them a greater
blessing than to stimulate them to a firm belief that to
them now, and to them during all their lives, it may be
a priceless gain that they should associate themselves
constantly with this library, and draw from it any books
they like. The more they read the more in all proba- .
bility they will like and wish to read. What can be
better than that the fair poetic page, the great instruc-
tions of history, the gains of science — all these are
laid before us, and of these we may freely partake.
LORD SHERBROOKE. 347
I spoke of the library in the beginning of my observa-
tions as a fountain of refreshment and instruction and
wisdom. Of it may be said that he who drinks shall
still thirst, and thirsting for knowledge and still drinking,
we may hope that he will grow to a greater mental and
moral standard, more useful as a citizen, and more noble
as a man. — Speech at opening of Birmingham Neiv
Free Library^ June i, 1882.
Lord Sherbrooke (Robert Lowe).
b, 181 1 [Living].
Cultivate above all things a taste for reading. There
is no pleasure so cheap, so innocent, and so remunera'
tive as the real, hearty pleasure and taste for reading.
It does not come to everyone naturally. Some people
take to it naturally, and others do not; but I advise
you to cultivate it, and endeavour to promote it in
your minds. In order to do that you should read what
amuses you and pleases you. You should not begin
with difficult works, because, if you do, you will find
the pursuit dry and tiresome. I would even say to
you read novels, read frivolous books, read anything
that will amuse you and give you a taste for reading.
On this point all persons could put themselves on an
equality. Some persons would say they would rather
spend their time in society ; but it must be remembered
that if they had cultivated a taste for reading before-
hand they would be in a position to choose their society,
whereas, if they had not, the probabilities were that they
would have to mix with people inferior to themselves,.
348 FRANCIS BENNOCH.
and who would pull them down rather than assist
them forward. Having got the habit of reading, then
is the time to consider how to turn it to the best
advantage; and here you have an almost boundless
field. Whatever may be said of other languages, I
hold that the English language is the richest in the
world in all the noblest efforts of the human intellect.
Our historians and orators might rank with those of
any nation and clime, and there is hardly any subject
which you could not find fully and properly treated.
Therefore I advise 'you, in the first instance, to give your
minds very much to the study of English, and of the
admirable works to be found in that language. —
Speech to the Students of the Croydon Science and Art
Schools f 1869.
Francis Bennoch. b. 181 2 [Living].
My Books,
I love my books as drinkers love their wine ;
The more I drink, the more they seem divine ;
"With joy elate my soul in love runs o'er.
And each fresh draught is sweeter than before !
Books bring me friends where'er on earth I be,
Solace of solitude, — bonds of society !
I love my books ! they are companions dear.
Sterling in worth, in friendship most sincere ;
Here talk I with the wise in ages gone,
And with the nobly gifted of our own :
If love, joy, laughter, sorrow please my mind,
Love, joy, grief, laughter in my books I find.
The Storm and other Poems,
george gilfillan. 345.
George Gilfillan. 1813 — 1878.
Let us compare the different ways in which Crabbe
and Foster (certainly a prose poet) deal with a library.
Crabbe describes minutely and successfully the outer
features of the volumes, their colours, clasps, the stub-
born ridges of their bindings, the illustrations which
adorn them, so well that you feel yourself among them,
and they become sensible to touch almost as to sight.
But there he stops, and sadly fails, we think, in bringing
out the living and moral interest which gathers around
a multitude of books, or even around a single volume.
This Foster has amply done. The speaking silence of
a number of books, where, though it were the wide
Bodleian or Vatican, not one whisper could be heard,
and yet where, as in an antechamber, so many great
spirits are waiting to deliver their messages — their
churchyard stillness continuing even when their readers
are moving to their pages, in joy or agony, as to the
sound of martial instruments — their awaking, as from
deep slumber, to speak with miraculous organ, like
the shell which has only to be lifted, and ** pleased it
remembers its august abodes, and murmurs as the
ocean murmurs there " — their power of drawing tears,
kindling blushes, awakening laughter, calming or
quickening the motions of the life's-blood, lulling to
repose, or rousing to restlessness — the meaning which
radiates from their quiet countenances — the tale of
shame or glory which their title-pages tell — the me-
mories suggested by the character of their authors,
and of the readers who have throughout successive
centuries perused them — the thrilling thoughts excited
350 GEORGE GILFILLAN.
by the sight of names and notes inscribed on their
margins or blank pages by hands long since mouldered
in the dust, or by those dear to us as our life's-blood,
who had been snatched from our sides — the aspects of
gaiety or of gloom connected with the bindings and
the age of volumes — the effects of sunshine playing
as if on a congregation of happy faces, making the
duskiest shine, and the gloomiest be glad — or of
shadow suffusing a sombre air over all — the joy of
the proprietor of a large library, who feels that Nebu-
chadnezzar watching great Babylon, or Napoleon re-
viewing his legions, will not stand comparison with
himself seated amid the broad maps, and rich prints,
and numerous volumes which his wealth has enabled
him to collect, and his wisdom entitled him to enjoy —
all such hieroglyphics of interest and meaning has
Foster included and interpreted in one gloomy but
noble meditation, and his introduction to Doddridge
is the true "Poem on the Library." — Gallery of
Literary Poj'traits : ** Geo7'ge Crabbe.^^
We admire John Foster's very long and very
characteristic Preface to Doddridge's "Rise and Pro-
gress," particularly its introduction, wherein he muses
on a library in a peculiar and most impressive style,
spreading the genius and the gloom of his mind over
the place, where a silent people have fixed their abode,
filling the populous solitude of books with his reveries,
and weaving a cobweb of melancholy cogitation over
the crowded shelves. Books talk to him, as he sits
pensive and alone : they tell him the history of those
who read and those who wrote them ; names inscribed
GEORGE GILFILLAN, 351
centuries ago upon their margins or blank pages suggest
strange surmises as to the fate of those who bore them ;
and the vices or virtues, the weal or the wo, of their
deceased authors, seem to cluster round, or to flash
out, from the dumb volumes, and to stir the leaves with
** airs from heaven or blasts from hell." It is the day-
dream of a strange but holy soul. And turning round
from his books, how closely does he grapple in a series
of interrogations with the hearts and consciences of his
readers ! It is like a spirit talking to us of eternity,
over the mouth of the grave, and by the light of a
waning moon. How strict yet tender the questionings !
— Gallery of Literary Portraits : ^^John Foster ^
Let us read good works often over. Some skip from
volume to volume, touching on all points, resting on
none. We hold, on the contrary, that, if a book be
worth reading once, it is worth reading twice, and that
if it stands a second reading, it may stand a third.
This, indeed, is one great test of the excellence of
books. Many books require to be read more than
once, in order to be seen in their proper colours and
latent glories, and dim discovered truths will by and
by disclose themselves. The writings of Foster, the
essayist, and William Hazlitt belong to this class.
Their mood of thinking and writing is, at first sight,
very peculiar, and almost repulsive ; but then there is
such a vast fund of original and acute remark in their
writings that you can refer to them again and again,
and have no more fear of exhausting their riches than
of emptpng the ocean. Again, let us read thought-
fully ; this is a great secret in the right use of books.
352 HENRY WARD BEECH ER.
Not lazily, to mumble, like the dogs in the siege of
Corinth, as dead bones, the words of the author, -^not
slavishly to assent to his every word, and cry Amen to
to his every conclusion,— not to read him as an officer
his general's orders, — but to read him with suspicion,
with inquiry, with a free exercise of your own faculties,
with the admiration of intelligence, and not with the
wonder of ignorance, — that is the proper and profitable
way of reading the great authors of your native tongue.
Address to the Members of a Literary Institute.
How still and peaceful is a Library ! It seems quiet
as the grave, tranquil as heaven, a cool collection
of the thoughts of the men of all times. And yet,
approach and open the pages, and you find them full
of dissension and disputes, alive with abuse and detrac-
tion — a huge, many-volumed satire upon man, written
by himself. . . . What a broad thing is a library
—all shades of opinion reflected on its catholic bosom,
as the sunbeams and shadows of a summer's day
upon the ample mirror of a lake. Jean Paul was
always melancholy in a large library, because it
reminded him of his ignorance. — Sketches^ Literary
and Theological*
Henry Ward Beecher. h. 1813 [Living].
We form judgments of men from little things about
their houses, of which the owner, perhaps, never thinks
In earlier years when travelling in the West, where
taverns were scarce, and in some places unknown, and
every settler's house was a house of entertainment, it
HENRY WARD BEECH ER. 353
was a matter of some importance and some experience
to select wisely where you should put up. And we
always looked for flowers. If there were no trees for
shade, no patch of flowers in the yard, we were sus-
picious of the place. But no matter how rude the
cabin, or rough the surroundings, if we saw that the
window held a little trough for flowers, and that some
vines twined about strings let down from the eaves, we
were confident that there was some taste and carefulness
in the log cabin. In a new country, where people have
to tug for a living, no one will take the trouble to rear
flowers unless the love of them is pretty strong ; and
this taste, blossoming out of plain and uncultivated
people, is itself a clump of harebells growing out of
the seams of a rock. We were seldom misled. A
patch of flowers came to signify kind people, clean
beds, and good bread. But in other states of society
other signs are more significant. Flowers about a rich
man's house may signify only that he has a good
gardener, or that he has refined neighbours, and does
what he sees them do.
But men are not accustomed to buy books unless
they want them. If on visiting the dwelling of a
man in slender means we find that he contents himself
with cheap carpets and very plain furniture in order
that he may purchase books, he rises at once in our
esteem. Books are not made for furniture, but there
is nothing else that so beautifully furnishes a house.
The plainest row of books that cloth or paper ever
covered is more significant of refinement than the most
elaborately carved 6tagere or sideboard. Give us a
house furnished with books rather than furniture.
X
354 HENRY WARD BEECH ER.
Both, if you can, but books at any rate ! To spend
several days in a friend's house, and hunger for some-
thing to read, while you are treading on costly carpets,
and sitting on luxuriant chairs, and sleeping upon
down, is as if one were bribing your body for the sake
of cheating your mind. Is it not pitiable to see a man
growing rich, augmenting the comforts of home, and
lavishing money on ostentatious upholstery, upon the
table, upon everything but what the soul needs? We
know of many, and many a rich man's house, where it
would not be safe to ask for the commonest English
Classics. A few garish Annuals on the table, a few
pictorial monstrosities together with the stock re-
ligious books of his "persuasion," and that is all!
No poets, no essayists, no historians, no travels or
biographies, — no select fiction or curious legendary
lore. But the wall paper cost three dollars a roll, and
the carpet cost four dollars a yard !
Books are the windows through which the soul looks
out. A home without books is like a room without
windows. No man has a right to bring up his children
without surrounding them with books, if he has the
means to buy them. It is a wrong to his family. He
cheats them ! Children learn to read by being in the
presence of books. The love of knowledge comes
with reading and grows upon it. And the love of
knowledge, in a young mind, is almost a warrant
against the inferior excitement of passions and vices.
Let us pity these poor rich men who live barrenly in
great bookless houses ! Let us congratulate the poor
that, in our day, books are so cheap that a man may
every year add a hundred volumes to his library for the
'* FANNY FERN.** 355
price which his tobacco and his beer would cost him.
Among the earliest ambitions to be excited in clerks,
workmen, journeymen, and, indeed, among all that
are struggling up in life from nothing to something, is
that of forming and continually adding to a library
of good books. A little library, growing larger every
year, is an honourable part of a man's history. It is
a man's duty to have books. A library is not a luxury,
but one of the necessaries of life. — Sermons.
Sara P. Parton (Fanny Fern).
^. 1814, d. ?
Oh ! but books are such safe company I They keep
your Secrets well ; ^key never boast that they made
your eyes glisten, or your cheek flush, or your heart
throb. You may take up your favourite Author, and
love him at a distance just as warmly as you like, for
all the sweet fancies and glowing thoughts that have
winged your lonely hours so fleetly and so sweetly.
Then you may close the book, and lean your cheek
against the cover, as if it were the face of a dear friend ;
shut your eyes and soliloquise to your heart's content,
without fear of misconstruction, even though you should
exclaim in the fulness of your enthusiasm, '* What an
adorable soul that man hasP^ You may put the volume
under your pillow, and let your eye and the first ray of
morning light fall on it together, and nothing shall
rob you of that delicious pleasure. You may have
a thousand petty, provoking, irritating annoyances
through the day, and you shall come back again to
356 ANTHONY TROLLOP E.
your dear old book, and forget them all in dream-
land. It shall be a friend that shall be always at
hand; that shall never try you by caprice, or pain
you by forgetfulness, or wound you by distrust. —
Fern Leaves.
Anthony Trollope. 1815 — 1882.
Now, my young friends, to whom I am addressing
myself, with reference to this habit of reading, I make
bold to tell you that it is your pass to the greatest, the
purest, and the most perfect pleasures that God ha?
prepared for his creatures. Other pleasures may be
more ecstatic. When a young man looks into a girl's
eye for love, and finds it there, nothing may afford him
greater joy for the moment ; when a father sees a son
return after a long absence, it may be a great pleasure
for the moment ; but the habit of reading is the only
enjoyment I know, in which there is no alloy. It lasts
when all other pleasures fade. It will be there to
support you when all other recreations are gone. It
will be present to you when the energies of your body
have fallen away from you. It will last you until your
death. It will make your hours pleasant to you as
long as you live. But, my friends, you cannot acquire
that habit in your age. You cannot acquire it in
middle age ; you must do it now, when you are
young. You must learn to read and to like reading
now, or you cannot do so when you are old. — Speech
at the Opening of the Art Exhibition at the Bolton
Mechanics' Institution^ Dec. 7, 1868.
"january searle," 357
George Searle Phillips (January Searle).
b. about 1816, d. ?
Books are our household gods; and we cannot prize
them too highly. They are the only gods in all the
Mythologies that are ever beautiful and unchangeable ;
for they betray no man, and love their lovers. I
confess myself an Idolator of this literary religion,
and am grateful for the blessed ministry of books. It
is a kind of heathenism which needs no missionary
funds, no Bible even, to abolish it ; for the Bible itself
caps the peak of this new Olympus, and crowns it
with sublimity and glory. Amongst the many things
we have to be thankful for, as the result of modern
discoveries, surely this of printed books is the highest
of all ; and I for one, am so sensible of its merits that
I never think of the name of Gutenberg without
feelings of veneration and homage.
I no longer wonder, with this and other instances
before me, why in the old days of reverence and
worship, the saints and benefactors of mankind were
exalted into a kind of demi-gods, and had worship
rendered to their tombs and memories ; for this is the
most natural, as well as the most touching, of all human
generosities, and springs from the profoundest depths
of man's nature. Who does not love John Gutenberg?
— the man that with his leaden types has made the
invisible thoughts and imaginations of the Soul visible
and readable to all and by all, and secured for the
worthy a double immortality ? The birth of this person
was an era in the world's history second to none save
that of the Advent of Christ. The dawn of printing
358 ''JANUARY SEAR LE:*
was the outburst of a new revelation, which, in its
ultimate unfoldings and consequences, are alike incon-
ceivable and immeasurable.
I sometimes amuse myself by comparing the con-
dition of the people before the time of Gutenberg,
with their present condition ; that I may fix the idea
of the value and blessedness of books more- vividly in
my mind. It is an occupation not without profit, and
makes me grateful and contented with my lot. In
these reading days one can hardly conceive how our
good forefathers managed to kill their superfluous time,
or how at least they could be satisfied to kill it as they
did. A life without books, when we have said all we
can about the honour and nobility of labour, would be
something like heaven without God; scarcely to be
endured by an immortal nature. And yet this was the
condition of things before Gutenberg made his fat
sounding metallic tongues which reach through all the
ages that have since past away, and make us glad with
their eloquence.
Formerly, the Ecclesiastics monopolized the litera-
ture of the world ; they were indeed in many cases the
Authors and Transcribers of books; and we are in-
debted to them for the preservation of the old learning.
Now, every Mechanic is the possessor of a Library,
and may have Plato and Socrates, as well as Chaucer
and the Bards, for his companions. I call this a
heavenly privilege, and the greatest of all known
miracles, notwithstanding it is so cheap and common.
Plato died above two thousand years ago, yet in these
printed books he lives and speaks for ever. There is
no death to thought ; which though it may never be
" JANUAR Y SEARLE." 359
imprisoned in lettered language, has nevertheless an
existence and propagative vitality as soon as it is
uttered, and endures from generation to generation, to
the very end of the world. I think we should all of
us be grateful for books ; they are our best friends and
most faithful'companions. They instruct, cheer, elevate,
and ennoble us; and in whatever mood we go to
them, they never frown upon us, but receive us with
cordial and loving sincerity : neither do they blab, or
tell tales of us when we are gone, to the next comer ;
but honestly, and with manly frankness, speak to our
hearts in admonition or encouragement. I do not
know how it is with other men, but I have so much
reverence for these silent and beautiful friends that I
feel in them to have an immortal and divine possession,
which is more valuable to me than many estates and
kingdoms. The noise and babble of men disturb me
not in my princely domain, enricht by the presence of
so many high and royal souls. What can our foolish
politicians, and long-winded teachers of less profane
things, have to say to me, when Socrates speaks,
or Shakspeare and Milton sing? I like to be alone in
my chamber, and obey the muse or the spirit. We
make too little of books, and have quite lost the meaning
of contemplation. Our times are too busy; too exclu-
sively outward in their tendency; and men have lost
their balance in the whirlpools of commerce and the
fierce tornadoes of political strife. I want to see more
poise in men, more self-possession ; and these can only
. be obtained by comiriunion with books. I lay stress
on the word co?nmunion, because although reading is
common enough, communion is but little known as a
36o *' JANUARY SEARLE^
modern experience. If an author be worth anything,
he is worth bottoming. It may be all very well to
skim milk, for the cream lies on the top; but who
could skim Lord Bacon ?
The choice of books is not the least part of the duty
of a Scholar. If he would become a man, and worthy
to deal with manlike things, he must read only the
bravest and noblest books ; books forged at the heart
and fashioned by the intellect of a godlike man. A
clever interesting writer, is a clever interesting fool;
and is no Master for the scholar I speak of. Our
literature abounds with such persons, and will abound
with them so long as the public mind remains diseased
with this morbid love of "light reading." We have
exchanged the martial tramp of the Commonwealth's
men, for the nimble foot of the lamplighter and the
thief-taker. This comes from the false culture of men,
and the consequent false tendencies of their minds and
aims. We have had enough of this inane, unmanly
discipline, and need a higher and truer one. I am
not, however, for any Monkish exclusion of men from
the world in their study of books; for the end of all
study is action; and I would not cheat the Master by
any bye-laws in favour of the Scholar. But a certain
kind of exclusion is necessary for culture in the first
instance, and for progressive developments of that
culture afterwards. The human mind will not be
played with, or the Player will find it out to his cost.
For the laws of the intellect, and of man's Spiritual
nature, are as stern and binding as those of matter, and
you cannot neglect or violate them without loss or
■suffering. Hence books should be our constant com-
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. 361
panions, for they stimulate thought, and hold a man to
his purpose. — Essays, Poems , and an Elucidation of
the Bhagavat Gheeta and ^^The Choice of Books. ^^
Philip James Bailey, b. 1816 [Living].
Worthy books
Are not companions — they are solitudes ;
We lose ourselves in them and all our cares.
We entreat Thee, that all men whom Thou
Hast gifted with great minds may love Thee well,
And praise Thee for their powers, and use them most
Humbly and holily, and, lever-like,
Act but in lifting up the mass of mind
About them ; knowing well that they shall be
Questioned by Thee of deeds the pen hath done,
Or caused, or glozed ; inspire them with delight
And power to treat of noble themes and things,
Worthily, and to leave the low and mean —
Things born of vice or day-lived fashion, in
Their naked native folly : — make them know
Fine thoughts are wealth, for the right use of which
Men are and ought to be accountable, —
If not to Thee, to those they influence :
Grant this we pray Thee, and that all who read,
Or utter noble thoughts may make them theirs.
And thank God for them, to the betterment
Of their succeeding life ; — that all who lead
The general sense and taste, too apt, perchance,
To be led, keep in mind the mighty good
They may achieve, and are in conscience, bound.
And duty, to attempt unceasingly
362 FREDERICK WILLIAM ROBERTSON.
To compass. Grant us, All-maintaining Sire !
That all the great mechanic aids to toil
Man's skill hath formed, found, rendered, — whether used
In multiplying works of mind, or aught
To obviate the thousand wants of life,
May much avail to human welfare now
And in all ages, henceforth and for ever !
Let their effect be. Lord ! to lighten labour,
And give more room to mind, and leave the poor
Some time for self-improvement. Let them not
Be forced to grind the bones out of their arms
For bread, but have some space to think and feel
Like moral and immortal creatures. God !
Have mercy on them till such time shall come.
Festus.
Frederick William Robertson.
1816— 1853.
It is very surprising to find how little we retain of a
book, how little we have really made our own when
we come to interrogate ourselves as to what account
we can give of it, however we may seem to have
mastered it by understanding it. Hundreds of books
read once have passed as completely from us as if we
have never read them ; whereas the discipline of mind
got by writing down, not copying, an abstract of a
book which is worth the trouble, fixes it on the mind
for years, and, besides, enables one to read other books
with more attention and more profit. — I dfe and Letters
of Fred, W. Robert son^ M.A. ; edited by Stopford A.
Brooke, M.A,
JOHN G. SAXE. 363
John G. Saxe. b. 181 6.
Ah ! well I love these books of mine
That stand so trimly on their shelves,
With here and there a broken line
(Fat "quartos" jostling modest "twelves"
A curious company I own ;
The poorest ranking with their betters,
In brief— a thing almost unknown,
A pure Democracy— of Letters.
If I have favourites here and there.
And, like a monarch, pick and choose,
I never meet an angry stare
That this I take, and that refuse ;
No discords rise my soul to vex
Among these peaceful book relations,
No envious strife of age or sex
To mar my quiet lucubrations.
I call these friends, these quiet books,
And well the title they may claim
Who always give me cheerful looks
(What living friend has done the same ?)
And, for companionship, how few.
As these, my cronies ever present.
Of all the friends I ever knew
Have been so useful and so pleasant ?
Poems by John Godfrey Saxe, LL,D., Boston.
Arthur Helps. 181 7 — 1875.
So varied, extensive, and pervading are human
distresses, sorrows, short-comings, miseries, and mis-
adventures, that a chapter of aid or consolation never
364 ARTHUR HELPS.
comes amiss, I think. There is a pitiless, pelting rain
this morning ; heavily against my study windows
drives the north-western gale ; and altogether it is
a very fit day for working at such a chapter. The
indoor comforts which enable one to resent with com-
posure, nay even to welcome, this outw^ard conflict
and hubbub, are like the plans and resources provided
by philosophy and religion, to meet the various
calamities driven against the soul in its passage through
this stormy world. The books which reward me have
been found an equal resource in both respects, both
against the weather from without and from within,
against physical and mental storms; and, if it mi^ht
be so, I would pass on to others the comfort which a
seasonable word has often brought to me. If I were
to look round these shelves, what a host of well-loved
names would rise up, in those who have said brave or
wise words to comfort and aid their brethren in ad-
versity. It seems as if little remained to be said ; but
in truth there is always waste land in the human heart
to be tilled.
There is another view of reading which, though it
is obvious enough, is seldom taken, I imagine, or at
least acted upon ; and that is, that in the course of
our reading we should lay up in our minds a store of
goodly thoughts in well-wrought words, which should
be a living treasure of knowledge always with us, and
from which, at various times and amidst all the shifting
of circumstances, we might be sure of drawing some
comfort, guidance, and sympathy. We see this with
regard to the sacred writings. "A word spoken in
ARTHUR HELPS— C. KINGS LEY. 365
due season, how good is it ! " But there is a similar
comfort on a lower level, to be obtained from other
sources than sacred ones. In any work that is worth
carefully reading, there is generally something that is
worth remembering accurately. A man whose mind
is enriched with the best sayings of his own country,
is a more independent man, walks the streets in a
town, or the lanes in the country, with far more delight
than he otherwise would have; and is taught by wise
observers of man and nature, to examine for himself.
Sancho Panza with his proverbs is a great deal better
than he would have been without them ; and I contend
that a man has something in himself to meet troubles
and difficulties, small or great, who has stored in his
mind some of the best things which have been said
about troubles and difficulties. Moreover, the loneli-
ness of sorrow is thereby diminished. — Friends in
Council.
Charles Kingsley. 1819 — 1875.
Except a living man, there is nothing more wonderful
than a book ! — a message to us from the dead — from
human souls whom we never saw, who lived, perhaps,
thousands of miles away ; and yet these, on those little
sheets of paper, speak to us, amuse us, vivify us, teach
us, comfort us, open their hearts to us as brothers.
. . . I say we ought to reverence books, to look at
them as useful and mighty things. If they are good
and true, whether they are about religion or politics,
farming, trade, or medicine, they are the message
of Christ, the maker of all things, the teacher of all
truth.
366 JOHN R US KIN,
John Ruskin. b. 1819 [Living].
Life being very short, and the quiet hours of it few,
we ought to waste none of them in reading valueless
books ; and valuable books should, in a civilized
country, be within the reach of every one, printed in
excellent form, for a just price ; but not in any vile,
vulgar, or, by reason of smallness of type, physically
injurious form, at a vile price. For we none of us
need many books, and those which we need ought to
be clearly printed, on the best paper, and strongly
bound. And though we are, indeed, now, a wretched
and poverty-struck nation, and hardly able to keep
soul and body together, still, as no person in decent
circumstances would put on his table confessedly bad
wine, or bad meat without being ashamed, so he need
not have on his shelves ill-printed or loosely and
wretchedly-stitched books; for, though few can be
rich, yet every man who honestly exerts himself may,
I think, still provide, for himself and his family, good
shoes, good gloves, strong harness for his cart or
carriage horses, and stout leather binding for his books.
And I would urge upon every young man, as the
beginning of his due and wise provision for his house-
hold, to obtain as soon as he can, by the severest
economy, a restricted, serviceable, and steadily — how-
ever slowly — increasing, series of books for use through
life; making his little library, of all the furniture in
his room, the most studied and decorative piece ; every
volume having its assigned place, like a little statue in
its niche, and one of the earliest and strictest lessons to
the children of the house being how to turn the pages
JOHN RUSKIN. 367
of their own literary possessions lightly and deliberately,
with no chance of tearing or dogs' ears. — Preface to
" Sesame and Lilies, ^^
But, granting that we had both the will and the
sense to choose our friends well, how few of us have
the power ! or, at least, how limited, for most, is the
sphere of choice! Nearly all our associations are
determined by chance or necessity; and restricted
within a narrow circle. We cannot know whom we
would; and those whom we know, we cannot have at
our side when we most need them. All the higher
circles of human intelligence are, to those beneath,
only momentarily and partially open. We may, by
good fortune, obtain a glimpse of a great poet, and
hear the sound of his voice ; or put a question to a man
of science, and be answered good-humouredly. We
may intrude ten minutes' talk on a cabinet minister,
answered probably with words worse than silence,
being deceptive ; or snatch, once or twice in our lives,
the privilege of throwing a bouquet in the path of a
Princess, or arresting the kind glance of a Queen.
And yet these momentary chances we covet; and
spend our years, and passions, . and powers in pursuit
of little more than these ; while, meantime, there is a
society continually open to us, of people who will talk
to us as long as we like, whatever our rank or occupa-
tion; — talk to us in the best words they can choose,
and with thanks if we listen to them. And this society,
because it is so numerous and so gentle, — and can be
kept waiting round us all day long, not to grant
audience, but to gain it ; — kings and statesmen lingering
368 JOHN R US KIN.
patiently in those plainly furnished and narrow ante-
rooms, our book-case shelves, — we make no account
of that company, — perhaps never listen to a word they
would say, all day long !
You may tell me, perhaps, or think within your-
selves, that the apathy with which we regard this
company of the noble, who are praying us to listen to
them, and the passion with which we pursue the com-
pany, probably of the ignoble, who despise us, or who
have nothing to teach us, are grounded in this, — that
we can see the faces of the living men, and it is them-
selves, and not their sayings, with which we desire to
become familiar. But it is not so. Suppose you never
were to see their faces ;— suppose you could be put
behind a screen in the statesman's cabinet, or the
prince's chamber, would you not be glad to listen to
their words, though you were forbidden to advance
beyond the screen ? And when the screen is only a
little less, folded in two, instead of four, and you can
be hidden behind the cover of the two boards that bind
a book, and listen, all day long, not to the casual talk,
but to the studied, determined, chosen addresses of
the wisest of men ; — this station of audience, and
honourable privy council, you despise I . . .
Will you go and gossip with your housemaid, or your
stable boy, when you may talk with queens and kings ;
or flatter yourselves that it is with any worthy con-
sciousness of your own claims to respect that you jostle
with the common crowd for entree here, and audience
there, when all the while this eternal court is open to
you, with its society wide as the world, multitudinous
as its days, the chosen, and the mighty, of every place
JOHN R US KIN. 369
and time ? Into that you may enter always ; in that
you may take fellowship and rank according to your
wish ; from that, once entered into it, you can never be
outcast but by your own fault ; by your aristocracy of
companionship there, your own inherent aristocracy will
be assuredly tested, and the motives with which you
strive to take high place in the society of the living,
measured, as to all the truth and sincerity that are in
them, by the place you desire to take in this company
of the Dead.
"The place you desire," and the place yoM Jit yourself
for, I must also say ; because, observe, this court of
the past differs from all living aristocracy in this : — it
is open to labour and to merit, but to nothing else.
No wealth will bribe, no name overawe, no artifice
deceive, the guardian of those Elysian gates. In the
deep sense, no vile or vulgar person ever enters there.
At the portieres of that silent Faubourg St. Germain,
there is but brief question, " Do you deserve to enter?"
*'Pass. Do you ask to be the companion of nobles?
Make yourself noble, and you shall be. Do you long
for the conversation of the wise ? Learn to understand
it, and you shall hear it. But on other terms? — no.
If you will not rise to us, we cannot stoop to you.
The living lord may assume courtesy, the living
philosopher explain his thought to you with con-
siderable pain ; but here we neither feign nor interpret ;
you must rise to the level of our thoughts if you would
be gladdened by them, and share our feelings, if you
would recognise our presence. "...
I say first we have despised literature. What do
we, as a nation, care about books? How much do
Y
370 yOHN RUSKIN.
you think we spend altogether on our libraries, public
or private, as compared with what we spend on our
horses ? If a man spends lavishly on his library, you
call him mad — a biblio-maniac. But you never call
any one a horse-maniac, though men ruin themselves
every day by their horses, and you do not hear of
people ruining themselves by their books. Or, to go
lower still, how much do you think the contents of the
bookshelves of the United Kingdom, public and private,
would fetch, as compared with the contents of its wine
cellars ? What position would its expenditure on litera-
ture take, as compared with its expenditure on luxurious
eating ? We talk of food for the mind, as of food for
the body : now a good book contains such food inex-
haustibly; it is a provision for life, and for the best
part of us ; yet how long most people would look at
the best book before they would give the price of
a large turbot for it ! Though there have been men
who have pinched their stomachs and bared their
backs to buy a book, whose libraries were cheaper to
them, I think, in the end than most men's dinners are.
We are few of us put to such trial, and more the pity ;
for, indeed, a precious thing is all the more precious to
us if it has been won by work or economy ; and if
public libraries were half as costly as public dinners, or
books cost the tenth part of what bracelets do, even
foolish men and women might sometimes suspect there
was good in reading, as well as in munching and
sparkling ; whereas the very cheapness of literature is
making even wise people forget that if a book is worth
reading, it is worth buying. No book is worth any-
thing which is not worth much; nor is it serviceable
JOHN R US KIN. 371
until it has been read, and reread, and loved, and
loved again ; and marked, so that you can refer to the
passages you want in it, as a soldier can seize the
weapon he needs in an armoury, or a housewife bring
the spice she needs from her store. Bread of flour is
good ; but there is bread, sweet as honey, if we would
eat it, in a good book ; and the family must be poor
indeed which once in their lives, cannot, for such
multipliable barley-loaves, pay their baker's bill. We
call ourselves a rich nation, and we are filthy and
foolish enough to thumb each other's books out of
circulating libraries ! . . .
Nevertheless I hope it will not be long before royal
or national libraries will be founded in every con-
siderable city, with a royal series of books in them;
the same series in every one of them, chosen books,
the best in every kind, prepared for that national
series in the most perfect way possible; their text
printed all on leaves of equal size, broad of margin,
and divided into pleasant volumes, light in the hand,
beautiful, and strong, and thorough as examples of
binders' work; and that these great libraries will be
accessible to all clean and orderly persons at all times
of the day and evening ; strict law being enforced for
this cleanliness and quietness.
I could shape for you other plans, for art galleries,
and for natural history galleries, and for many precious,
many, it seems to me, needful, things ; but this book
plan is the easiest and needfullest, and would prove a
considerable tonic to what we call our British constitu-
tion, which has fallen dropsical of late, and has an evil
thirst, and evil hunger, and wants healthier feeding.
372 JOHN RUSK IN.
You have got its corn laws repealed for it ; try if you
cannot get corn laws established for it, dealing in a
better bread; — bread made of that old enchanted
Arabian grain, the Sesame, which opens doors; —
doors, not of robbers', but of Kings' Treasuries.
Friends, the treasuries of true kings are the streets
of their cities; and the gold they gather, which for
others is as the mire of the streets, changes itself, for
them and their people, into a crystalline pavement for
evermore. — Sesame and Lilies : Of Kings' Treasuries.
I know many persons who have the purest taste in
literature, and yet false taste in art, and it is a pheno-
menon which puzzles me not a little ; but I have never
known any one with false taste in books, and true
taste in pictures. It is also of the greatest importance
to you, not only for art's sake, but for all kinds of
sake, in these days of book deluge, to keep out of the
salt swamps of literature, and live on a little rocky
island of your own, with a spring and a lake in it, pure
and good. I cannot, of course, suggest the choice of
your library to you, every several mind needs different
books ; but there are some books which we all need,
and assuredly, if you read Homer,* Plato, ^schylus,
Herodotus, Dante,t Shakspeare, and Spenser, as much
* Chapman's, if not the original.
t Carey's or Cayley's, if not the original. I do not know
which are the best translations of Plato. Herodotus and
iEschylus can only be read in the original. It may seem strange
that I name books like these for "beginners:" but all the
greatest books contain food for all ages; and an intelligent
and rightly bred youth or girl ought to enjoy much, even in
Plato, by the time they are fifteen or sixteen.
JOHN RUSK IN. 373
as you ought, you will not require wide enlargement
of shelves to right and left of them for purposes of
perpetual study. Among modern books, avoid gene-
rally magazine and review literature. Sometimes it
may contain a useful abridgment or a wholesome
piece of criticism ; but the chances are ten to one it
will either waste your time or mislead you. If you
want to understand any subject whatever, read the best
book upon it you can hear of; not a review of the
book. If you don't like the first book you try, seek
for another ; but do not hope ever to understand the
subject without pains, by a reviewer's help. Avoid
especially that class of literature which has a knowing
tone; it is the most poisonous of all. Every good
book, or piece of book, is full of admiration and awe ;
it may contain firm assertion, or stern satire, but it
never sneers coldly, nor asserts haughtily, and it
always leads you to reverence or love something with
your whole heart. It is not always easy to distinguish
the satire of the venomous race of books from the
satire of the noble and pure ones ; but in general you
may notice that the cold-blooded Crustacean and
Batrachian books will sneer at sentiment ; and the
warm-blooded, human books, at sin. Then, in
general, the more you can restrain your serious
reading to reflective or lyric poetry, history, and
natural history, avoiding fiction and the drama,
the healthier your mind will become. Of modern
poetry keep to Scott, Wordsworth, Keats, Crabbe,
Tennyson, the two Brownings, Lowell, Longfellow,
and Coventry Patmore, whose "Angel in the House"
is a most finished piece of writing, and the sweetest
374 JOHN RUSK IN.
analysis we possess of quiet modern domestic feeling ;
while Mrs. Browning's '* Aurora Leigh" is, as far as I
know, the greatest poem which the century has pro-
duced in any language. Cast Coleridge at once aside,
as sickly and useless ; and Shelley, as shallow and
verbose ; Byron, until your taste is fully formed,
and you are able to discern the magnificence in him
from the wrong. Never read bad or common
poetry, nor write any poetry yourself ; there is,
perhaps, rather too much than too little in the world
already.
Of reflective prose, read chiefly Bacon, Johnson,
and Helps. Carlyle is hardly to be named as a writer
for "beginners," because his teaching, though to some
of us vitally necessary, may to others be hurtful. If
you understand and like him, read him ; if he oflends
you, you are not yet ready for him, and perhaps may
never be so ; at all events, give him up, as you would
sea-bathing if you found it hurt you, till you are
stronger. Of fiction, read Sir Charles Grandison,
Scott's novels, Miss Edgeworth's, and, if you are a
young lady, Madame de Genlis', the French Miss
Edgeworth ; making these, I mean, your constant
companions. Of course you must, or will, read other
books for amusement, once or twice ; but you will find
that these have an element of perpetuity in them,
existing in nothing else of their kind ; while their
peculiar quietness and repose of manner will also be of
the greatest value in teaching you to feel the same
characters in art. Read little at a time, trying to feel
interest in little things, and reading not so much for
the sake of the story as to get acquainted with the
JOHN RUSKIN. 375
pleasant people into whose company these writers
bring you. A common book will often give you much
amusement, but it is only a noble book which will give
you dear friends. Remember also that it is of less
importance to you in your earlier years, that the books
you read should be clever than that they should be
right. I do not mean oppressively or repulsively
instructive ; but that the thoughts they express should
be just, and the feelings they excite generous. It is
not necessary for you to read the wittiest or the most
suggestive books ; it is better, in general, to hear what
is already known, and may be simply said. Much of
the literature of the present day, though good to be
read by persons of ripe age, has a tendency to agitate
rather than confirm, and leaves its readers too fre-
quently in a helpless or hopeless indignation, the worst
possible state into which the mind of youth can be
thrown. It may, indeed, become necessary for you, as
you advance in life, to set your hand to things that need
to be altered in the world, or apply your heart chiefly
to what must be pitied in it, or condemned ; but, for a
young person, the safest temper is one of reverence, and
the safest place one of obscurity. Certainly at present,
and perhaps through all your life, your teachers are
wisest when they make you content in quiet virtue,
and that literature and art are best for you which point
out, in common life and familar things, the objects
for hopeful labour, and for humble love. — The
Elements of Drawing, in Three Letters to Beginners ;
Appendix II, : ^^ Things to be Studied. ^^ Second
Edition. 1857.
376 ELIZA COOK.
Eliza Cook, h, 1818 [Living].
Uncouth surroundings fashion uncouth thinking
And uncouth manners in our common life.
Nice eyes and ears retire with painful shrinking
Where hardness and vulgarity are rife.
A high bred nature frets with hopeless sinking
In the rough household with the sloven wife ;
While Taste and Order in the workman's cot,
Shed Joy and Beauty on the humblest lot.
Books ! ye are " Things of Beauty," fair indeed ;
Ye gild with waneless lustre homely shelves.
Ye have brought unction balm in many a need,
Deftly and softly as Titania's elves.
Some heavy thought has often lost its weight
When ** Robie Burns " has come to share the hour,
Crooning his rhymes till the soul grows elate
With deep responses to his minstrel power :
When * * Campbell " wraps us in sweet * * Gertrude's " fate,
Or rouses us to think we share the dower
Of Freedom's heirs, whose Red Cross crests the seas.
And, dauntless, "braves the battle and the breeze."
Poetical Works.
James Russell Lowell, h, 18 19 [Living].
The very gnarliest and hardest of hearts has some
musical strings in it. But they are tuned differently in
every one of us, so that the selfsame strain, which
wakens a thrill of sympathetic melody in one, may
leave another quite silent and untouched. For what-
ever I love, my delight amounts to an extravagance.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 377
There are verses which I cannot read without tears of
exultation which to others are merely indifferent.
Those simple touches scattered here and there, by ali
great writers, which make me feel that I, and every
most despised and outcast child of God that breathes,
have a common humanity with those glorious spirits,
overpower me. Poetry has a key which unlocks some
more inward cabinet of my nature than is accessible to
any other power. I cannot explain it or account for
it, or say what faculty it appeals to. . The chord which
vibrates strongly becomes blurred and invisible in pro-
portion to the intensity of its impulse. Often the mere
thyme, the cadence and sound of the words, awaken
this strange feeling in me. Not only do all the happy
associations of my early life, that before lay scattered,
take beautiful shapes, like iron dust at the approach of
the magnet ; but something dim and vague beyond
these, moves itself in me with the uncertain sound of
a far-off sea. My sympathy with the remotest eld
becomes that of a bystander and an actor. Those noble
lines of Shakspeare, in one of his sonnets, drop their veil
of mysticism, and become modern and ordinary : —
* * No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change :
Thy pyramids, built up with newer might.
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange ;
They are but dressings of a former sight. "
The grand symphony of Wordsworth's Ode rolls
through me, and I tremble, as the air does with the
gathering thunders of the organ. My clay seems to
have a sympathy with the mother earth whence it was
taken, to have a memory of all that our orb has ever
378 JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
witnessed of great and noble, of sorrowful and glad.
With the wise Samian, I can touch the mouldering
buckler of Euphorbus and claim an interest in it deeper
than that of its antiquity. I have been the bosom
friend of Leander and Romeo. I seem to go behind
Musseus and Shakspeare, and to get my intelligence at
first hand. Sometimes in my sorrow, a line from
Spenser steals in upon my memory as if by some
vitality and external volition of its own, like a blast
from the distant trump of a knight pricking towards
the court of Faerie, and I am straightway lifted out of
that sadness and shadow into the sunshine of a previous
and long-agone experience. Often, too, this seemingly -
lawless species of association overcomes me with a
sense of sadness. Seeing a waterfall or a forest for
the first time, I have a feeling of something gone, a
vague regret, that in some former state, I have drank
up the wine of their beauty, and left to the defrauded
present only the muddy lees. Yet, again, what divine
over-compensation, when the same memory (shall I
call it ?), or phantasy, lets fall a drop of its invisible
elixir into my cup, and I behold to-day, which before
showed but forlorn and beggared, clothed in the royal
purple, and with the golden sceptre of a line of
majestical ancestry! — Conversations on Sofne of the
Old Poets, 1844.
One of the most delightful books in my father's
library was White's Natural History of Selborne.
For me it has rather gained in charm with years. I
used to read it without knowing the secret of the
pleasure I found in it, but as I grow older I begin to
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL, 379
detect some of the simple expedients of this natural
magic. Open the book where you will, it takes you
out of doors. In our broiling July weather one can
walk out with this genially garrulous Fellow of Oriel,
and find refreshment instead of fatigue. You have no
trouble in keeping abreast of him as he ambles along
on his hobby-horse, now pointing to a pretty view,
now stopping to watch the motions of a bird or an
insect, or to bag a specimen for the Honourable Daines
Barrington or Mr. Pennant. In simplicity of taste
and natural refinement he reminds one of Walton ; in
tenderness toward what he would have called the brute
creation, of Cowper. . . . Since I first read him,
I have walked over some of his favourite haunts, but
I still see them through his eyes rather than by any
recollection of actual and personal vision. The book
has also the delightfulness of absolute leisure. Mr.
White seems never to have had any harder work to do
than to study the habits of his feathered fellow-
townsfolk, or to watch the ripening of his peaches on
the wall. His volumes are the journal of Adam in
Paradise,
"Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade."
It is positive rest only to look into that garden of his.
It is vastly better than to —
See great Diocletian walk
In the Salonian garden's noble shade,
for thither ambassadors intrude to bring with them the
noises of Rome, while here the world has no entrance.
No rumour of the revolt of the American Colonies
38o JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
seems to have reached him. ** The natural term of
an hog's life " has more interest for him than that of
an empire. Burgoyne may surrender and welcome ;
of what consequence is that compared with the fact
that we can explain the odd tumbling of rooks in the
air by their turning over **to scratch themselves with
one claw?" All the couriers in Europe spurring
rowel-deep make no stir in Mr. White's little Chart-
reuse ; but the arrival of the house-martin a day earlier
or later than last year is a piece of news worth sending
express to all his correspondents. Another secret
charm of this book is its inadvertent humour, so much
the more delicious because unsuspected by the author.*
— My Study Windows: ^^ My Garden Acquaintance,^^
Then, warmly walled with books,
While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect,
Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams,
I take my May down from the happy shelf
Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row.
Waiting my choice to open with full breast,
And beg an alms of spring-time, ne'er denied
In-doors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods
Throb thick with merle and mavis all the year.
* The compiler quotes the passage given above with no ordinary
pleasure. When a youth, he was so smitten with the charms of
" The Natural History of Selborne " — which had been knt to him
by a friend — that he resolved to transcribe the entire work, before
returning it to its owner. By this labour of love he became
possessor of a copy which he could call his own, and thenceforth
every rural walk or excursion was made more enjoyable, from
his familiarity with its contents. In those early days he could
truly and gratefully say of its pa.ges—/>ernoctani nobis, pere-
£rmantur, rusticantur.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 381
. . Nay, I think
Merely to bask and ripen is sometimes '
The student's wiser business ; the brain
That forages all climes to line its cells,
Ranging both worlds on lightest wings of wish,
Will not distil the juices it has sucked
To the sweet substance of pellucid thought,
Except for him who hath the secret learned
To mix his blood with sunshine, and to take
The winds into his pulses. ^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^^^^^_
Therefore with thee I love to read
Our brave old poets : at thy touch how stirs
Life in the withered words ! how swift recede
Time's shadows! and how glows again
Through its dead mass the incandescent verse,
As when upon the anvils of the brain
It glittering lay, cyclopically wrought
By the fast-throbbing hammers of the poet's thought !
What warm protection dost thou bend
Round curtained talk of friend with friend,
While the gray snow-storm, held aloof.
To softest outline rounds the roof,
Or the rude North with baffled strain
Shoulders the frost-starred window-pane !
Now the kind nymph to Bacchus borne
By Morpheus' daughter, she that seems
Gifted upon her natal morn
By him with fire, by her with dreams,
Nicotia, dearer to the Muse
Than all the grape's bewildering juice,
382 WALT WHITMAN.
We worship, unforbid of thee ;
And, as her incense floats and curls
In airy spires and wayward whirls,
Or poises on its tremulous stalk
A flower of frailest revery,
So winds and loiters, idly free,
The current of unguided talk.
Now laughter-rippled, and now caught
In smooth, dark pools of deeper thought.
Meanwhile thou mellowest every word,
A sweetly unobtrusive third ;
For thou hast magic beyond wine,
To unlock natures each to each ;
The unspoken thought thou canst divine ;
Thou fiU'st the pauses of the speech
With whispers that to dream-land reach,
And frozen fancy-springs unchain
In Arctic outskirts of the brain ;
Sun of all inmost confidences !
To thy rays doth the heart unclose
Its formal calyx of pretences.
That close against rude day's offences,
And open its shy midnight rose.
A Winter -Evening Hymn to My Fire.
Walt Whitman, b. 1819 [Living].
Without doubt, some of the richest and most
powerful and populous communities of the antique
world, and some of the grandest personalities and
events, have, to after and present times, left themselves
entirely unbequeathed. Doubtless, greater than any
WALT WHITMAN. 383
that have come down to us, were among those lands,
heroisms, persons, that have not come down to us at
all, even by name, date, or location. Others have
arrived safely, as from voyages over wide, centuries-
stretching seas. The little ships, the miracles that
have buoyed them, and by incredible chances safely
conveyed them, (or the best of them, their meaning
and essence,) over long wastes, darkness, lethargy,
ignorance, &c., have been a few inscriptions — a few
immortal compositions, small in size, yet compassing
what measureless values of reminiscence, contemporary
portraitures, manners, idioms and beliefs, with deepest
inference, hint and thought, to tie and touch forever
the old, new body, and the old, new soul. These !
and still these ! bearing the freight so dear —dearer
than pride — dearer than love. All the best experience
of humanity, folded, saved, freighted to us here ! Some
of these tiny ships we call Old and New Testament,
Homer, Eschylus, Plato, Juvenal, &c. Precious
minims ! I think, if we were forced to choose, rather
than have you, and the likes of you, and what belongs
to, and has grown of you, blotted out and gone, we
could better afford, appalling as that would be, to lose
all actual ships, this day fastened by wharf, or floating
on wave, and see them, with all their cargoes, scuttlec
and sent to the bottom.
Gathered by geniuses of city, race, or age, and put
by them in highest of art's forms, namely, the literary
form, the peculiar combinations, and the outshows o\
that city, age, or race, its particular modes of the
universal attributes and passions, its faiths, heroes,
lovers and gods, wars, traditions, struggles, crimes,
384 WALT WHITMAN.
emotions, joys, (or the subtle spirit of these,) having
been passed on to us to illumine our own selfhood,
and its experiences — what they supply, indispensable
and highest, if taken away, nothing else in all the
world's boundless store-houses could make up to us,
or ever again return.
For us, along the great highways of time, those
monuments stand — those forms of majesty and beauty.
For us those beacons burn through all the nights.
Unknown Egyptians, graving hieroglyphs ; Hindus,
with hymn and apothegm and endless epic ; Hebrew
prophet, with spirituality, as in flashes of lightning,
conscience, like red-hot iron, plaintive songs and
screams of vengeance for tyrannies and enslavement ;
Christ, with bent head, brooding love and peace, like
a dove ; Greek, creating eternal shapes of physical and
esthetic proportion ; Roman, lord of satire, the sword,
and the codex ; — of the figures, some far-off and veiled,
others nearer and visible ; Dante, stalking with lean
form, nothing but fibre, not a grain of superfluous
flesh ; Angelo, and the great painters, architects,
musicians ; rich Shakspeare, luxuriant as the sun,
artist and singer of Feudalism in its sunset, with all
the gorgeous colours, owner thereof, and using them at
will ; — and so to such as German Kant and Hegel,
where they, though near us, leaping over the ages, sit
again, impassive, imperturbable, like the Egyptian
gods. Of these, and the like of these, is it too much,
indeed, to return to our favourite figure, and view them
as orbs and systems of orbs, moving in free paths in
the spaces of that other heaven, the kosmic intellect,
the soul ?
IVALT WHITMAN. 385
To-day, doubtless, the infant Genius of American
poetic expression lies sleeping far away, happily un-
recognized and uninjured by the coteries, the art-writers,
the talkers and critics of the saloons, or the lecturers
in the colleges — lies sleeping, aside, unrecking itself,
in some Western idiom, or native Michigan or Ten-
nessee repartee, or stump -speech — or in Kentucky or
Georgia or the Carolinas — or in some slang or local
song or allusion of the Manhattan, Boston, Phila-
delphia or Baltimore mechanic — or up in the Maine
woods — or off in the hut of the California miner, or
crossing the Rocky mountains, or along the Pacific
railroad — or on the breasts of the young farmers of the
Northwest, or Canada, or boatmen of the lakes. Rude
and coarse nursing-beds these ; but only from such be-
ginnings and stocks, indigenous here, may haply arrive,
be grafted, and sprout, in time, flowers of genuine
American aroma, and fruits truly and fully our own.
The altitude of literature and poetry has always been
Religion — and always will be. The Indian Vedas, the
Nagkas of Zoroaster, The Talmud of the Jews, the Old
Testament also, the Gospel of Christ arid his disciples,
Plato's works, the Koran of Mohammed, the Edda of
Snorro, and so on toward our own day, to Sweden-
borg, and to the invaluable contributions of Leibnitz,
Kant and Hegel, ^these, with such poems only in
which, (while singing well of persons and events, of
the passions of man, and the shows of the material
universe,) the religious tone, the consciousness of
mystery, the recognition of the future, of the unknown,
of Deity, over and under all, and of the divine purpose,
z
386 IV ALT WHITMAN.
are never absent, but indirectly give tone to all —
exhibit literature's real heights and elevations, tower-
ing up like the great mountains of the earth.
In a few years, there will be, in the cities of These
States, immense Museums, with suites of halls, con-
taining samples and illustrations from all the places
and peoples of the earth, old and new. In these halls,
in the presence of these illustrations, the noblest savans
will deliver lectures to thousands of young men and
women, on history, natural history, the sciences, &c.
History itself will get released from being that false
and distant thing, that fetish it has been. It will
become a friend, a venerable teacher, a live being,
with hands, voice, presence. It will be disgraceful to
a young person not to know chronology, geography,
poems, heroes, deeds, and all the former nations, and
present ones also — and it will be disgraceful in a teacher
to teach any less or more than he believes.
— We see, fore-indicated, amid these prospects and
hopes, new law-forces of spoken and written language
— not merely the pedagogue-forms, correct, regular,
familiar with precedents, made for matters of outside
propriety, fine words, thoughts definitely told out — ^but
a language fanned by the breath of Nature, which leaps
overhead, cares mostly for impetus and effects, and for
what it plants and invigorates to grow— tallies life and
character, and seldomer tells a thing than suggests or
necessitates it.
The process of reading is not a half-sleep, but in
highest sense, an exercise, a gymnast's struggle ; that
WALT WHITMAN. 387
the reader is to do something for himself, must be on
the alert, must himself or herself construct indeed the
poem, argument, history, metaphysical essay — the text
furnishing the hints, the clue, the start or framework.
Not the book needs so much to be the complete thing,
but the reader of the book does. That were to make
a nation of supple and athletic minds, well-trained,
intuitive, used to depend on themselves, and not on a
few coteries of writers.
I not only commend the study of this literature, but
wish our sources of supply and comparison vastly
enlarged. American students may well derive from
all former lands — from forenoon Greece and Rome,
down to the perturbed medieval times, the Crusades,
and so to Italy, the German intellect — all the older
literatures, and all the newer ones — from witty and
warlike France, and markedly, and in many ways, and
at many different periods, from the enterprise and soul
of the great Spanish race — bearing ourselves always
courteous, always deferential, indebted beyond measure
to the mother-world, to all its nations dead, as all its
nations living — the offspring, this America of ours, the
Daughter, not by any means of the British isles ex-
clusively, but of the Continent, and all continents.
Indeed, it is time we should realize and fully fructify
those germs we also hold from Italy, France, Spain,
especially in the best imaginative productions of those
lands, which are, in many ways, loftier and subtler
than the English, or British, and indispensable to com-
plete our service. ... Of the great poems of
Asian antiquity, the Indian epics, the Book of Job,
388 ''GEORGE ELIOT:'
the Ionian Iliad, the unsurpassedly simple, loving,
perfect idyls of the life and death of Christ, in the
New Testament, and along down, of most of the char-
acteristic imaginative or romantic relics of the con-
dnent, as the Cid, Cervantes' Don Quixote, &c.,
I should say they substantially adjust themselves to us,
and, far off as they are, accord curiously with our bed
and board, to-day, in 1870, in Brooklyn, Washington,
Canada, Ohio, Texas, California — and with our notions,
both of seriousness and of fun, and our standards of
heroism, manliness, and even the Democratic require-
ments.
I cannot dismiss English, or British imaginative
literature without the cheerful name of Walter Scott.
In my opinion he deserves to stand next to Shak-
speare. . Both are, in their best and absolute quality,
continental, not British — both teeming, luxuriant, true
to their lands and origin, namely, feudality, yet ascend-
ing into universalism. Then, I should say, both
deserve to be finally considered and construed as
shining suns, whom it were ungracious to pick
spots upon. — Democratic Vistas. (Author's Edition,
Camden, New Jersey.) 1876.
Marian Evans (George Eliot).
1820— 1881.
At last Maggie's eyes glanced down on the books
that lay on the window-shelf, and she half forsook her
reverie to turn over listlessly the leaves of the *' Portrait
Gallery," but she soon pushed this aside to examine
''GEORGE ELIOT:' 389
the little row of books tied together with string.
** Beauties of the Spectator," " Rasselas," " Economy
of Human Life," "Gregory's Letters" — she knew the
sort of matter that was inside all these : the " Christian
Year " — that seemed to be a hymn-book, and she laid
it down again ; but Thofnas d, Kempis ? — the name
had come across her in her reading, and she felt the
satisfaction, which every one knows, of getting some
ideas to attach to a name that strays solitary in the
memory. She took up the little, old, clumsy book
with some curiosity : it had the corners turned down in
many places, and some hand, now for ever quiet, had
made at certain passages strong pen-and-ink marks,
long since browned by time. Maggie turned from leaf
to leaf, and read where the quiet hand pointed . . .
' ' Know that the love of thyself doth hurt thee more
than anything in the world. ... If thou seekest
this or that, and wouldst be here or there to enjoy thy
own will and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet nor
free from care : for in everything somewhat will be
wanting, and in every place there will be some that
will cross thee. . . . Both above and below,
which way soever thou dost turn thee, everywhere
thou shalt find the Cross : and everywhere of necessity
thou must have patience, if thou wilt have inward
peace, and enjoy an everlasting crown. . . ."
A strange thrill of awe passed through Maggie while
she read, as if she had been awakened in the night by
a strain of solemn music, telling of beings whose souls
had been astir while hers was in stupor. She went on
from one brown mark to another, where the quiet
hand seemed to point, hardly conscious that she was •
390 ''GEORGE ELIOT:*
reading — seeming rather to listen while a low voice
said — " ... I have often said unto thee, and now
again I say the same, Forsake thyself, resign thyself,
and thou shalt enjoy much inward peace. . . .
Then shall all vain imaginations, evil perturbations,
and superfluous cares fly away ; then shall immoderate
fear leave thee, and inordinate love shall die."
. . . She read on and on in the old book, de-
vouring eagerly the dialogues with the invisible
Teacher, the pattern of sorrow, the source of all
strength ; returning to it after she had been called
away, and reading till the sun went down behind the
willows. . . . She knew nothing of doctrines and
systems — of mysticism or quietism ; but this voice out
of the far-off" middle ages was the direct communication
of a human soul's belief and experience, and came to
Maggie as an unquestioned message.
I suppose that is the reason why the small old-
fashioned book, for which you need only pay sixpence
at a book-stall, works miracles to this day, turning
bitter waters into sweetness : while expensive sermons
and treatises, newly issued, leave all things as they
were before. It was written down by a hand that
waited for the heart's prompting ; it is the chronicle of
a solitary, hidden anguish, struggle, trust and triumph —
not written on velvet cushions to teach endurance to
those who are treading with bleeding feet on the stones.
And so it remains to all time a lasting record of
human needs and human consolations : the voice of a
brother who, ages ago, felt and suffered and re-
nounced — in the cloister, perhaps with serge gown
and tonsured head, with much chanting and long fasts,
GEORGE DAWSON, 391
and with a fashion of speech different from ours — but
under the same silent far-off heavens, and with the
same passionate desires, the same strivings, the same
failures, the same weariness. — The Mill on the Floss,
Book iv., Chap. 3. ,
George Dawson. 1821 — 1876.
The great consulting room of a wise man is a library.
When I am in perplexity about life, I have but to come
here, and, without fee or reward, I commune with the
wisest souls that God has blest the world with. If I
want a discourse on immortality Plato comes to my
help. If I want to know the human heart Shakspeare
opens all its chambers. Whatever be my perplexity or
doubt I know exactly the great man to call to me, and
he comes in the kindest way, he listens to my doubts
and tells me his convictions. So that a library may be
regarded as the solemn chamber in which a man can
take counsel with all that have been wise and great
and good and glorious amongst the men that have
gone before him. If we come down for a moment and
look at the bare and immediate utilities of a library we
find that here a man gets himself ready for his calling,
arms himself for his profession, finds out the facts that
are to determine his trade, prepares himself for his
examination. The utilities of it are endless and price-
less. It is too a place of pastime ; for man has no
amusement more innocent, more sweet, more gracious,
more elevating, and more fortifpng than he can find in
a library. If he be fond of books, his fondness will
discipline him as well as amuse him. , . .
392 GEORGE DAWSON,
I go into my library as to a hermitage — and it is one
of the best hermitages the world has. What matters
the scoff of the fool when you are safely amongst the
great men of the past ? How little of the din of this
stupid world enters into a library, how hushed are the
foolish voices of the world's hucksterings, barterings,
and bickerings ! How little the scorn of high or low,
or the mad cries of party spirit can touch the man
who in this best hermitage of human life draws around
him the quietness of the dead and the solemn sanctities of
ancient thought ! Thus, whether I take it as a question of
utility, of pastime or of high discipline I find the library —
with but one or two exceptions — the most blessed place
that man has fashioned or framed. The man who is fond
of books is usually a man of lofty thought, of elevated
opinions. A library is the strengthener of all that is
great in life and the repeller of what is petty and mean ;
and half the gossip of society would perish if the books
that are truly worth reading were but read.
When we look through the houses of a large part of
the middle classes of this country we find there every-
thing but what there ought most to be. There are no
books in them worth talking of. If a question arises
of geography they have no atlases. If the question be
when a great man was bom they cannot help you.
They can give you a gorgeous bed, with four posts,
marvellous adornments, luxurious hangings and lac-
quered shams all round; they can give you dinners
■ad nauseam and wine that one can, or cannot, honestly
praise. But useful books are almost the last things
that are to be found there ; and when the mind is empty
of those things that books can alone fill it with, then
GEORGE DAWSON. 393
the seven devils of pettiness, frivolity, fashionableness,
gentility, scandal, small slander and the chronicling of
small beer come in and take possession of the mind.
Half this nonsense would be dropped if men would
only understand the elevating influences of their com-
muning constantly with the lofty thoughts and the high
resolves of men of old times.
But as we cannot dwell upon all the uses and beauties
of a library, let us pass on to see that this is a Corpora-
tion Library, and in that we see one of the greatest and
happiest things about it, for a library, supported, as
this is, by rates and administered by a Corporation, is
the expression of a conviction on your part that a town
like this exists for moral and intellectual purposes. It
is a proclamation that a great community like this is
not to be looked upon as a fortuitous concourse of
human atoms, or as a miserable knot of vipers strug-
gling in a pot, each aiming to get his head above the
other in the fierce struggle of competition. It is a
declaration that the Corporation of a great town like
this has not done all its duty when it has put in action
a set of ingenious contrivances for cleaning and lighting
the streets, for breaking stones, for mending ways ; and
has not fulfilled its highest functions even when it has
given the people of the town the best system of
drainage —though that is not yet attained. Beyond
all these things the Corporation of a borough like this
has every function to discharge that is discharged by
the master of a household — to minister to men by every
office, that of the priest alone excepted. And mark
this : I would rather a great book or a great picture fell
394 GEORGE DAWSON.
into the hands of a Corporation than into the hands of
an individual, for great and noble as has been the spirit
of many of our collectors, when a great picture is in
the hands of a nobleman however generous, or of a
gentleman however large-hearted he may be, he will
have his heirs, narrow-minded fools perhaps, or a suc-
cessor pitifully selfish and small ; and this great picture
that God never intended to be painted for the delight
of but one noble family, or the small collection of little
people it gathers around it, may be shut ^ip through
the whim of its owner or the caprice of its master, or in
self-defence against the wanton injury that some fool
may have done it. But the moment you put great
works into the hands of a Corporate body like this
you secure permanence of guardianship in passionless
keeping. A Corporation cannot get out of temper, or
if it does it recovers itself quickly. A Corporation
could not shut up this Library. It is open for ever.
It is under the protection of the English law in all its
majesty. Its endurance will be the endurance of the
English nation. Therefore when a Corporation takes
into its keeping a great picture or a great collection of
books, that picture and those books are given to the
multitude and are put into the best keeping, the keeping
of those who have not the power, even if they had the
will, to destroy. The time of private ownership has,
I hope, nearly come to an end— not that I would put
an end to it by law or by any kind of violence ; but I
hope we shall in the open market bid against the
nobility, gentry, and private collectors, for it is a
vexation when a great picture or a great collection of
books is shut up in a private house. ...
GEORGE DAWSON. 39S
If I had "my will there should not be a single
cheap book in this room. If you want cheap books
buy them. You can have *'Waverley" for sixpence
and the choice of two editions. The object of a
Library like this is to buy dear books — to buy
books that the lover of books cannot afford to
buy; to put at the service of the poorest, books
that the richest can scarce afford. . . . The object
is to bring together in this room a supply of what the
private man cannot compass, and what the wisest man
only wants to put to occasional use. One of the great
offices of a Reference Library like this is to keep at
the service of everybody what everybody cannot keep
at home for his own service. It is not convenient to
every man to have a very large telescope ; I may wish
to study the skeleton of a whale but my house is not
large enough to hold one ; I may be curious in micro-
scopes but I may have no money to buy one of my
own. But provide an institution like this and here is
the telescope, here is the microscope, and here the
skeleton of the whale. Here are the great picture,
the mighty book, the ponderous atlas, the great
histories of the world. They are here always ready
for the use of every man without his being put to the
cost of purchase or the discomfort of giving them house
room. Here are books that we only want to consult
occasionally and which are very costly. These are
the books proper for a Library like this — mighty cyclo-
paedias, prodigious charts, books that only Governments
can publish. It is almost the only place where I would
avoid cheapness as a plague and run away from mean
printing and petty pages with disgust. . . .
396 CHARLES BUXTON.
There are few things, Mr. Mayor, that I would more
willingly share with you than the desire that, in days
to come, when some student, in a fine rapture of grati-
tude, as he sits in this room, may for a moment call to
mind the names of the men, who by speech and by
labour, by the necessary agitation or the continuous
work, took part in founding this Library. There are
few places I would rather haunt after my death than
this room, and there are few things I would have my
children remember more than this, that this man spoke
the discourse at the opening of this glorious Library,
the first-fruits of a clear understanding that a great
town exists to discharge towards the people of that
town the duties that a great nation exists to discharge
towards the people of that nation — that a town exists
here by the grace of God, that a great town is a solemn
organism through which should flow, and in which
should be shaped, all the highest, loftiest, and truest
ends of man's intellectual and moral nature. . . .
This Corporation has undertaken the highest duty
that is possible to it : it has made provision for its
people — for all its people — and it has made a provision
of God's greatest and best gifts unto man. — Inaugural
Address^ on the Opening of the Birmingham Free
Reference Library ^ Oct. 26, 1866.
Charles Buxton. 1822 — 1871.
Readers abuse writers and say their writing is
wretched stuff, stale nonsense, and so on. But what
might not writers justly say of their readers ? What
poor, dull, indolent, feeble, careless minds do they
ROBERT LEIGHTON. 397
bring to deal with thoughts whose excellence lies deep !
A reader's highest achievement is to succeed in forming
a true and clear conception of the author from his
works. . . .
We are richer than we think. And now and then it
is not a bad thing to make a catalogue raisonne of the
things that are helping to make us happy. It is
astonishing how long the list is. The poorest of us
has property, the value of which is almost boundless ;
but there is not one of us who might not so till that
property as to make it peld tenfold more. Our books,
gardens, families, society, friends, talk, music, art,
poetry, scenery, might all bring forth to us far greater
wealth of enjoyment and improvement if we tried to
squeeze the very utmost out of them. — Notes of
Thought,
Robert Leighton. 1822 — 1869.
Books.
I cannot think the glorious world of mind,
Embalm'd in books, which I can only see
In patches, though I read my moments blind,
Is to be lost to me.
I have a thought that, as we live elsewhere,
So will these dear creations of the brain ;
That what I lose unread, I'll find, and there
Take up my joy again.
O then the bliss of blisses, to be freed
From all the wonts by which the woi^ld is driven ;
With liberty and endless time to read
The libraries of Heaven !
398 ROBERT LEIGH TON.
Books and Thoughts.
As round these well-selected shelves one looks,
Remembering years of reading leisure flown,
It kills all hope to think how many books
He still must leave unknown.
But when to thoughts, instead of books, he comes,
Request grows less for what he cannot read.
If he reflects how many learned tomes
One thought may supersede.
So, let him be a toiling, unread man.
And the idea, like an added sense,
Of God informing all his life, he can
With many a book dispense.
The fine conviction, too, that Death, like Sleep,
Wakes into higher dreams — this thought will brook
Denial of the libraries, and keep
The key of many a book. „ ■> j .l t>
^ ^ Kecords and other Poems,
For Many Books,
I would that we were only readers now,
And wrote no more, or in rare heats of soul
Sweated out thoughts when the o'er-burdened brow
Was powerless to control.
Then would all future books be small and few.
And, freed of dross, the soul's refined gold ;
So should we have a chance to read the new.
Yet not forego the old.
But as it is, Lord help, us, in this flood
Of daily papers, books and magazines !
We scramble blind as reptiles in the mud,
And know not what it means.
y, A. LANGFORD. 399
Is it the myriad spawn of vagrant tides,
Whose growth would overwhelm both sea and
shore,
Yet often necessary loss, provides
Sufficient and no more ?
Is it the broadcast sowing of the seeds,
And from the stones, the thorns, and fertile soil,
Only enough to serve the world's great needs
Rewards the sower's toil ?
Is it all needed for the varied mind ?
Gives not the teeming press a book too much —
Not one, but in its dense neglect shall find
Some needful heart to touch ?
Ah, who can say that even this blade of grass
No mission has — superfluous as it looks ?
Then wherefore feel oppressed I cry, Alas
There are too many books !
Reuben^ and other Poems.
J. A. Langford. h, 1823 [Living].
The love of books is a love which requires neither •
justification, apology, nor defence. It is a good thing
in itself: a possession to be thankful for, to rejoice
over, to be proud of, and to sing praises for. With
this love in his heart no man is ever poor, ever without
friends, or the means of making his life lovely, beautiful,
and happy. In prosperity or adversity, in joy or
sorrow, in health or sickness, in solitude or crowded
towns, books are never out of place, never without the
power to comfort, console, and bless. They add
400 y. A. LANGFORD,
wealth to prosperity, and make sweeter the sweet uses
of adversity ; they intensify joy and take the sting from,
or give a bright relief to sorrow ; they are the glorifiers
of health and the blessed consolers of sickness; they
people solitude with the creations of thought, the
children of fancy, and the offsprings of imagination,
and to the busy haunts of men they lend a purpose and
an aim, and tend to keep the heart unspotted in the
world. It is better to possess this love than to inherit
a kingdom, for it brings wealth which money can never
buy, and which power is impotent to secure. It is
better than gold, "yea, than much fine gold," and
splendid palaces and costly raiment. No possession
can surpass, or even equal, a good library to the lover
of books. Here are treasured up for his daily use and
delectation riches which increase by being consumed,
and pleasures which never cloy. It is a realm as large
as the universe, every part of which is peopled by
spirits who lay before his feet their precious spoils as
his lawful tribute. For him the poets sing, the philo-
sophers discourse, the historians unfold the wonderful
march of life, and the searchers of nature reveal the
secrets and mysteries of creation. ■ No matter what his
. rank or position may be, the lover of books is the
richest and the happiest ofthe children of men. . . .
The only true equalisers in the world are books;
the only treasure-house open to all comers is a
library ; the only wealth which will not decay is know-
ledge; the only jewel which you can carry beyond the
grave is wisdom. To live in this equality, to share in
these treasures, to possess this wealth, and to secure
this jewel may be the happy lot of every one. All
y. A. LANGFORD. 401
that is needed for the acquisition of these inestimable
treasures is, the love of books. . .
As ,friends and companions, as teachers and con-
solers, as recreators and amusers books are always with
us, and always ready to respond to our wants. We
can take them with us in our wanderings, or gather
them around us at our firesides. In the lonely wilder-
ness, and the crowded city, their spirit will be with us,
giving a meaning to the seemingly confused movements
of humanity, and peopling the desert with their own
bright creations. Without the love of books the
richest man is poor ; but endowed with this treasure of
treasures, the poorest man is rich. He has wealth
which no power can diminish; riches which are
always increasing; possessions which the more he
scatters the more they accumulate ; friends who never
desert him, and pleasures which never cloy. — The
Praise of Books,
Robert Collyer, b. 1823 [Living].
Those who must be their own helpers need not be
one whit discouraged. The history of the world is
full of bright examples of the value of self- training, as
shown by the subsequent success won as readers, and
writers, and workers in every department of life by
those who apparently lacked both books to read and
time to read them, or even the candle wherewith to light
the printed page. *'Do you want to know how I manage
to talk to you in this simple Saxon? I will tell you.
I read Bunyan, Crusoe, and Goldsmith when I was a
boy, morning, noon, and night. All the rest was task
AA
402 ROBERT COLLYER.
work, these were my delight, with the stories in the
Bible, and with Shakspeare when at last the mighty
master came within our doors. The rest were as senna
to me. These were like a well of pure water, and this
is the first step I seem to have taken of my own free
will toward the pulpit. ... I took to these as I
took to milk, and, without the least idea what I was
doing, got the taste for simple words into the very fibre
of my nature. There was day-school for me until I
was eight years old, and then I had to turn in and work
thirteen hours a day. . . . From the days when
we used to spell out Crusoe and old Bunyan there had
grown up in me a devouring hunger to read books.
It made small matter what they were, so they were books.
Half a volume of an old encyclopaedia came along — the
first I had ever seen. How many times I went through
that I cannot even guess. I remember that I read
some old reports of the Missionary Society with the
greatest delight. There were chapters in them about
China and Labrador. Yet I think it is in reading as it
is in eating, when the first hunger is over you begin to
be a little critical, and will by no means take to garbage
if you are of a wholesome nature. And I remember this
because it touches this beautiful valley of the Hudson.
I could not go home for the Christmas of 1839, and
was feeling very sad about it all, for I was only a boy ;
and sitting by the fire, an old farmer came in and said :
*I notice thou's fond o' reading, so I brought thee
summat to read.' It was Irving's 'Sketch Book.' I
had never heard of the work. I went at it, and was
*as them that dream.' No such delight had touched
me since the old days of Crusoe. I saw the Hudson .
ROBERT COLLYER. 403
and the Catskills, took poor Rip at once into my heart,
as everybody has, pitied Ichabod while I laughed at
him, thought the old Dutch feast a most admirable
thing, and long before I was through, all regret at my
lost Christmas had gone down the wind, and I had found
out there are books and books. That vast hunger to
read never left me. If there was no candle, I poked my
head down to the fire \ read while I was eating, blowing
the bellows, or walking from one place to another. I
could read and walk four miles an hour. The world
centred in books. There was no thought in my mind
of any good to come out of it; the good lay in the
reading. I had no more idea of being a minister than
you elder men who were boys then, in this town, had
that I should be here to-night to tell this story. Now,
give a boy a passion like this for anything, books or
business, painting or farming, mechanism or music,
and you give him thereby a lever to lift his world, and
a patent of nobility, if the thing he does is noble.
There were two or three of my mind about books. We
became companions, and gave the roughs a wide berth.
The books did their work too, about that drink, and
fought the devil with a finer fire. I remember while
I was yet a lad reading Macaulay's great essay on
Bacon, and I could grasp its wonderful beauty. There
has been no time when I have not felt sad that there
should have been no chance for me at a good educa-
tion and training. I miss it every day, but such chances
as were left lay in that everlasting hunger to still be
reading. I was tough as leather, and could do the
double stint, and so it was that, all unknown to myself,
I was as one that soweth good seed in his field. "
404 ROBERT COLLYER.
And these are among the sure criterions to me of a
bad book. If, when I read a book about God, I find
that it has put Him farther from me ; or about man,
that it has put me farther from him ; or about this
universe, that it has shaken- down upon it a new look
of desolation, turning a green field into a wild moor ;
or about life, that it has made it seem a little less
worth living on all accounts than it was ; or about
moral principles, that they are not quite so clear and
strong as they were when this author began to talk ;
then I know that, on any of these five cardinal things
in the life of a man — his relation to God, to his fellows,
to the world about him, and the world within him, and
the great principles on which all things stable centre —
that, for me, is a bad book. It may chime in with
some lurking appetite in my own nature, and so seem
to be as sweet as honey to my taste, but it comes to
bitter, bad results. It may be food for another. I
can say nothing to that. He may be a pine, while
I am a palm. I only know this, that in these great
first things, if the book I read shall touch them at all,
it shall touch them to my profit or else I will not read
it. Right and wrong shall grow more clear ; life in
and about me more divine ; T shall come nearer to my
fellows and God nearer to me, or the thing is a poison.
Faust, or Calvin, or Carlyle, if any one of these car-
dinal things is the grain and grist of the book, and
that is what it comes to when I read it, I am being
drugged and poisoned, and the sooner I know it the
better. I want bread, and meat, and milk, not brandy,
or opium, or hasheesh.
y. MAIN FR IS WELL. 405
If the book be of religion, and brings God nearer
to my heart and life ; if it be of humanity, and
brings me nearer to the heart and life of man ; if it be
of philosophy, and makes this universe glow to me
with a new grace ; or of metaphysics, and brings me
more truly to myself; if it be poem, or story, adven-
ture, or history, or biography, and I feel that it makes
me more of a man, more dutiful, and sincere, and
trusty, then no matter who wrote it or what men say
about it, the judgment is set in my own soul. — Addresses,
Sermons y d^c, by the Rev, Robert Collyer^ Chicago ,
U. S.
James Hain Friswell. 1827 — 1878.
When a man loves books he has in him that which
will console him under many sorrows and strengthen
him in various trials. Such a love will keep him at
home, and make his time pass pleasantly. Even when
visited by bodily or mental affliction, he can resort to
this book-love and be cured. , . . And when a
man is at home and happy with a book, sitting by his
fireside, he must be a churl if he does not communicate
that happiness. Let him read now and then to his
wife and children. Those thoughts will grow and take
root in the hearts of the listeners. Good scattered
about is indeed the seed of the sower. A man who
feels sympathy with what is good and noble is, at the
time he feels that sympathy, good and noble himself.
To a poor man book-love is not only a consoling
preservative, but often a source of happiness, power,
and wealth. It lifts him from the mechanical drudgery
4o6 C. KEG AN PAUL.
of the day. It takes him away from bad companions,
and gives him the close companionship of a good and
fine-thinking man ; for, while he is reading Bacon or
Shakspeare, l\e is talking with Bacon or Shakspeare.
While his body is resting, his mind is working and
growing. . . .
It is true that this priesthood is of no Church, and
is not in orders ; but it is not the less important on
that account. What a power does a writer hold who
addresses every week, or every day, or month, a larger
congregation than a hundred churches could hold !
There are many writers of the present day who address
as many, nay, more than the number indicated, if we
put it at its largest.
This importance of the priesthood of letters is carried
yet further if we remember that the words of a preacher
fall on our ears and are often forgotten, while those of
the writer remain. Ink-stains are difficult to get out :
there is nothing so imperishable as a book, — The
Gentle Life ; Second Series : *' On Book Love."
C. Kegan Paul. b. 1828.
To go into a library is like the wandering into some
great cathedral church and looking at the monuments
on the walls. Every one there was in his or her day
the pattern of all the virtues, the best father, the
tenderest wife, the most devoted child. Never were
such soldiers and sailors as those whose crossed swords
or gallant ships are graven in marble above their tombs ;
every dead sovereign was virtuous as Marcus Aurelius,
every bishop as blameless as Berkeley. The inscrip-
C. KEG AN PAUL. 407
tions are all of the kind which George IV. put on the
statue of George III. at the end of the ** Long Walk "
at Windsor. Having embittered his father's life while
that father had mind enough to know the baseness of
his son, he called him ** pater optimus," best of fathers !
This same George, it may be said in a parenthesis,
gave to the library of Eton School, not such a tomb
of dead books as is the library of Eton College, the
dead Delphin Classics, which have been well described
as " the useless present of a royal rake."
Yet those names so forgotten which meet us in the
Church were not without their influence. If there be
one statement more than another to be disputed among
those made by Shakspeare's Mark Antony, it is —
" The evil that men do lives after them,
The good is oft interred with their bones. "
It has a truth, but a less truth than that the good more
often lives, and passes into other lives to be renewed
and carried forward with fresh vigour in the coming
age. Were it not so the human race would steadily
deteriorate, weltering down into a black and brutal
corruption, ever quickening, if at all, into lower forms.
As it is we know that the race, with all its imperfec-
tions, "moves upward, working out the beast, and lets
the ape and tiger die." The great men stand like stars
at distant intervals, individuals grander, perhaps, than
ever will be again, each in his own way ; but still the
average level of every succeeding age is higher than
that which went before it. We may never again have
an Homer, Aristotle, Archimedes, St. Paul, Csesar, or
Charlemagne ; but in all things those great ones who
4o8 ALEXANDER SMITH.
forecast philosophy, or science, or mediaeval civilization
bear sway over us still, — *'the living are under the
dominion of the dead." Those lesser forgotten ones
of whom we have spoken have carried on the torch of
life in his or her own home circle, were influential
even if not widely known, and have helped to make
humanity what she is and will be, — our lady, our
mistress, our mother, and our queen.
As perhaps no human life was ever wholly worth-
less, and the worst use to which you can put a man, as
has been said, is to hang him, so no book is wholly
worthless, and none should ever be destroyed. We
have probably all had the same experience, that we
have never parted with a book, however little we fancied
it would be wanted again, without regretting it soon
afterwards. There is a spark of good remaining in the
most un virtuous person or book. — " The Production
and Life of Books, " Fortnightly Review^ Aprils 1 883.
Alexander Smith. 1830 — 1867.
In my garden I spend my days ; in my library I
spend my nights. My interests are divided between
my geraniums and my books. With the flower I am
in the present ; with the book I am in the past. I go
into my library, and all history unrolls before me.
I breathe the morning air of the world while the scent
of Eden's roses yet lingered in it, while it vibrated
only to the world's first brood of nightingales, and to
the laugh of Eve. I see the pyramids building ; I
hear the shoutings of the armies of Alexander ; I feel
ALEXANDER SMITH. 409
the ground shake beneath the march of Cambyses. I
sit as in a theatre,— the stage is time, the play is the
play of the world. What a spectacle it is! What
kingly pomp, what processions file past, what cities
burn to heaven, what crowds of captives are dragged at
the chariot-wheels of conquerors ! I hiss or cry
** Bravo" when the great actors come on shaking the
stage. I am a Roman emperor when I look at a
Roman coin. I lift Homer, and I shout with Achilles
in the trenches. The silence of the unpeopled
Syrian plains, the out-comings and in-goings of the
patriarchs, Abraham and Ishmael, Isaac in the fields
at even-tide, Rebekah at the well, Jacob's guile, Esau's
face reddened by desert sun-heat, Joseph's splendid
funeral procession — all these things I find within the
boards of my Old Testament. What a silence in those
old books as of a half-peopled world — what bleating of
flocks — what green pastoral rest — what indubitable
human existence ! Across brawling centuries of blood
and war, I hear the bleating of Abraham's flocks, the
tinkling of the bells of Rebekah's camels. O men
and women, so far separated yet so near, so strange
yet so well-known, by what miraculous power do I
know ye all ! Books are the true Elysian fields where
the spirits of the dead converse, and into these fields a
mortal may venture unappalled. What king's court
can boast such company? What school of philosophy
such wisdom? The wit of the ancient world is glancing
and flashing there. There is Pan's pipe, there are the
songs of Apollo. Seated in my library at night, and
looking on the silent faces of my books, I am occa-
sionally visited by a strange sense of the supernatural.
4IO ALEXANDER SMITH.
They are not collections of printed pages, they are
ghosts. I take one down and it speaks with me in
a tongue not now heard on earth, and of men and
things of which it alone possesses knowledge. I call
myself a solitary, but sometimes I think I misapply the
term. ■ No man sees more company than I do. I
travel with mightier cohorts around me than ever did
Timour or Genghis Khan on their fiery marches. I
am a sovereign in my library, but it is the dead, not
the living that attend my levees. — Dreamt horp: a
Book of Essays Written in the Country, by Alexandej
Smith, Author of "^ Lifers Drama^^'' ^c.
To define the charm of style is as difficult as to define
the charm of beauty or of fine manners. It is not one
thing, it is the result of a hundred things. Everything
a man has is concerned in it. It is the amalgam and
issue of all his faculties, and it bears the same relation
to these that light bears to the sun, or the perfume to
the flower. And apart from its value as an embalmer
and preserver of thought, it has this other value, that
it is a secret window through which we can look in on
the writer. A man may work with ideas which he has
not originated, which do not in any special way belong
to himself; but his style — in which is included his way
of approaching a subject, and his method of treating
it — is always personal and characteristic. We decipher
a man by his style, find out secrets about him, as if we
over-heard his soliloquies, and had the run of his diaries,
just as in conversation, and in the ordinary business of
life, we draw our impressions, not so much from what
a man says, as from the manner and the tone of voice
ALEXANDER SMITH. . 41.1
in which the thing is said. The cunning reader draws
conclusions from emphasis, takes notes of the half-
perceptible sneer, makes humour stand and deliver its
secret, and estimates what bitterness it has taken to
congeal into sharpness the icy spear of wit. After this
fashion, in every book the writer's biography may
more or less clearly be read. For a man needs not to
speak directly about himself to be personally commu-
nicative. And, in truth, it is in the amount of this
kind of personal revelation that the final value of a
book resides. We read books, not so much for what
they say as for what they suggest.
Take up an essay of Montaigne's ; you are startled
by no remarkable breadth or weight of idea, but you
are constantly encountering sentences through which
you can look in on the author as through a stereo-
scopic lens. You take up an essay of Charles Lamb's,
and in the quaint setting of his thoughts — like a piquant
face in a Quaker bonnet — you are continually renewing
and improving your acquaintance with the shiest, most
delicate, and, in some respects, the noblest and purest
of modern spirits. People never weary of reading
Montaigne and Lamb, for while the thoughts they
express have sufficient merit as thoughts, they are at
the same time biographies in brief. They may have
written finely or foolishly, seriously or with levity,
but they have always written with a certain personal
flavour. . . . Every sentence of the great writer
is like an autograph. There is no chance of mistaking
Milton's large utterance, or Jeremy Taylor's images,
or Sir Thomas Browne's quaintness, or Charles Lamb's
412 *' MATTHEW BROWNE:'
cunning turns of sentence. These are as distinct and
individual as the features of their faces or their signa-
tures. If Milton had endorsed a bill with half-a-dozen
blank verse lines, it would be as good as his name, and
would be accepted as good evidence in court. If Lamb
had never gathered up his essays into those charming
volumes, he could be tracked easily by the critical eye
through all the magazines of his time. The identity of
these men can never be mistaken. Every printed page
of theirs is like a coat of arms, every trivial note on
ordinary business like the impression of a signet ring. —
Last Leaves: Sketches and Criticisms. Edited, with a
Meinoiryby P. P. Alexander, M.A,
W. H. Rands (Matthew Browne).
d. 1882.
I am not at all afraid of urging overmuch the pro-
priety of frequent, very frequent, reading of the same
book. The book remains the same, but the reader
changes, and the value of reading lies in the collision
of minds. It may be taken for granted that no con-
ceivable amount of reading could ever put me into
the position with respect to his book — I mean as to
intelligence only — in which the author strove to place
me. I may read him a hundred times, and not catch
the precise right point of view ; and may read him a
hundred and one times, and approach it the hundred
and first. The driest and hardest book that ever was
contains an interest over and above what can be picked
out of it, and laid, so to speak, on the table. It is
interesting as my friend is interesting ; it is a problem
''MATTHEW BROWNE:' 413
which invites me to closer knowledge, and that usually
means better liking. He must be a poor friend that
we only care to see once or twice, and then forget.
It never seems to occur to some people, who deliver
upon the books they read very unhesitating judgments,
that they may be wanting, either by congenital defect,
or defect of experience, or defect of reproductive
memory, in the qualifications which are necessary for
judging fairly of any particular book. Yet the first
question a practised and conscientious reader asks
himself is, whether he has any natural or accidental
disability for the task of criticism in any given case.
It may surprise many persons to hear of the possibility
of such a thing ; but perhaps it may be made clear by
examples.
As to congenital defect. We all admit that some
individuals are born with better "ears" for music,
and better "eyes" for colour, and more "taste" for
drawing than others, and we willingly defer, other
things being equal, to the decisions upon the points in
question of those who are by nature the best gifted.
It is quite a common thing to meet people who, in
spite of culture, continue unmusical all their lives
long, or unable to catch perspective, or draw a wheel
round or a chimney straight, or discriminate fine shades
of colour at all. What is the value of the opinions of
such persons upon questions of the fine arts ? Scarcely
anything, of course. Now a book is in nowise dis-
tinguished, for our present purpose, from a picture or
a sonata. It is sure, if it be a good book, to appeal,
in some of its parts, to special aptitudes of sensibility
on the part of its readers ; but if the reader lacks the
414 ''MATTHEW BROWNE."
aptitudes, where is the author? And cases in point
are not so rare as might be supposed. There are thou-
sands of people who are wanting in sensibility to beauty
in general ; in the feeling of personal attachment ;
in the feelings of the hearth ; the feelings of the
forum ; the feelings of the altar. It is not at all
uncommon to come across characters in which the
ordinary natural susceptibility to devotional ideas, nay
to fervid ideas in general, seems wholly left out. It is
as if they had come into the world with a sense short. •
Again, you may meet people who have no idea of
humour. Allow any latitude you please for taste in
this matter — and, of course, taste differs — it still remains
true that a total absence of the sense of fun is occa-
sionally seen in society. This is, indeed, quite a
commonplace. Now, we must remember, that in
speaking of qualities we, after all, draw arbitrary
boundary lines. There are many deficiencies as many
as there are human beings, which cannot be labelled —
compound deficiencies, so to speak, which affect the
total appreciativeness of our minds to a degree which
we ourselves cannot measure, though a healthy self-
consciousness may keep us on our guard : and, of
course, our estimates of literature, as of other forms
of art, must be affected by such shortcomings in our
natural make.
Poor indeed must our experience be as readers of
books if we have never found a page, which once we
thought empty, now full of life and light and meaning.
True, it is the business of the artist to make us feel
with him and see with him; some fault may be his, —
FREDERIC HARRISON. 415
and yet not all the fault. At least, he may claim that
we should bring to him a tolerably patient and receptive
mind, not a repelling, refusive mind ; in a word, that
we should treat him with decency, if we profess to
attend to him at all.
Akin to defect of experience is defect of retrospective
or reproductive memory — the power of feeling one's
past over again. It is very common for a man to take
up a book which he once admired with passion, and to
find scarcely anything in it. What, then, is the natural
thought, the one that he is most likely to make?
That his judgment is more mature, I suppose. Well,
it may be, and it ought to be ; but certainly the author
of the work may claim that his reader should ask
himself another question, namely, Have I lost anything
in general or specific sensibility since I first read this
book ? I have myself had to ask this question, and to
answer it against myself. Lapse of time must alter us ;
and we are, perhaps, too apt to fancy ourselves wiser
when we are only something more hard, and something
more dull. It has happened to me, indeed, to agree
with a writer upon first reading, to disagree with him
upon second reading, after an interval of a year or two ;
and then again, upon third reading, after another
interval, to have to come back to my first opinion.—
Views and Opinio7is : ^^ On Forming Opinions of
Books,''
Frederic Harrison, b. 1831 [Living].
Far be it from me to gainsay the inestimable value
of good books, or to discourage any man from reading
the best ; but I often think that we forget that other side
4i6 FREDERIC HARRISON.
to this glorious view of literature : — the misuse of books,
the debilitating waste of life in aimless promiscuous
vapid reading, or even, it may be, in the poisonous
inhalation of mere literary garbage and bad men's
worst thoughts.
For what can a book be more than the man who
wrote it? The brightest genius, perhaps, never puts
the best of his own soul into his printed page; and
some of the most famous men have certainly put the
worst of theirs. Yet are all men desirable companions,
much less teachers, fit to be listened to, able to give us
advice, even of those who get reputation and command
a hearing? Or, to put out of the question that writing
which is positively bad, are we not, amidst the multi-
plicity of books and of writers, in continual danger of
being drawn off by what is stimulating rather than
solid, by curiosity after something accidentally noto-
rious, by what has no intelligible thing to recommend
it, except that it is new? Now, to stuff our minds
with what is simply trivial, simply curious, or that
which at best has but a low nutritive power, this is to
close our minds to what is solid and enlarging, and
spiritually sustaining. Whether our neglect of the
great books comes from our not reading at all, or from
an incorrigible habit of reading the little books, it ends
in just the same thing. And that thing is ignorance
of all the greater literature of the world. To neglect
all the abiding parts of knowledge for the sake of the
evanescent parts is really to know nothing worth
knowing. It is in the end the same thing, whether
we do not use our minds for serious study at all,
or whether we exhaust them by an impotent
FREDERIC HARRISON. 417
voracity for idle and desultory "information," as it is
called — a thing as fruitful as whistling. Of the two
plans I prefer the former. At least, in that case, the
mind is healthy and open. It is not gorged and
enfeebled by excess in that which cannot nourish,
much less enlarge and beautify our nature.
But there is much more than this. Even to those
who resolutely avoid the idleness of reading what is
trivial, a difficulty is presented, a difficulty every day
increasing by virtue even of our abundance of books.
What are the subjects, what are the class of books we
are to read, in what order, with what connection, to
what ultimate use or object? Even those who are
resolved to read the better books are embarrassed by a
field of choice practically boundless. The longest life,
the greatest industry, the most powerful memory, would
not suffice to make us profit from a hundredth part of
the world of books before us. . . .
A man of power, who has got more from books than
most of his contemporaries, has lately said : **Form a
habit of reading, do not mind what you read, the
reading of better books will come when you have a
habit of reading the inferior." I cannot agree with
him. I think a habit of reading idly debilitates and
corrupts the mind for all wholesome reading ; I think
the habit of reading widely is one of the ihost difficult
habits to acquire, needing strong resolution and infinite
pains ; and I hold the habit of reading for mere reading's
sake, instead of for the sake of the stuff we gain from
reading, to be one of the worst and commonest and
most unwholesome habits we have. Why do we still
suffer the traditional hypocrisy about the dignity of
4i8 FREDERIC HARRISON.
literature, literature I mean, in the gross, which includes
about equal parts of what is useful and what is useless?
Why are books as books, writers as writers, readers as
readers, meritorious and honourable, apart from any
good in them, or anything that we can get from them?
Why do we pride ourselves on our powers of absorbing
print, as our grandfathers did on their gifts in imbibing
port, when we know that there is a mode of absorbing
print which makes it impossible we can ever learn any-
thing good out of books?
Our stately Milton said in a passage which is one of
the watchwords of the English race, "as good almost
kill a Man as kill a good Book." But has he not also
said that he would "have a vigilant eye how Bookes
demeane themselves, as well as men; and do sharpest
justice on them as malefactors"? , . . Yes ! they
do kill the good book who deliver up their few and
precious hours of reading to the trivial book; they
make it dead for them ; they do what lies in them to
destroy "the precious life-blood of a master spirit,
imbalm'd and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond
life;" they "spill that season'd life of man preserv'd
and stor'd up in Bookes." For in the wilderness of
books most men, certainly all busy men, must strictly
choose. If they saturate their minds with the idler
books, the "good book," which Milton calls "an
immortality rather than a life," is dead to them : it is a
book sealed up and buried.
Men who are most observant as to the friends they
make, or the conversation they join in, are carelessness
itself as to the books to whom they entrust themselves.
FREDERIC HARRISON. 419
and the printed language with which they Saturate
their minds. Yet can any friendship or society be
more important to us than that of the books which
form so large a part of our minds and even of our
characters? Do we in real life take any pleasant
fellow to our homes and chat with some agreeable
rascal by our firesides, we who will take up any
pleasant fellow's printed memoirs, we who delight in
the agreeable rascal when he is cut up into pages and
bound in calf ? . . .
The vast proportion of books are books that we shall
never be able to read. A serious percentage of books
are not worth reading at all. The really vital books
for us we also know to be a very trifling portion of the
whole. And yet we act as if every book were as good
as any other, as if it were merely a question of order
which we take up first, as if any book were good
enough for us, and as if all were alike honourable,
precious, and satisfying. Alas ! books cannot be more
than the men who write them ; and as a large propor-
tion of the human race now write books, with Motives
and objects as various as human activity, books, as
books, are entitled ^ priori, until their value is proved,
to the same attention and respect as houses, steam-
engines, pictures, fiddles, bonnets, and other thoughtful
or ornamental products of human industry. In the
shelves of those libraries which are our pride, libraries
public or private, circulating or very stationary, are to
be found those great books of the world rarinantes in
gurgite vasto, those books which are truly "the precious
life-blood of a master spirit." But the very familiarity
which their mighty fame has bred in us makes us
420 FREDERIC HARRISON.
indifferent ; we grow weary of what every one is sup-
posed to have read; and we take down something
which looks a little eccentric, or some author en the
mere ground that we never heard of him before.
And thus there never was a time, at least during the
last two hundred years, when the difficulties in the way
of making an efficient use of books were greater than
they are to-day, when the obstacles were more real
between readers and the right books to read, when it
was practically so troublesome to find out that which it
is of vital importance to know; and that not by the
dearth, but by the plethora of printed matter. For it
comes to nearly the same thing whether we are actually
debarred by physical impossibility from getting the
right book into Qur hand, or whether we are choked off
from the right book by the obtrusive crowd of the
wrong books ; so that it needs a strong character and a
resolute system of reading to keep the head cool in the
storm of literature around us. We read nowadays in
the market-place — I would rather say in some large
steam factory of letter-press, where damp sheets of new
print whirl round us perpetually — if it be not rather
some npisy book-fair where literary showmen tempt us
with performing dolls, and the gongs of rival booths
are stunning our ears from morn till night.
But the question which weighs upon me with such
really crushing urgency is this: — what are the books
that in our little remnant of reading time it is most vital
for us to know? For the true use of books is of such
sacred value to us that to be simply entertained is to
FREDERIC HARRISON. 421
cease to be taught, elevated, inspired bybooks ; merely
to gather information of a chance kind is to close the
mind to knowledge of the urgent kind. Every book
that we take up without a purpose is an opportunity
lost of taking up a book with a purpose — every bit of
stray information which we cram into our heads without
any sense of its importance, is for the most part a bit of
the most useful information driven out of our heads and
choked off from our minds. It is so certain that infor-
mation', i.e, the knowledge, the stored thoughts and
observations of mankind, is now grown to proportions
so utterly incalculable and prodigious, that even the
learned whose lives are given to study can but pick
up some crumbs that fall from the table of truth.
They delve and tend but a plot in that vast and
teeming kingdom, whilst those, whom active life leaves
with but a few cramped hours of study, can hardly
come to know the very vastness of the field before
them, or how infinitesimally small is the corner they
can traverse at the best. We know all is not of equal
value. We know that books differ in value as much
as diamonds differ from the sand on the seashore, as
much as our living friend differs from a dead rat. We
know that much in the myriad-peopled world of books —
very much in all kinds — is trivial, enervating, inane,
even noxious. And thus, where we have infinite oppor-
tunities of wasting our efforts to no end, of fatiguing
our minds without enriching them, of clogging the spirit
without satisfying it, there, I cannot but think, the very
infinity of opportunities is robbing us of the actual power
of using them. And thus I come often, in my less
hopeful moods, to watch the remorseless cataract of daily
422 FREDERIC HARRISON.
literature which thunders over the remnants of the past,
as if it were a fresh impediment to the men of our day in
the way of systematic knowledge and consistent powers
of thought : as if it were destined one day to overwhelm
the great inheritance of mankind in prose and verse.
And so, I say it most confidently, the first intel-
lectual task of our age is rightly to order and make
serviceable the vast realm of printed material which
four centuries have swept across our path. To organize
our knowledge, to systematise our reading, to save, out
of the relentless cataract of ink, the immortal thoughts
of the greatest — this is a necessity, unless the productive
ingenuity of man is to lead us at last to a measureless
and pathless chaos. To know anything that turns up
is, in the infinity of knowledge, to know nothing. To
read the first book we come across, in the wilderness
of books, is to learn nothing. To turn over the pages
of ten thousand volumes is to be practically indifferent
to all that is good.
I stand by the men, and by all the men, who have
moved mankind to the depths of their souls, who have
taught generations, and formed our life. If I say of
Scott, that to have drunk in the whole of his glorious
spirit is a liberal education in itself, I am asking for no
exclusive devotion to Scott, to any poet, or any school
of poets, or any age, or any country, to any style or
any order of poet, one more than another. They are
as various, fortunately, and as many-sided as human
nature itself. If I delight in Scott, I love Fielding,
and Richardson, and Sterne, and Goldsmith, and
FREDERIC HARRISON. 423
Defoe. Yes, and I will add Cooper and Marryat,
Miss Edgeworth and Miss Austen — to confine myself
to those who are already classics, to our own country,
and to one form of art alone, and not to venture on the
ground of contemporary romance in general. What I
have said of Homer, I would say in a degree but some-
what lower, of those great ancients who are the most
accessible to us in English — ^Eschylus, Aristophanes,
Virgil, and Horace. What I have said of Shakspeare,
I would say of Calderon, of Moliere, of Corneille, of
Racine, of Voltaire, of Alfieri, of Goethe, of those
dramatists, in many forms, and with genius the most
diverse, who have so steadily set themselves to idealise
the great types of public life and of the phases of
human history. Let us all beware lest worship of the
idiosyncrasy of our peerless Shakspeare blind us to
the value of the great masters who in a different world
and with different aims have presented the develop-
ment of civilisation in a series of dramas, where the
unity of a few great types of man and of society is
made paramount to subtlety of character or brilliancy of
language. What I have said of Milton, I would say of
Dante, of Ariosto, of Petrarch, and of Tasso ; nor less
would I say it of Boccaccio and Chaucer, of Camoens
and Spenser, of Rabelais and of Cervantes, of Gil Bias
and the Vicar of Wakefield, of Byron and of Shelley,
of Goethe and of Schiller. Nor let us forget those
wonderful idealisations of awakening thought and
primitive societies, the pictures of other races and
types of life removed from our own : all those primaeval
legends, ballads, songs, and tales, those proverbs,
apologues, and maxims, which have come down to us
424 FREDERIC HARRISON.
from distant ages of man's history — the old idylls and
myths of the Hebrew race ; the tales of Greece, of the
Middle Ages, of the East ; the fables of the old and the
new world ; the songs of the Nibelungs ; the romances
of early feudalism ; the Morte d'Arthur ; the Arabian
Nights ; the Ballads of the early nations of Europe.
I protest that I am devoted to no school in particular :
I condemn no school, I reject none. I am for the
school of all the great men ; and I am against the
school of the smaller men. I care for Wordsworth as
well as for Byron, for Burns as well as Shelley, for
Boccaccio as v/ell as for Milton, for Bunyan as
well as Rabelais, for Cervantes as much as for Dante,
for Corneille as well as for Shakspeare, for Goldsmith
as well as Goethe. I stand by the sentence of the
world ; and I hold that in a matter so human and so
broad as the highest poetry the judgment of the nations
of Europe is pretty well settled, at any rate after a
century or two of continuous reading and discussing.
Let those who will assure us that no one can pretend
to culture unless he swear by Fra Angelico and Sandro
Botticelli, by Arnolpho the son of Lapo, or the Lom-
bardic bricklayers, by Martini and Galuppi (all, by the
way, admirable men of the second rank) ; and so, in
literature and poetry, there are some who will hear of
nothing but Webster or Marlowe ; Blake, Herrick, or
Keats ; William Langland or the Earl of Surrey ;
Heine or Omar Kayam. All of these are men of
genius, and each with a special and inimitable gift of
his own. But the busy world, which does not hunt poets
as collectors hunt for curios, may fairly reserve these lesser
lights for the time when they know the greatest well.
FREDERIC HARRISON. . 425
Now poetry and the highest kind of romance are
exactly that order of literature, which not only will
bear to be read many times, but that of which the
true value can only be gained by frequent, and indeed
habitual, reading. A man can hardly be said to know
the 1 2th Mass or the 9th Symphony, by virtue of
having once heard them played ten years ago ; he can
hardly be said to take air and exercise because he took
a country-walk once last autumn. And so, he can
hardly be said to know Scott, or Shakspeare, Moliere,
or Cervantes, when he once read them since the close
of his school days, or amidst the daily grind of his
professional life. The immortal and universal poets of
our race are to be read and re-read till their music and
their spirit are a part of our nature ; they are to be
thought over and digested till we live in the world
they created for us ; they are to be read devoutly, as
devout men read their Bible and fortify their hearts
with psalms. For as the old Hebrew singer heard the
heavens declare the glory of their maker, and the
firmament showing his handiwork, so in the long roll
of poetry we see transfigured the strength and beauty
of humanity, the joys and sorrows, the dignity and
struggles, the long life-history of our common kind.
The great religious poets, the imaginative teachers
of the heart, are never easy reading. But the reading
of them is a religious habit, rather than an intellectual
effort. I pretend not to-night to be dealing with a
matter so deep and high as religion, or indeed with
education in the fuller sense. I will say nothing of
that side of reading which is really hard study, an
426 FREDERIC HARRISON.
effort of duty, matter of meditation and reverential
thought. I need speak not to-night of such reading as
that of the Bible ; the moral reflections of Socrates, of
Aristotle, of Confucius ; the Confessions of St. Augus-
tine and the City of God ; the discourses of St. Bernard,
of Bossuet, of Bishop Butler, of Jeremy Taylor; the
vast philosophical visions that were opened to the eyes
of Bacon and Descartes; the thoughts of Pascal and
Vauvenargues, of Diderot and Hume, of Condorcet
and de Maistre ; the problem of man's nature as it is
told in the Excursion, or in Faust, in Cain, or in the
Pilgrim^s Progress; the unsearchable outpouring of
the heart in the great mystics, of many ages and many
races ; be the mysticism that of David or of John ; of
Mahomet or of Bouddha ; of Fenelon or of Shelley.
I vow that, when I see men, forgetful of the peren-
nial poetry of the world, muck-raking in a litter of
fugitive refuse, I think of that wonderful scene in the
Pilgrint's Progress, where the Interpreter shows the
wayfarers the old man raking in the straw and dust,
whilst he will not see the Angel who offers him a
crown of gold and precious stones.
Was ever truer word said than that about Fielding
as *'the prose Homer of human nature?" And yet
how often do we forget in Tom Jones the beauty of un-
selfishness, the well-spring of goodness, the tenderness,
the manly healthiness and heartiness underlying its
frolic and its satire, because we are absorbed, it may
be, in laughing at its humour, or are simply irritated
by its grossness ! Nay, Robiitsott Crusoe contains
FREDERIC HARRISON, 427
(not for boys but for men) more religion, more
philosophy, more psychology, more political economy,
more anthropology, than are found in many elaborate
treatises on these special subjects. . . . For once
that we take down our Milton, and read a book of that
"voice," as Wordsworth says-, "whose sound is like
the sea," we take up fifty times a magazine with some-
thing about Milton, or about Milton's grandmother, or
a book stuffed with curious facts about the houses in
which he lived, and the juvenile ailments of his first
wife.
• ••«•»
To affect a profound interest in neglected authors
and uncommon books, is a sign for the most part —
not that a man has exhausted the resources of ordinary
literature — but that he has no real respect for the
greatest productions of the greatest men of the world.
This bibliomania seizes hold of rational beings and so
perverts them, that in the sufferer's mind the human
race exists for the sake of the books, and not the books
for the sake of the human race. There is one book
they might read to good purpose, the doings of a great
book collector — who once lived in La Mancha. To
the collector, and sometimes to the scholar, the book
becomes a fetich or idol, and is worthy of the worship
of mankind, even if it cannot be the slightest use to
anybody. As the book exists, it must have the com-
pliment paid it of being invited to the shelves. The
" library is imperfect without it," although the library
will, so to speak, stink when it has got it. The great
books are of course the common books ; and these are
treated by collectors and librarians with sovereign con-
428 FREDERIC HARRISON.
tempt. The more dreadful an abortion of a book the
rare volume may be, the more desperate is the struggle
of libraries to possess it. Civilisation in fact has evolved
a complete apparatus, an order of men, and a code of
ideas, for the express purpose one may say of degrading
the great books. It suffocates them under mountains
of little books, and gives the place of honour to that
which is plainly literary carrion.
A philosopher with whom I hold (but with whose
opinions I have no present intention of troubling you)
has proposed a method of dealing with this indis-
criminate use ' of books, which I think is worthy of
attention. He has framed a short collection of books
for constant and general reading. He put it forward
" with the view of guiding the more thoughtful minds
among the people in their choice for constant use."
He declares that, " both the intellect and the moral
character suffer grievously at the present time from
irregular reading." It was not intended to put a bar
upon other reading, or to supersede special study. It
is designed as a type of a healthy and rational syllabus
of essential books, fit for common teaching and daily
use. It presents a working epitome of what is best
and most enduring in the literature of the world. The
entire collection would form in the shape in which
books now exist in modern libraries, something like
five hundred volumes. They embrace books both of
ancient and modern times, in all the five principal
languages of modern Europe. It is divided into four
sections : — Poetry, Science, History, Religion.
"OWEN MEREDITHr 42.}
Some such firm foot-hold in the vast and increasing
torrent of literature it is certainly urgent to find, unless
all that is great in literature is to be borne away in the
flood of books. With this, we may avoid an inter-
minable wandering over a pathless waste of waters.
Without it, we may read everything and know nothing ;
we may be curious about anything that chances, and
indifferent to everything that profits. Having such a
catalogue before our eyes, with its perpetual warning —
non multa sed multum — we shall see how with our
insatiable consumption of print we wander, like un-
classed spirits, round the outskirts only of those
Elysian fields where the great dead dwell and hold
high converse. We need to be reminded every day,
how many are the books of inimitable glory, which,
with all our eagerness after reading, we have never
taken in our hands. It will astonish most of us to find
how much of our very industry is given to the books
which leave no mark, how often we rake in the litter
of the printing-press, whilst a crown of gold and rubies
is offered us in vain. — ^^ On the Choice of Books^^ : A
Lecture given at the London Lnstiiution, Reprinted
in The Fortnightly Review, April, i2>'j<).
Earl Lytton (Owen Meredith).
b. 1 83 1 [Living].
The museum is to art what the library is to literature.
And something more. For we cannot get from books
by long study such complete and familiar notions of
the art of other ages and countries as may be easily
acquired from the study of any good collection of its
products. . . . But, for my part, I am persuaded
430 ''OWEN MEREDITH r
that the best education in the world is that which we
insensibly acquire from conversation with our intellec-
tual superiors. The man who has studied a subject is
on that subject the intellectual superior of the man who
has not. And listening to a good lecturer is the next
best thing to talking with a man of leading mind. It
is, however, not to the museum, or the lecture-room,
or the drawing-school, but to the library, that we must
go for the completion of our humanity. It is books
that bear from age to age the intellectual wealth of the
world. . . , Indeed, I would not counsel you to
exclude from the smallest library the masterpieces of
foreign literature. Only let them be masterpieces.
Even the most limited literary culture must include at
least some knowledge of the highest thoughts and
deepest feelings of ages and nations not our own.
Cheap and excellent translations now give us access
to all the supreme literatures of ancient Greece and
Rome ; and to know nothing of them is to know
nothing of the intellectual ancestry of our own minds.
There are probably few, if any, modern writers from
whose works we shall obtain more light or fuller matter
for reflection, even upon the social and political pro-
blems of the modern world, than may be got from the
writings of Aristotle and Plato and Thucydides. And,
to say the truth, I have generally found in old books a
large number of ideas which, to me at least, were new
ones, and in new books an equally large number of ideas
which, on examination, turned out to be old ones. . .
There are just a few words which I have much
at heart to say to you on behalf of that department
of literature which, belonging to pure imagination
"PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. 431
and fancy, has no direct connection with what we
commonly call useful knowledge. Mankind owes
all its intellectual and social progress — aye, even
its moral sublimity — to that little fruitful germ of
imagination, that restless faculty of wonder, which
Nature has beneficently implanted in the mind of every
child. Do not suppose that the cultivation and enjoy-
ment of this faculty can be of no use to. you in the arts
and industries on which you are engaged. Its uses are
incalculable. In learning to know other things, and
other minds, we become more intimately acquainted
with ourselves, and are to ourselves better worth
knowing. In our own nature, as it expands, we find
a sweeter yet less selfish companionship. All that we
have read and learned, all that has occupied and
interested us in the thoughts and deeds of men abler
or wiser than ourselves, constitutes at last a spiritual
society of which we can never be deprived, for it rests
in the heart and soul of the man who has acquired it.
And though it is independent of the world around us,
yet in that world also it enlarges the sphere of our
sympathies ; so that our affections are deepened as our
aspirations are uplifted by it. — Address to the Members
of the Leeds Mechanics'' Institution and Literary Society^
October d^^ 1882.
Philip Gilbert Hamerton.
b. 1834 [Living].
People whose time for reading is limited ought not
to waste it in grammars and dictionaries, but to confine
themselves resolutely to a couple of languages, or three
432 PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTONl
at the very utmost, notwithstanding the contempt of
polyglots, who estimate your learning by the variety
of your tongues. It is a fearful throwing away of time,
from the literary point of view, to begin more languages
than you can master or retain, and to be always
puzzling yourself about irregular verbs. . . .
The encouraging inference which you may draw
from this in reference to your own case is that, since
all intellectual men have had more than one pursuit,
you may set off your business against the most absorbing
of their pursuits, and for the rest be still almost as rich
in time as they have been. You may study literature
as some painters have studied it, or science as some
literary men have studied it. The first step is to
establish a regulated economy of your time, so that,
without interfering with a due attention to business and
to health, you may get two clear hours every day for
reading of the best kind. It is not much, some men
would tell you that it is not enough, but I purposely
fix the expenditure of time at a low figure because I
want it to be always practicable consistently with all
the duties and necessary pleasures of your life. If
I told you to read four hours every day, I know
beforehand what would be the consequence. You
would keep the rule for three or four days, by an effort,
then some engagement would occur to break it, and
you would have no rule at all. And please observe
that the two hours are to be given quite regularly,
because, when the time given is not much, regularity
is quite essential. Two hours a day, regularly, make
more than seven hundred hours in a year, and in seven
hundred hours, wisely and uninterruptedly occupied,
PHILIP GILBERT NAME R TON. 433
much may be done in anything. Permit me to insist
upon that word uninterruptedly. Few people realize
the full evil of an interruption, few people know all that
is implied by it. . . .
But now suppose a reader perfectly absorbed in his
author, an author; belonging very likely to another age
and another civilization entirely different from ours.
Suppose that you are reading the Defence of Socrates
in Plato, and have the whole scene before you as in a
picture : the tribunal of the Five Hundred, the pure
Greek architecture, the interested Athenian public, the
odious Melitus, the envious enemies, the beloved and
grieving friends whose names are dear to us, and
immortal ; and in the centre you see one figure draped
like a poor man, in cheap and common cloth, that he
wears winter and summer, with a face plain to down-
right ugliness, but an air of such genuine courage and
self-possession that no acting could imitate it; and
you hear the firm voice saying —
The man, then, judges me worthy of death.
Be it so.
You are just beginning the splendid paragraph where
Socrates condemns himself to maintenance in the
Prytaneum, and if you can only be safe from interrup-
tion till it is finished, you will have one of those
minutes of noble pleasure which are the rewards of
intellectual toil. But if you are reading in the daytime
in a house where there are women and children, or
where people can fasten upon you for pottering details
of business, you may be sure that you will not be able
to get to the end of the passage without in some way
cc
434 PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON
or other being rudely awakened from your dream, and
suddenly brought back into the common world. The
loss intellectually is greater than anyone who had not
suffered from it could imagine. People think that an
interruption is merely the unhooking of an electric
chain, and that the current will flow, when the chain
is hooked on again just as it did before. To the intel-
lectual and imaginative student an interruption is not
that ; it is the destruction of a picture. , . ,
There is a degree of incompatibility between the
fashionable and the intellectual lives, which makes it
necessary, at a certain time, to choose one or the other
as our own. There is no hostility, there need not be
any uncharitable feeling on one side or the other, but •
there must be a resolute choice between the two. If
you decide for the intellectual life, you will incur a
definite loss to set against your gain. Your existence
may have calmer and profounder satisfactions, but it
will be less amusing, and even in an appreciable degree
less human; less in harmony, I mean, with the com-
mon instincts and feelings of humanity. For the
fashionable world, although decorated by habits of
expense, has enjoyment for its objects, and arrives at
enjoyment by those methods which the experience of
generations has proved most efficacious. Variety of
amusement, frequent change of scenery and society,
healthy exercise, pleasant occupation of the mind
without fatigue — these things do indeed make exist-
ence agreeable to human nature, and the science of
living agreeably is better understood in the fashionable
society of England than by laborious students and
savans. The life led by that society is the true heaven
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. 435
of the natural man, who likes to have frequent feasts
and a hearty appetite, who enjoys the varying spectacle
of wealth, and splendour, and pleasure, who loves to
watch, from the Olympus of his personal ease, the
curious results of labour in which he takes no part, the
interesting ingenuity of the toiling world below. In
exchange for these varied pleasures of the spectator,
the intellectual life can offer you but one satisfaction ;
for all its promises are reducible simply to this., that
you shall come at last, after infinite labour, into con-
tact with some great reality — that you shall know and
do in such sort that you will feel yourself on firm
ground and be recognized — probably not much ap-
plauded, but yet recognized— as a fellow-labourer by
other knowers and doers. Before you come to this,
most of your present accomplishments will be aban-
doned by yourself as unsatisfactory and insufficient, but
one or two of them will be turned to better account,
and will give you after many years a tranquil self-
respect, and what is still rarer and better, a very deep
and earnest reverence for the greatness which is above
you. Severed from the vanities of the Illusory, you
will live with the reahties of knowledge, as one who
has quitted the painted scenery of the theatre to listen
by the eternal ocean or gaze at the granite hills. . , ,
The art of reading is to skip judiciously. Whole
libraries may be skipped in these days, when we have
the results of them in our modern culture without
going over the ground again. And even of the books
we decide to read, there are almost always large por-
tions which do not concern us, and which we are sure
to forget the day after we have read them. The art is
436 PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON.
to skip all that does not concern us, whilst missing
nothing that we really need. No external guidance
can teach us this ; for nobody but ourselves can guess
what the needs of our intellect may be. But let us
select with decisive firmness, independently of other
people's advice, independently of the authority of
custom. In every newspaper that comes to hand there
is a little bit that we ought to read ; the art is to find
that little bit, and waste no time over the rest. , . .
I used to believe a great deal more in opportunities
and less in application than I do now. Time and
health are needed, but with these there are always
opportunities. Rich people have a fancy for spending
money very uselessly on their culture because it seems
to them more valuable when it has been costly ; but
the truth is, that by the blessing of good and cheap
literature, intellectual light has become almost as
accessible as daylight. I have a rich friend who
travels more, and buys more costly things, than I do,
but he does not really learn more or advance farther in
the twelvemonth. If my days are fully occupied,
what has he to set against them? only other well-
occupied days, no more. If he is getting benefit at
St. Petersburg he is missing the benefit I am getting
round my house, and in it. The sum of the year's
benefit seems to be surprisingly alike in both cases
So if you are reading a piece of thoroughly good
literature. Baron Rothschild may possibly be as well
occupied as you — he is certainly not better occupied.
When I open a noble volume I say to myself, "now
the only Croesus that I envy is he who is reading a
better book than this." ...
PHILIP GILBERT HAMRRTON, 437
I willingly concede all that you say against fashion-
able society as a whole. It is, as you say, frivolous,
bent on amusement, incapable of attention sufficiently
prolonged to grasp any serious subject, and liable
both to confusion and inaccuracy in the ideas which
it hastily forms or easily receives. You do right,
assuredly, not to let it waste your most valuable
hours, but I believe also that you do wrong in keeping
out of it altogether.
The society which seems so frivolous in masses
contains individual members who, if you knew them
better, would be able and willing to render you the
most efficient intellectual help, and you miss this help
by restricting yourself exclusively to books. Nothing
can replace the conversation of living men and women ;
not even the richest literature can replace it. . . .
The solitude which is really injurious is the severance
from all who are capable of understanding us. Painters
say that they cannot work effectively for very long
together when separated from the society of artists,
and that they must return to London, or Paris, or
Rome, to avoid an oppressive feeling of discourage-
ment which paralyses their productive energy. Authors
are more fortunate, because all cultivated people are
society for them ; yet even authors lose strength and
agility of thought when too long deprived of a genial
intellectual atmosphere. In the country you meet
with cultivated individuals; but we need more than
this, we need those general conversations in which
every speaker is worth listening to.
The life most favourable to culture would have its
times of open and equal intercourse with the best minds.
438 PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON.
and also its periods of retreat. My ideal would be a
house in London not far from one or two houses that are
so full of light an warmth that it is a liberal education
to have entered them, and a solitary tower on some
island of the Hebrides, with no companions but the
sea-gulls and the thundering surges of the Atlantic.
One such island I know well, and it is before my
mind's eye, clear as a picture, whilst I am writing.
It stands in the very entrance of a fine salt-water loch,
rising above two hundred feet out of the water and
setting its granite front steep against the western
ocean. When the evenings are clear you can see
Staffa and lona like blue clouds between you and
the sunset ; and on your left, close at hand, the
granite hills of Mull, with Ulva to the right across
the narrow strait. It was the dream of my youth to
build a tower there, with three or four little rooms
in it, and walls as strong as a light-house. There
have been more foolish dreams, and there have been
less competent teachers than the tempests that would
have roused me and the calms that would have brought
me peace. If any serious thought, if any noble inspira-
tion might have been hoped for, surely it would have
been there, where only the clouds and waves were
transient, but the ocean before me, and the stars
above, and the mountains on either hand, were
emblems and evidences of eternity. . . .
Let me recommend certain precautions which taken
together are likely to keep you safe. Care for the
physical health in the first place, for if there is a
morbid mind the bodily organs are not doing their
work as they ought to do. Next, for the mind itself,
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. 439
I would heartily recommend hard study, really hard
study, taken very regularly but in very moderate
quantity. The effect of it on the mind is as bracing
as that of cold water on the body, but as you ought
not to remain too long in the cold bath, so it is
dangerous to study hard more than a short time every
day. Do some work that is very difficult (such as
reading some language that you have to puzzle out
a coups de dictionnaire) two hours a day regularly, to
brace the fighting power of the intellect, but let the
rest of the day's work be easier. Acquire especially,
if you possibly can, the enviable faculty of getting en-
tirely rid of your work in the intervals of it, and of
taking a hearty interest in common things, in a garden,
or stable, or dog-kennel, or farm. If the work pursues
you — if what is called unconscious cerebration, which
ought to go forward without your knowing it, becomes
conscious cerebration, and bothers you, then you have
been working beyond your cerebral strength, and you
are not safe.
An organization which was intended by Nature for
the intellectual life cannot be healthy and happy with-
out a certain degree of intellectual activity. Natures
like those of Humboldt and Goethe need immense
labours for their own felicity, smaller powers need less
extensive labour. To all of us who have intellectual
needs there is a certain supply of work necessary to
perfect health. If we do less, we are in danger of that
ennui which comes from want of intellectual exercise ;
if we do more, we may suffer from that other ennui
which is due to the weariness of the jaded faculties,
and this is the more terrible of the two. . . .
440 PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON.
The reading practised by most people, by all who
do not set before themselves intellectual culture as one
of the definite aims of life, is remarkable for the regu-
larity with which it neglects all the great authors of
the past. The books provided by the circulating
library, the reviews and magazines, the daily news-
papers, are read whilst they are novelties, but the
standard authors are left on their shelves unopened.
We require a firm resolution to resist this invasion of
what is new, because it flows like an unceasing river,
and unless we protect our time against it by some
solid embankment of unshakable rule and resolution,
every nook and cranny of it will be filled and flooded.
An Englishman whose life was devoted to culture, but
who lived in an out-of-the-way place on the Continent,
told me that he considered it a decided advantage to
his mind to live quite outside of the English library
system, because if he wanted to read a new book he
had to buy it and pay heavily for carriage besides,
which made him very careful in his choice. For the
same reason he rejoiced that the nearest English news-
room was two hundred miles from his residence. . . .
For literary men there is nothing so valuable as
a window with a cheerful and beautiful prospect. It
is good for us to have this refreshment for the eye
when we leave off" working, and Montaigne* did wisely
to have his study up in a tower from which he had
extensive views. There is a well-known objection to
extensive views as wanting in snugness and comfort,
but this objection scarcely applies to the especial case
* The reader will find Montaigne's description of his study at
page 25 of this volume.
PHILIP GILBERT HAMERTON. 441
of literary men. What we want is not so much snug-
ness as relief, refreshment, suggestion, and we get
these, as a general rule, much better from wide pros-
pects than from limited ones. I have just alluded to
Montaigne, — will you permit me to imitate that dear old
philosopher in his egotism and describe to you the
view from the room I write in, which cheers and
amuses me continually? But before describing this,
let me describe another of which the recollection is
very dear to me and as vivid as a freshly-painted
picture. In years gone by, I had only to look up
from my desk and see a noble loch in its inexhaustible
loveliness, and a mountain in its majesty. It was a
daily and hourly delight to watch the breezes play
about the enchanted isles, on the delicate silvery
surface, dimming some clear reflection, or trailing it
out in length, or cutting sharply across it with acres of
rippling blue. It was a frequent pleasure to see the
clouds play about the crest of Cruachan and Ben
Vorich's golden head, grey mists that crept upwards
from the valleys till the sunshine suddenly caught
them and made them brighter than the snows they
shaded. And the leagues and leagues of heather on
the lower land to the southward that became like the
aniline dyes of deepest purple and blue, when the sky
was grey in the evening — all save one orange-streak !
Ah, those were spectacles never to be forgotten,
splendours of light and glory, and sadness of deepening
gloom when the eyes grew moist in the twilight and
secretly drank their tears. — The Intellectual Life,
442 "launcelot cross."
Frank Carr (Launcelot Cross).
d. 1834 [Living].
The Library entered, the door closed, no sound to
break the solemn hush which reigns around, one soon
discerns how manifold are the ways in which the mind
is tranquillized, deliciously solicited and sustained in its
attention, by the sweet synod of Book-souls. Here it
is good to be, in every mood ; here, you can raise
pleasure to her height ; you can, also, purge off the
gloom which overcasts the mind in outer concerns,
and heal the scar of the world's corrosive fires, if you
will only make a beginning, if you will, indeed, only
come hither. . .
For men are here in abundance, — aye, the very
flower of mankind. Generally, when living, these, in
their highest moods, were solitaires to their fellows.
Not through any lack of feelings of attachment, or
repugnance to companionship— but, for the better
intercourse of their souls they joined themselves to a
great spiritual society. And here is such a society !
Not a mean soul is present. ... In this inviolate
asylum we obtain knowledge, health, and recompense.
We are consoled for the short-comings of the day, for
all its injuries and miseries. So assured have I become
of this, that I myself battle with lightheartedness
against the evils of the busy hours ; I outwind them,
knowing that I triumph if I but hold out till the
evening. We can murmur sweet words of solace to
ourselves, as a lover who has obtained his lady's grace,
and \<rhose loneliness becomes brightened by her
oresence. Murmurs sufch as these: — Tired of the
"LAUNCELOT CROSS." 443
outer world, we have a larger, lovelier, more enduring
one here. Ever give us this radiant seigniory of books,
and we have herewith sufficient mental intercourse ;
the men we meet and mingle with are but fleeting
phantoms, fleeting as vain, — these are substantial
immortalities. . . .
There is a pleasure in reading; a finer pleasure in
reading and marking passages, which strike us with
their power of thought or felicity of style ; the finest
pleasure consists in re-reading these marked passages.
This process condenses an author into a few passages,
it may be a few sentences. . . .
Perhaps the humbler a man begins, the richer and
happier he is. The truest owner of a Library is he
who has bought each book for the love he bears to it ;
who is happy and content to say, — ** Here are my
jewels ; my choicest material possessions !" who is
proud to crown such assertion, thus, — " I am content
that this Library shall represent the- use of the talents
given me by Heaven!" That man's Library, though
not commensurate with his love for Books, will de-
monstrate what he has been able to accomplish with
his resources ; it will denote economy of living,
eagerness to possess the particles that compose his
Library, and quick watchfulness to seize them, when
means and opportunities serve. Such a man has built
a temple, of which each brick has been the subject of
curious and acute inteUigent examination and apprecia-
tion before it has been placed in the sacred building.
In the light of common day is the preciousness of
Books evinced. Sara Coleridge's plain-spoken affirma-
444 "LAUNCELOT CROSS,'*
tion is as true as though hedged round by gospel
proofs, when she wrote to her elder brother — " A
genuine love of Books is one of the greatest things in
life for man or woman . . . and may be enjoyed
without the neglect of any duty." This language
breathes humble household air. . . .
Thus, we fall back for our salvation on our chief
loves. These may not be the law-givers of literature —
the leading souls — which refer to the essential existence
of Books, and almost to our own ; they may be of the
lower orders of the literary hierarchy — those to which we
are espoused for the sake of ready culture and entertain-
ment. Nevertheless, they are adequate to bring us
immediate power, pleasure, and restoration. Their
soft, low voices lead us on step by step, without con-
fusipn or sense of unrest, or fill the mind with a tran-
quil felicity, untroubled by a void or desire.
Sympathy through Books has indeed a divineness in
It ; attachments may spring up which the world's spirit
cannot comprehend ; which are uninfluenced by opinions
or diverse lines of reading, and which decay not with
the lapse of years. The amenities of literature are
innumerable, and their delicacy and deliciousness de-
note not fragility ; they do not wither on the threshold
of the Library, nor sink into the darkness of the grave ;
there is the immortality of the tenderness and beauty,
which smile over all the universe, and in the fields of
heaven.
Ever thus ready, sympathetic, and courageous — it
shall be discovered that Thought becomes younger and
FRANCES R. HAVERGAL. 445
more beautiful through Age — as it is with souls in
heaven; that through it we have all our years — the
centuries behind are ours, in all their freshness, and
our own youth never loses its garlands, but comes
back with all its transports when Age wears wisdom's
snow. Thus, in a very distinct manner, a Book — a
true Book is but the soliloquy of one's own spirit. —
Hesperides: ** The Library.''''
Here let us face the last question of all : — In the
shade and valley of Life, on what shall we repose ?
When we must withdraw from the scenes which our
own energies and agonies have somewhat helped to
make glorious ; when the windows are darkened, and
the sound of the grinding is low — where shall we find
the beds of asphodel ? Can any couch be more
delectable than that amidst the Elysian leaves of
Books ? The occupation of the morning and the noon
determines the affections, which will continue to seek
their old nourishment when the grand climacteric has
been reached. — Hesperides : *' Elect Book Spirits.''''
Frances R. Havergal. 1836 — 1879.
Only a word of command, but it loses or wins the field ;
Only a stroke of the pen, but a heart is broken or healed.
William Blades. [Living.]
I do not envy any man that absence of sentiment
which makes some people careless of the memorials of
their ancestors, and whose blood can be warmed up
only by talking of horses or the price of hops. To
446 W. BLADES— W. FR EEL AND.
them solitude means ennui, and anybody's company is
preferable to their own. What an immense amount of
calm enjoyment and mental renovation do such men
miss. Even a millionaire will ease his toils, lengthen
his life, and add a hundred per cent, to his daily
pleasures if he becomes a bibliophile ; while to the
man of business with a taste for books, who through
the day has struggled in the battle of life with all its
irritating rebuffs and anxieties, what a blessed season
of pleasurable repose opens upon him as he enters his
sanctum, where every article wafts to him a welcome,
and every book is a personal friend. — The Enemies of
Books.
William Freeland. [Living.]
Give me a nook and a book,
And let the proud world spin round :
Let it scramble by hook or by crook
For wealth or a name with a sound.
You are welcome to amble your ways,
Aspirers to place or to glory ;
May big bells jangle your praise,
And golden pens blazon your story !
For me, let me dwell in my nook,
Here, by the curve of this brook.
That croons to the tune of my book,
Whose melody wafts me for ever
On the waves of an unseen river.
Give me a book and a nook
Far away from the glitter and strife ;
Give me a staff and a crook.
The calm and the sweetness of life :
WILLIAM E. A. AXON. 447
Vain world, let me reign in my nook,
King of this kingdom, my book,
A region by fashion forsook :
Pass on, ye lean gamblers for glory.
Nor mar the sweet tune of my story !
A Birth Song and other Poems. 1882.
Edwin P. Whipple. [Living.]
Books — lighthouses erected in the sea of time.
William E. A. Axon. [Living.]
To students and lovers of books, the word library
possesses a charm which scarcely any other can claim ;
and there are few associations so pleasant as those
excited by it. ' To them it means a place where one
may withdraw from the hurry and bustle of every-day
life, from the cares of commerce and the strife of
politics, and hold communion with the saints and
heroes of the past ; a place where the good and true
men of bygone ages, being dead, yet speak, and
reprove the vanity and littleness of our lives, where
they may excite us to noble deeds, may cheer and
console us in defeat, may teach us magnanimity in
victory. There we may trace the history of nations
now no more ; and in their follies and vices, in their
virtues, in their grand heroic deeds, we may see that
"increasing purpose" which "runs through all the
ages," and learn how the " thoughts of men are
widened by the process of the suns. " There we may
448 WILLIAM E. A. AXON.
listen to ** the fairy tales of science," or to the voices
of the poets singing their undying songs.
Every man should have a library. The works of
the grandest masters of literature may now be pro-
cured at prices that place them within the reach
almost of the very poorest, and we may all put
Parnassian singing birds into our chambers to cheer
us with the sweetness of their songs. And when we
have got our little library we may look proudly at
Shakspeare, and Bacon, and Bunyan, as they stand
in our bookcase in company with other noble spirits,
and one or two of whom the world knows nothing,
but whose worth we have often tested. These may
cheer and enlighten us, may inspire us with higher
aims and aspirations, may make us, if we use them
rightly, wiser and better men.
Ignorance is a prolific mother of vice and crime, and
whatever tends to destroy ignorance aims a blow also at
the existence of crime. . . . Surely a people who make
bosom friends of the wise and good will become better
men than they were before, by reason of that companion-
ship. The spoken word as an instrument of education
is now becoming of minor importance, and the printed
voice is taking its place, chief engine in the dissemina-
tion of thought. " An intelligent class can scarcely
ever be, as a class, vicious," says Everett. Those who
have tasted the sweets of intellectual pleasures will
hardly care to descend to lower and grosser forms of
enjoyment, and a people familiar with those lessons of
wisdom and truth taught by the mighty dead, can hardly
fail to be a nation wise, and just, and true. — Article
on Free Public Libraries, in * ' Meliora^ " October, 1 867.
ANDREW LANG. 449
Andrew Lang. b. 1844 [Living].
Ballade of the Book-Hunter.
In torrid heats of late July,
In March, beneath the bitter Use,
He book-hunts while the loungers fly, —
He book -hunts, though December freeze ;
In breeches baggy at the knees.
And heedless of the public jeers,
For these, for these, he hoards his fees,
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
No dismal stall escapes his eye,
He turns o'er tomes of low degrees,
There soiled romanticists may lie.
Or Restoration comedies;
Each tract that flutters in the breeze
For him is charged with hopes and fears,
In mouldy novels fancy sees
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
With restless eyes that peer and spy,
Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,
In dismal nooks he loves to pry.
Whose motto evermore is Spesl
But ah ! the fabled treasure flees ;
Grown rarer with the fleeting years.
In rich men's shelves they take their ease, —
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
. Envoy.
Prince, all the things that teaze and please, —
Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears,
What are they but such toys as these —
Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?
DD XXII, Ballades in Blue Chma.
450 JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.
In bibliography, in the care for books as books, the
French are still the teachers of Europe, as they were
in tennis and are in fencing. Thus, Richard de Bury,
Chancellor of Edward III., writes in his " Philo-
biblon," " Oh God of Gods in Zion ! what a rushing
river of joy gladdens my heart as often as I have a
chance of going to Paris ! There the days seem
always short ; there are the goodly collections on the
delicate, fragrant book-shelves."
We must briefly defend the taste and passion of
book-collecting, and the class of men known invidiously
as book-worms and book-hunters. They and their
simple pleasures are the paths of a cheap and shrewish
set of critics, who cannot endure in others a taste
which is absent in themselves. . . . We cannot
hope to convert the adversary, but it is not necessary
to be disturbed by his clamour. People are happier
for the possession of a taste as long as they p6ssess it,
and it does not, Hke the demons of Scripture, pursue
them. The wise collector gets instruction and pleasure
from his pursuit, and it may well be that, in the long
run, he and his family do not lose money. The amuse-
ment may chance to be a very fair investment. —
The Library : *^ An A'pology for the Book- Hunter.''^
James Freeman Clarke (American
Divine). [Living.]
Let us thank God for books. When I consider
what some books have done for the world, and what
they are doing, how they k«ep up our hope, awaken
AUSTIN DOBSON. 451
new courage and faith, soothe pain, give an ideal life
to those whose homes are hard and cold, bind together
distant ages and foreign lands, create new worlds of
beauty, bring down truths from heaven — I give eternal
blessings for this gift, and pray that we may use it
aright, and abuse it not.
Austin Dobson. [Living.]
My Books,
Eut the row that I prize is yonder,
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and the bruised octavos^
The dear and the dumpy twelves, —
Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered.
And Howell the worse for wear.
And the worm-drilled Jesuit's Horace,
And the little old cropped Moliere, —
And the Burton I bought for a florin.
And the Rabelais foxed and flea'd, —
For the others I never have opened.
But those are the ones I read.
Longman's Magazine^ April, 1883.
Robert Louis Stevenson. [Living.]
Every book is, in an intimate sense, a circular-letter
to the friends of him who writes it.
To treat all subjects in the highest, the most honour-
able, and the pluckiest spirit, consistent with the fact,
is the first duty of a writer. . . . In the hum'bles.t
452 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
sort of literary work, we have it in our power
either to do great harm or great good. We may
seek merely to please ; we may seek, having no
higher gift, merely to gratify the idle nine-days' curio-
sity of our contemporaries ; or. we may essay, however
feebly, to instruct. In each of these we shall have to
deal with that remarkable art of words, which, because
it is the dialect of life, comes home so easily and
powerfully to the minds of men ; and since that is so,
we contribute, in each of these branches, to build up
the sum of sentiments and appreciations which goes
by the name of Public Opinion or Public Feeling.
There are two duties incumbent upon any man who
enters on the business of writing : truth to the fact
and a good spirit in the treatment. . . . Those
who write have to see that each man's knowledge is,
as near as they can make it, answerable to the facts of
life ; that he shall not suppose himself an angel or a
monster ; nor take this world for a hell ; nor be suffered
to imagine that all rights are concentred in his own
caste or country, or all veracities in his own parochial
creed. Each man should learn what is within him,
that he may strive to mend ; he must be taught what
is without him, that he may be kind to others. It can
never, be wrong to tell him the truth ; for in his dis-
putable state, weaving as he goes his theory of life,
steering himself, cheering or reproving others, all facts
are of the first importance to his conduct ; and even if
a fact shall discourage or corrupt him, it is still best
that he should know it ; for it is in this world as it is,
and not in a world made easy by educational suppres-
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. .453
sions, that he must win his way to shame or glory.
In one word, it must always be foul to tell what is
false ; and it can never be safe to suppress what is true.
The very fact that you omit may be what somebody was
wanting, for one man's meat is another man's poison.
An author who reposes in some narrow faith, cannot,
if he would, express the whole or even many of the
sides of this various existence ; for his own life being
maim, some of them are not admitted in his theory,
and were only dimly and unwillingly recognised in his
experience. Hence the smallness, the triteness, and
the inhumanity in works of merely sectarian religion ;
and hence we find equal although unsimilar limitations
in w^orks inspired by the spirit of the flesh or the
despicable taste for high society. So that the first
duty of any man who is to write is intellectual.
Designedly or not, he has so far set himself up for a
leader of the minds of men ; and he must see that his
own mind is kept supple, charitable, and bright.
Everything but prejudice should find a voice through
him ; he should see the good in all things ; where he
has even a fear that he does not wholly understand,
there he should be wholly silent ; and he should
recognise from the first that he has only one tool in
his workshop, and that tool is sympathy. — Article in
the Fortnightly Review ^ April, 1881 : " The Morality
of the Profession of Letters. "
Charles F. Richardson. [Living.]
With young or old, there is no such helper towards
the reading habit as the cultivation of this warm and
454 CHARLES F. RICHARDSON.
undying feeling of the friendliness of books. If a
parent, or a teacher, or a book, seems but a task-
master ; if their rules are those of a statute-book and
their society like that of an officer of the law, there is
small hope that their help can be made either service-
able or profitable. But with the growth of i\iQ friendly
feeling comes a state of mind which renders all things
possible. When one book has become a friend and
fellow, the world has grown that much broader and
more beautiful. Petrarch said of his books, con-
sidered as his friends : " I havie friends, &c." *
The great secret of reading consists in this, that it
does not matter so much what we read, or how we read
it, as what we think and how we think it. Reading is
only the fuel ; and, the mind once on fire, any and all
material will feed the flame, provided only it have any
combustible matter in it. And we cannot tell from
what quarter the next material will come. The
thought we need, the facts we are in search of, may
make their appearance in the corner of the newspaper,
or in some forgotten volume long ago consigned to dust
and oblivion. Hawthorne, in the parlour of a country
inn, on a rainy day, could find mental nutriment in an
old directory. That accomplished philologist, the late
Lord Strangford, could find ample amusement for an
hour's delay at a railway-station in tracing out the
etymology of the names in Bradshaw. The mind that
is not awake and alive will find a library a barren
wilderness. Now, gather up the scraps and fragments
of thought on whatever subject you may be studying, —
* The reader will find die passage quoted at page lo of this
volume.
CHARLES F. RICHARDSON. 455
for of course by a note-book I do not mean a mere
receptacle for odds and ends, a literary dust-bin, — but
acquire the habit of gathering everything whenever
and wherever you find it, that belongs in your line or
lines of study, and you will be surprised to see how
such fragments will arrange themselves into an orderly
whole by the very organizing power of your own
thinking, acting in a definite direction. This is a
true process of self-education ; but you see it is
no mechanical process of mere aggregation. It
requires activity of thought, — but without that, what
is any reading but mere passive amusement ? And it
requires method. I have myself a sort of literary
book-keeping. I keep a day-book, and at my leisure
I post my literary accounts, bringing together in
proper groups the fruits of much casual reading. . .
A book that is worth reading all through, is pretty
sure to make its worth known. There is something in
the literary conscience which tells a reader whether he
is wasting his time or not. An hour or a minute may
be. sufficient opportunity for forming a decision con-
cerning the worth or worthlessness of the book. If it
is utterly bad and valueless, then skip the whole of it,
as soon as you have made the discovery. If a part is
good and a part bad, accept the one and reject the
other. If you are in doubt, take warning at the first
intimation that you are misspending your opportunity
and frittering away your time over an unprofitable
book. Reading that is of questionable value is not
hard to find out ; it bears its notes and marks in un-
mistakable plainness, and it puts forth, all unwittingly,
danger-signals of which the reader should take heed.
456 CHARLES F. RICHARDSON.
The art of skipping is, in a word, the art of noting
and shunning that which is bad, or frivolous, or mis-
leading, or unsuitable for one's individual needs. If
you are convinced that the book or the chapter is bad,
you cannot drop it too quickly. If it is simply idle and
foolish, put it away on that account, — unless you are
properly seeking amusement from idleness and frivolity.
If it is so deceitful and disingenuous, your task is not so
easy, but your conscience will give you warning, and
the sharp examination which should follow, will tell
you that you are in poor literary company.
But there are a great many books which are good
in themselves, and yet are not good at all times or for
all readers. No book, indeed, is of universal value
and appropriateness. As has been said in previous
chapters of this series, the individual must always dare
to remember that he has his own legitimate tastes and
wants, and that it is not only proper to follow them,
but highly improper to permit them to be overruled by
the tastes and wants of others. It is right for one to
neglect entirely, or to skip through, pages which
another should study again and again. Let each
reader ask himself: Why am I reading this? What
service will it be to me ? Am I neglecting something
else that would be more beneficial ? Here, as in every
other question involved in the choice of books, the
golden key to knowledge, a key that will only fit its
own proper doors, is purpose. . . .
Admitting thus the utility of the reading of
periodicals, and even insisting upon the necessity and
duty of reading them, it must nevertheless be said in
the plainest manner that an alarming amount of time
CHARLES BRAY. 457
is wasted over them, or worse than wasted. * ' To learn
to choose what is valuable and to skip the rest " is a
good rule for reading periodicals ; and it is a rule whose
observance will reduce, by fully one half^ the time
devoted to them, and will save time and strength for
better intellectual employments, — to say nothing of
the very important fact that discipline in this line will
prevent the reader from falling into that demoralising
and altogether disgraceful inability to hold the mind
upon any continuous subject of thought or study,
which is pretty sure to follow in the train of undue or
thoughtless reading of periodicals. And when, as too
often happens, a man comes to read nothing save his
morning 'paper at breakfast or on the train, and his
evening paper after his day's work is over, that man's
brain, so far as reading is concerned, is only half alive.
It cannot carry on a long train of thought or study ;
it notes superficial things rather than inner principles ;
it seeks to be amused or stimulated, rather than to be
instructed. — The Choice of Books,
Charles Bray. h. 1811 [Living],
Habit is as supreme in mind as in body, and the
object of moral culture is to make virtue into a habit.
There are two habits, which, although they have not
yet been classed among the virtues, are yet each worth
a fortune in itself. One is a habit of looking at the
bright side of things; the other is a taste for good
reading, which may be formed into a habit by cultiva-
tion. I have cultivated both, on principle, and my
happiness is now mainly dependent upon them. The
458 CHARLES BRA Y.
habitual state of my mind is one of cheerfulness, which
the external world now finds it very difEcult to depress.
However untoward outside things may be, my mind
soon springs back to its natural state, which is a happy
one. For this I claim no merit ; I cannot help it ; the
mind does so unconsciously, and this, I maintain, is
the effect of culture, and is dependent in great measure
upon the way I have accustomed myself to look at
things. ... Carlyle, in his "Reminiscences of
his Father," vol. i., p. 9, says, **A virtue he had
which I should learn to imitate. He never spoke of
what was disagreeable a7id past, I have often won-
dered and admired- at this. The thing that he had
nothing to do with, he did nothing with." I took
people for what they were, and was not annoyed that
they were not better ; consequently I gave no admission
to envy, hatred, malice, or any kind of uncharitable-
ness. ... I knew there was good in all, and I
appealed to that when I could find it, and if I could
not ftnd it, or if people, whether good or bad, were
distasteful to me, and tended to create bad feeling
in me, I kept out of their way. It may have been
cowardly, but I dodged the evil rather than centend ;
I did not see that anyone had a right to disturb my
habitual calm. It is better to wait, if you can, and
many evils will cure themselves, or you will get used
to the new circumstances. As the Spanish proverb
says, *'If you cannot have what you like, you must
try to like what you have. " I always tried never to
look at what I had lost, but at what I had left. . . .
The tone of mind, as to whether joy or sorrow shall
habitually prevail, depends upon culture; and culture
CHARLES BRAY, 459
means exercise, and exercise begets habit, and in this
case, habitual cheerfulness is the result.
The second thing, as already mentioned, upon which
my happiness has been greatly dependent, is the taste
for good reading. By good reading I mean not mere
newspapers, magazines, novels, and light literature,
but such first-class works as enable you to travel not
only over the whole world of nature, but of thought.
A man who has acquired such a taste has never a spare
moment or a dull one, unless when dreadfully bored by
society, from which he escapes as much as possible.
People are in general far too busy to read to serious pur-
pose when they are young, except when studying for a
profession : they think there will be time for higher
reading when they get old. But, like many other things
so deferred, that time never comes to most of us, since
it is the result only of early cultivation. We ought
always to have a good book on hand which we viake
time to read every day.
As regards my present condition, I never have a
minute to spare, or a minute that I cannot fill pleasur-
ably. I have a heap of books for every varied mood,
so that they never bore me. Books to me, that is those
of our. best writers, are ever new ; the books may be
the same, but / am changed. Every seven years gives
me a different, often a higher, appreciation of those I
like. Every good book is worth reading three times
at least. — Phases of Opinion and Experience During
a Long Life. An A%itobiography^ by Charles Bray,
Author of The ^^ Philosophy of Necessity,'''' \Privately
Printed. ]
ANONYMOUS AUTHORS,
Book-love is a home-feeling — a sweet bond of family
union — and a never-failing source of domestic enjoy-
ment. It sheds a charm over the quiet fireside, unlocks
the hidden sympathies of human hearts, beguiles the
weary hours of sickness or solitude, and unites kindred
spirits in a sweet companionship of sentiment and idea.
It sheds a gentle and humanising influence over its
votaries, and woos even sorrow itself into a temporary
forgetfulness.
Book-love is the good angel that keeps watch by the
poor man's hearth, and hallows it ; saving him from
the temptations that lurk beyond its charmed circle ;
giving him new thoughts and noble aspirations, and
lifting him, as it were, from the mere mechanical
drudgery of his every-day occupation. The wife
blesses it, as she sits smiling and sewing, alternately
listening to her husband's voice, or hushing the child
upon her knee. She blesses it for keeping him near
her, and making him cheerful, and manly, and kind-
hearted, — albeit understanding little of what he reads,
and reverencing it for that reason all the more in him.
Book-love is a physician ! and has many a healing
balm to relieve, even where it cannot cure, the weary
sickness of mind and body — many a powerful opiate to
soothe us into a sweet and temporary forgetfulness. In
cases of lingering convalescence, its aid is invaluable.
ANONYMOUS AUTHORS. 461
We have known Book-love to be independent of the
author, and lurk in a few charmed words traced upon
the title-page by a once familiar hand — words of affec-
tionate remembrance, rendered, it may be, by change
and bereavement, inexpressibly dear ! Flowers in books
are a sweet sign, and there is a moral in their very
withering. Pencil-marks in books frequently recall
scenes, and sentiments, and epochs in young lives that
never come again. The faint line portrays passages
that struck us years ago with their mournful beauty,
and have since passed into a prophecy. Thoughts
and dreams that seem like a mockery now are thus
shadowed out. But memory's leaves are not all blanks,
or tear-stained, but interwoven, thank God, with many
a bright page. Pencil-marks in books have sweet as
well as sad recollections connected with them. We
point them out to one another, and call to mind par-
ticular periods in our past lives. They also serve to
register the change that has gradually and imperceptibly
stolen over our own thoughts and feelings.
There are some books which forcibly recall calm
and tranquil scenes of by-gone happiness. We hear
again the gentle tones of a once familiar voice long
since hushed. We can remember the very passage
where the reader paused awhile to play the critic, or
where that eloquent voice suddenly faltered, and we
all laughed to find ourselves weeping, and were sorry
when the tale or the poem came to an end. Books
read for the first time at some particular place or period
of our existence may thus become hallowed for ever-
more, or we love them because others loved them also
in by-gone days.
462 ANONYMOUS AUTHORS.
Books written by those with whom it has been our
happy privilege to dwell in close companionship and
sweet interchange of sentiment and idea are exceedingly
precious. In reading them, we converse, as it were,
with the author in his happiest mood, recognise the
rare eloquence to which we have often sat and listened
spell-bound, and feel proud to find our affectionate and
reverential homage confirmed by the unanimous plau-
dits of the world. The golden key, before mentioned,
has been given into our keeping, and we unlock at will
the sacred and hidden recesses of Genius and associa-
tion. — Eraser's Magazine^ 1847: ^^ BookrLove.'^
Reading will not be the less recreative for being
methodical. Desultoriness is more to be dreaded than
routine. The latter need not be mechanical : the
former must always be unproductive. A man may
never become a scientific investigator or a profound
linguist ; he may abandon the hope of enlightening the
world with the announcement of some new theory of
political economy, or the discovery of some new
species of foraminifera ; and yet, through assiduous
devotion to a few good authors, he may acquire a
breadth of view and a refinement of taste that will
make his life as instructive and stimulating as any
book he himself could possibly have written. He may
not have the opportunity of listening to scientific
lectures, and may never compose an essay for a mutual
improvement society, or send an article to a magazine.
Yet in his own domestic circle he may find an audience
that will always hang upon his lips when he retails the
ANONYMOUS AUTHORS. 463
results of his reading, pointing some commonplace
moral with an apt and striking illustration, or enforcing
fatherly counsel by some wise man's weighty apoph-
thegms. Better still will it -be if the example become
contagious, and the reading father should train up a
reading family ; if the habit of reading aloud be
early fostered, together with the still more valuable
habit of free discussion of the topics broached. Such
habits as these, besides displacing the vacuity and
isolation of home-life in great cities, or the scandals
and jealousies of home-life in small towns and villages,
would bind together the members of a family by ties
more durable than those of sordid self-interest, and
enable it to reahse its dignity as a small but important
unit of a great social system. The past and the future
would thus be linked by the profitable engagements of
the present ; and the accumulation of such units, as of
the sand on the sea-shore, would present a breakwater
to the waves of barbarism more effectual than the
academies of the ancient world, the monasteries of
mediaevalism, or even the educational appliances —
from universities to primary schools — of modern times.
— London Quarterly Review^ 1881.* ^^ Books and
Book-Hunting. " ____^
My wanderings among other people's libraries have
led me to make a few discoveries which may or may
not be original. Thus, I have laid down the general
maxim that, as is the average man^, so is the average
library. I look not, therefore, for aught beyond the
commonplace. Bookshelves are made to match their
owner ; the books upon them are a counterpart
464 ANONYMOUS AUTHORS.
to tlie man who possesses them. Thus a beautiful
harmony reigns in this as well as in other departments
of nature. I am tempted to believe that after learning
the profession of a man, studying his face, dress, and
bearing, and hearing him talk for a single quarter of
an hour, I should be able to tell, within a dozen books
or so, all that he has ever bought. The converse of
this proposition is certainly true, namely, that a very
short examination of a library is sufficient to enable
one to describe the owner in general and unmistakable
terms.
A pretty allegory might be made showing how a cer-
tain Pygmalion collected together a divine library, so
beautiful, so perfect, so harmonious in all its parts, 'that
he who made it and gazed upon it was straightway
smitten with a passion which made his heart to beat
and his cheek to glow ; and how presently the library
became alive to him, a beneficent being, full of love
and tender thought, as good as she was beautiful, a
friend who never failed him ; and how they were
united in holy wedlock and lived together, and never
tired of each other until he died, when the life went
also out of the library, his wife, and she fell all to
separate pieces, every piece a precious seedling of
future life should it be planted in the right place. Is
there not here the material for an allegory ? A library,
you will perceive, is essentially feminine : it is recep-
tive ; it is responsive ; it is productive. You may
lavish upon it — say, upon her — as much love as you
have in your nature, and she will reward you with fair
offspring, sweet and tender babes — ideas, thoughts,
ANONYMOUS AUTHORS. 465
memories, and hopes. Who would not love the mother
of such children ? Who would not be their father ?
It. is really an appalling thing to think of the people
who have no books. Can we picture to ourselves a
home without these gentle friends ? Can we imagine
a life dead to all the gracious influences of sweet
thoughts sweetly spoken, of tender suggestions tenderly
whispered, of holy dreams, glowing play of fancy,
unexpected reminding of subtle analogies and un-
suspected harmonies, and those swift thoughts which
pierce the heart hke an arrow, and fill us with a new
sense of what we are and what we may be ? Yet there
are thousands and tens of thousands of homes where
these influences never reach, where the whole of the
world is hard, cruel fact unredeemed by hope or illusion,
with the beauty of the world shut out and the grace of
life destroyed. It is only by books that most men and
women can lift themselves above the sordidness of life.
No books ! Yet for the greater part of humanity that
is the common lot. We may, in fact, divide our fellow-
creatures into two branches — those who read books
and those who do not.
We do not sufficiently realise what is meant by this
cheapness of literature. It means that the most
delightful amusement— the chief recreation of the
civilised world— the pursuit which raises the mind
above the sordid conditions of life, gives ideas, un-
folds possibilities, inspires noble thoughts, or presents
pleasing images — is a thing which may be procured in
EE
^6(5 ANONYMOUS AUTHORS.
sufficient quantity for a whole household for three, four,
or five guineas a year — judiciously managed, and by
arrangement with other families, for three guineas a
year ; — administered in the way of a subscription, it
represents nothing less than the recreation of a whole
family for a twelvemonth. What an investment ! —
Temple Bar, iSSi : ''On the Buying of Books:'
The reader who browses at large in the fields of
literature, unrestrained except by circumstance, the
reader who fixes his mind for months upon an un-
attainable book in a far-off book-store, who has
courted slumber with a lump of untouched romance
protruding through the scattered down of his pillow,
he has found out the charm which lurketh within an
unopened volume. The pleasure is not merely that
of anticipation ; it passes insensibly into what I must
call realisation. An unusually attractive title, some .
anecdote we have heard of the author, a chance
quotation which comes home to us, or even some
totally extraneous association may lend personality to
a book of which we know but little, and make it as
distinct an acquisition to us, as those which we have
read over and over. This experience cannot be un-
common, though it is probably confined to readers with
a vein of sentiment. — Atlantic Monthly, Oct., 1882.
With increase of knowledge has come increasing
refinement and weightiness of style. For style, in the
true sense of the word, is not something which can be
ANONYMOUS AUTHORS. 467
taught. It is, or ought to be, the finest flower of a
man's intellectual growth. He arrives at it by labo-
rious processes of choice and selection ; the more he
knows, the less liable he is to exaggeration ; the more
ready are his illustrations, the easier his erudition.
The richer and more varied is his material, the more
intricate and lovely will be the pattern into which he
is able to throw it. — Newspaper Article,
A woman's tribute to books.
(From " The Spectator" December xoth, 1881.^
Sir, — Surely that is a sad article of yours in the
Spectator of December 3rd on "Cheaper Books."
You say, "As to the average Englishman, he simply
hates buying books . . , and sometimes, in his
eagerness to borrow, performs acts of incredible mean-
ness. We have known authors asked to lend their
own copies, by men of ten times their income ;" and
so on, in the same sad strain.
That, Sir, may be true of some, but surely not of
all. I am a very " average " Englishwoman, and yet
almost the keenest pleasure of my whole life has been
to buy books. When I have made acquaintance with
a noble, good, and beautiful book, I could not rest
until it was mine, — my very own. The years roll back
as I write, and I see myself, five-and-twenty of them
ago, young, and just married. We had very foolishly
married without and against the consent of our parents,
and they (God bless them ! — they are here no more)
thought, I fancy, to unmarry us, by a process ol
468 ANONYMOUS AUTHORS.
Starvation. Many a time (my husband dining at an
eating-house) did I eat only dry bread for dinner, all
the while guarding and treasuring up— chiefly tied
in a corner of my handkerchief for safety, fearing,
if discovered, it would go in beef and mutton— a
sovereign given me by a cousin, and which I destined
to the purchase of " Boswell's Life of Johnson." I
had to wait five months ere opportunity favoured me,
and not until I had been some time at the Cape
of Good Hope did I triumphantly carry home my
volumes. But when at last I held them as my own in
my eager hands, what were exile, and poverty, and
vexation, in comparison ?
Sir, every book on my shelves is dear to me, for
every book means a sacrifice. But for what an end !
In my many sorrows, they — my books — have been un-
failing in kindness and comfort. In foolishness they
have given wisdom and guidance, they have been
strength to my weakness, have helped me to help
others, and in their possession has been deep joy ; and
what is more, they have removed far from my home
and from my heart that sore sorrow and trial of woman's
life, — loneliness.
It is to me a small matter that I have mostly fed
poorly and dressed plainly, since, by so doing, I have
been enabled to gather under my roof the great and
noble of the earth, who look down at me from my
walls with the faces of friends. Had I (would to God
I could have !) the boon of life once more I should,
so far as the blessed acquisition of books goes, live it
all over again. — I am, Sir, &c., E. S.
ADDENDA.
Joshua Sylvester. 1563 — 1618.
Cease not to learne untill thou cease to live :
Think that Day lost, wherein thou draw'st no Letter,
Nor gain'st no Lesson, that new grace may give,
To make thyself Learneder, Wiser, Better.
Who readeth much, and never meditates,
Is like the greedy eater of much food,
Who so surcloyles his Stomach with his Gates,
That commonly they do him little good.
Tetrastica ; or the Quatrains of Guy de Faur,
Lord of Pibt'ac.
Roger Gale. 1672 — 1744.
I have been very busy in ordering my study and
making an exact catalogue of the books, a drye, tedious
piece of slavery, God wott, but I have now finished it
alphabetically, so that I can call any of my old leather
coats down very readily whenever I please, and enjoy
his company as my fancy directs. You may perhaps
think I have much mispent my time and been at all
these pains to little purpose ; but many a tedious hour
has it helped me off with, and I flatter myself that
470 ROGER GALE— JAMES THOMSON.
many more will slide away with great pleasure, at least
with less uneasiness, by their assistance. Seneca shall
be my voucher that I do not promise myself this
without reason, when he tells us "si te ad ea studia
revocaveris omne vitse fastigium effugeris, nee noctem
fieri optabis fastigio lucis; nee tibi gravis eris, nee aliis
supervacuus. Probatum est," I must own that the
fate of some magnificent collections that we have seen
of late might deterr any one from being at the expense
and trouble of assembling a numerous army of authors ;
their legions indeed made them fdones de se; the
necessitys and different tastes of the heirs to them
soon caused their dissipation ; mine indeed were most
of them raised to my hand, some new levys added by
myself, and draughts made out of them, have reduced
the whole to a moderate bulk, and if I can command
them and use them as long as I am on this side of
the grave, "Quid de me judicet hoeres" (Horace
Epist. lij. 2, 191) will never trouble me, nor the
dissipation of them ever distress my bones. — Roger
Gale to the Rev. W. Stukeley, M.D., May 20, 1743,
The Family Memoirs of Stukeley ^ ^c. (Surtees Society J^
1880, vol. i. 359-60.
James Thomson. 1700 — 1748.
Now, all amid the rigours of the year.
In the wild depth of winter, while without
The ceaseless winds blow ice, be my retreat
Between the groaning forest and the shore,
Beat by the boundless multitude of waves ;
A rural, sheltered, solitary scene;
JAMES THOMSON-JOHN WESLEY. 471
.Where ruddy fire and beaming tapers join
To cheer the gloom. There studious let me sit,
And hold high converse with the mighty dead ;
Sages of ancient time, as gods revered,
As gods beneficent, who bless'd mankind
With arts, with arms, and humanized a world.
Pleased at th' inspiring thought, I draw aside
The long-lived volume ; and, deep musing, hail
The sacred shades, that, slowly rising, pass
Before my wond'ring eye.
First of your kind ! society divine !
Still visit thus my nights, for you reserved,
And mount my soaring soul, to thoughts like yours.
Silence, thou lonely power ! the door be thine ;
See on the hallow'd hour that none intrude.
Save a few chosen friends, who sometimes deign
To bless my humble roof, with sense refined.
Learning digested well, exalted faith,
Unclouded wit, and humour ever gay.
The Seasons: " WiJiter."
John Wesley. 1703 — 1791.
Read the most useful books, and that regularly, and
constantly. Steadily spend all the morning in this
employ, or, at least, five hours in four-and-twenty.
"But I read only the Bible." Then you ought to
teach others to read only the Bible, and, by parity of
reason, to hear only the Bible. But if so, you need
preach no more. * * Just so, " said George Bell. * ' And
what is the fruit? Why, now he neither reads the
472 C. F. DIBDIN-JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Bible, nor anything else. This is rank enthusiasm."
If you need no book but the Bible, you are got above
St. Paul. He wanted others too. " Bring the books," »
says he, "but especially the parchments," those wrote
on parchment. "But I have no taste for reading."
Contract a taste for it by use, or return to your trade. —
The Works of the Rev. John Wesley, 1830, vol. viii.,
P* 315* ^^ Minutes oj- So??ie Late Conversations;''' ^c.
C. Frognall Dibdin. 1776 — 1847.
From beginning to end I have not been unmindful
of the professed view, or title, of this work. Unless I
have greatly deceived myself, it will afford comfort to
those who at the close of a long and actively spent life,
will find a communion with their books one of the
safest and surest methods of holding a communion
with their God. The library of a good man is one of
his most constant, cheerful, and instructive companions ;
and as it has delighted him in youth, so will it solace
him in old age. — The Library Companion; or the
Young Man^s Guide and the Old Man^s Comfort in the
Choice of a Library,
James Montgomery. 1771 — 1854.
Breakfast dispatch'd, I sometimes read.
To clear the vapours from my head ;
For books are magic charms, I ween,
Both for the crotchet and the spleen.
When genius, wisdom, wit abound.
Where sound is sense, and sense is sound ;
JAMES MONTGOMERY— JOHN KENYON. 473
When art and nature both combine,
And live, and breathe, in every line ;
The reader glows along the page
With all the author's native rage !
But books there are with nothing fraught, —
Ten thousand words, and ne'er a thought ;
Where periods without period crawl,
Like caterpillars on a wall.
That fall to climb, and climb to fall ;
While still their efforts only tend
To keep them from their journey's end.
The readers yawn with pure vexation,
And nod — but not with approbation.
In such a fog of dulness lost,
Poor Patience must give up the ghost ;
Not Argus' eyes awake could keep.
Even Death might read himself to sleep !
Poems : * * Imprisonment. "
John Kenyon. 1783 — 1856.
How oft, at evening, when the mind, o'er wrought,
Finds, in dim reverie, repose from thought.
Just at that hour when soft subsiding day
Slants on the glimmering shelves its latest ray ;
Along those darkling files I ponder slow.
And muse, how vast the debt to books we owe.
Yes ! friends they are ! and friends thro* life to last !
Hopes for the future ! memories for the past !
With them, no fear of leisure unemployed ;
Let come the leisure, they shall fill the void ;
474 JOHN KENYON— ISAAC TAYLOR.
With them, no dread of joys that fade from view ;
They stand beside us, and our youth renew ;
TelHng fond tales of that exalted time,
When lore was bliss, and power was in its prime.
Come then, delicious converse still to hold,
And still to teach, ye long-loved volumes old !
And sweet 'twill be, or hope would so believe,
When close round life its fading tints of eve,
To turn again our earlier volumes o'er.
And love them then, because we've loved before ;
And inly bless the waning hour that brings
A will to lean once more on simple things.
Poems: For the Most Part Occasional.
^'■Pretence: a Satire^''"' pa7't ii., ^^ The
Library.''''
Isaac Taylor. 1787 — 1865.
As to daily social readings — continued from year to
year, while a family is running through its course of
changes — they constitute a bright continuity of its
intellectual and moral existence. This communion of
intelligence, and these recollections of books, that have
left an impression upon the memories of the listeners —
they readily coalesce with the remembrance of family
events. I have said the same as to the connection
of the seasons with family history. The book, and
the events that marked the time of its perusal, weld
into one ; and especially it will be so if, in any instance,
the heavy hammer of suffering and sorrow has come,
stroke upon stroke, so as to make all one in the
HUGH MILLER— JOHN CAMERON. 475
memory. Taking a glance round at my own shelves,
I see books, never to be forgotten — for they were in
course of reading at such and such a time. — Personal
Recollections in " Good Words" 1865.
Hugh Miller. 1802 — ^1856.
How pleasant it is, after one has been shut up for
months, mayhap, in some country solitude, or engaged
in some over-busy scene, without intelligent com-
panionship, to meet with an accomplished, well-read
man, with whom to beat over all the literary topics,
and settle the merits of the various schools and authors.
It is not less pleasant to turn to one's books after some
period of close engrossing enjoyment, and to clear off,
among the masters of thought and language, all trace
of the homely cares and narrow thinking which the
season of hard labour had imperatively demanded. —
Essays : * * The A menities of Literature. ' '
John Cameron. [Living.]
But now — What of books as instruments for the
evolution of latent mental power? Books abound —
they over-abound ; there is nothing of which we have so
unmanageable a superfluity; their distracting variety
makes it difficult to choose, and hard to hold to those
even that we have chosen till We have inwardly digested
them. Education is in the ratio of difficulty overcome.
The best book, therefore, in this regard, is that which
puts the utmost strain upon your faculty of meditation.
476 yOHN CAMERON— MARK PA TTISON.
Choose the thinker who forces you to wrestle with
him — lifts you off your feet — but to set you down on
a higher level than you stood on before you grappled
with him. A hundred writers that you can at a hop,
step, and jump, lightly overleap, will not so avail to
make you a philosophical acrobat, as one that you will,
even at the hundredth attempt, find too high for you
to leap over. In phrase without figure, read only what
you can see into the heart of without opening your
eyes, and in a short time the embossed book for the
blind will be the best book for you. What you can
read when yawning will surely leave you sounder
asleep than it found you, — Phases of Thought^ by John
Cameron^ author of " The Notabilities of Wake/ield ;"
^^ Discourses ;" ^^ Yarns by a Manchester Spinner;^''
** Clouds and Sunshine ;^^ ** The Trial of the Man-
chester Bards ; " " The Old Piano ; " ^c.
Mark Pattison. [Living.]
Those who most read books don't want to talk about
them. The conversation of the man who reads to any
purpose will be flavoured by his reading ; but it will
not be about his reading. The people who read in
order to talk about it, are people who read the books of
the season because they are the fashion — books which
come in with the season and go out with it. "When
a new book comes out I read an old one," said the
poet Rogers. And Lord Dudley — the great Lord
Dudley, not the present possessor of the title — writes
to the Bishop of Llandaff : " I read new publications
MARK PATTISON. 477
unwillingly. In literature I am fond of confining
myself to the best company, which consists chiefly of
my old acquaintance with whom I am desirous of be-
coming more intimate. I suspect that nine times out
of ten it is more profitable, if not more agreeable, to
read an old book over again than to read a new one
for the first time. . . . Is it not better to try to
elevate and endow one's mind by the constant study
and contemplation of the great models, than merely
to know of one's own knowledge that such a book a'nt
worth reading ? " — {Lord Dudley's Letters. ) We wear
clothes of a particular cut because other people are
wearing them. That is so. For to differ markedly
in dress and behaviour from other people is a sign of
a desire to attract attention to yourself, and is bad
taste. Dress is social, but intellect is individual ; it
has special wants at special moments. The tendency
of education through books is to sharpen individuality,
and to cultivate independence of mind, to make a man
cease to be "the contented servant of the things that
perish. *
To a veteran like myself, who have watched the
books of forty seasons, there is nothing so old as a
new book. An astonishing sameness and want of
. individuality pervades modern books. You would
think they were all written by the same man. The
ideas they contain do not seem to have passed through
the mind of the writer. They have not even that
originality — the only originality which John Mill in
his modesty would claim for himself — "which every
thoughtful mind gives to its own mode of conceiving
478 MARK P ATT 1 SON,
and expressing truths which are common property " —
{Autobiography y p. 119). When you are in London
step into the reading-room of the British Museum.
There is the great manufactory out of which we turn
the books of the season. We are all there at work
for Smith and Mudie. It w^as so before there was
any British Museum. It was so in Chaucer's time —
" For out of the olde fieldes, as men saythe,
Cometh all this newe corn from yere to yere,
And out of olde bookes in good faithe
Cometh all this newe science that men lere."
It continued to be so in Cervantes' day. "There
are," says Cervantes in Don Quixote (32), **men who
will make you books and turn them loose in the world
with as much despatch as they would do a dish of
fritters."
It is not, then, any wonder that De Quincey should
account it {Life of De Quincey ^ i. 385) **one of the
misfortunes of life that one must read thousands of
books only to discover that one need not have read
them," or that Mrs. Browning should say, **The ne
plus ultra of intellectual indolence is this reading of
books. It comes next to what the Americans call
whittling." And I cannot doubt that Bishop Butler
had observed the same phenomenon which has been
my subject to-night when he wrote, in 1729, a century
and a half ago {Preface to Sermons , p. 4): *'The
great number of books of amusement which daily
come in one's way, have in part occasioned this idle
way of considering things. By this means time, even
in solitude, is happily got rid of without the pain of
JOHN MORLEY. 479
attention; neither is any part of it more put to the
account of idleness, one can scarce forbear saying is
spent with less thought, than great part of that which
is spent in reading." — Books and Critics, A Lecture
delivered October i^th, 1877. Printed in Fortnightly
Review^ vol. xxii. /. 659.
John Morley [Living.]
The love of literature awakens every faculty, refines
every sentiment, and elevates every emotion ; while
wealth is hard to acquire, and when acquired is
difficult to keep, and, when both gained and retained,
is apt to fret away the soul of the possessor in sordid
care, — while honours and worldly fame are quite
attainable without conferring any substantial satisfac-
tion upon those who have grasped them, — while even
domestic felicity may by force of circumstances become
a source of poignant grief, and leave us environed by
the blackness of inconsolable sorrow ; while all these
are fleeting and unsubstantial, the sober pleasures of
knowledge abide with us so long as intellect itself
remains, and give us employment and consolation
even when evil days come, and years draw nigh when
we say. There is no pleasure in them.
I do not advise the general student to take for
his motto the inscription which Zacharias Ursinus of
Heidelberg, had painted in forbidding letters over the
door of his study : — '* My friend, whoever you are, if
you come here, please either go away again, or give
me some help in my study." But it is well for him to
48o JOHN MO R LEY.
recognise at the outset that no solid advance, even in
general learning, can be made by the cleverest man
without some surrender of social joys, and without the
endurance of much painful labour. The labour will
in time cease to be painful, and will assuredly produce
a more than adequate reward ; but the toil of him who
goes forth with harrow, plough, and seed-basket, in
order that he may eventually reap a material harvest,
is not more unavoidable to the husbandman, than are
the self-denial and the plodding which lead to the
mental harvest of matured views, expanded emotions,
and enlarged principles, to the student who would
ponder over in the closet what may make him an
intelligent actor in human affairs.
Professor Max Muller, in considering the diametri-
cally opposed doctrines of Adam Smith and Leibnitz,
makes the following admirable observations : — *' There
are two ways of judging former philosophers. One is
to put aside their opinions as simply erroneous when
they differ from our own. . . . Another way is to
try to enter fully into the opinions of those from whom
we differ — to make them, for a time at least, our own,
till at last we discover the point of view from which
each philosopher looked at the facts before him, and
catch the light in which he regarded them. We shall
then find that there is much less of downright error in
the history of philosophy, than is commonly supposed ;
nay, we shall find nothing so conducive to a right
appreciation of truth, as a right appreciation of the
error by which it is surrounded."
yOHN MO R LEY. 481
Concern yourself only with the attainment of truth,
without respect to the ultimate conclusions which may
be derived from it. Be not misled from this by the
traditional respect or disrespect paid to writers, but
form your own judgment. Adopt no principle,
endorse no doctrine, without careful examination on
your own part. Finally, respect all opinions which are
supported by argument, however untenable they may
seem. And above all, bear in mind Sir Thomas
Browne's old saying — "I could never divide myself
from any man upon the difference of an opinion, nor
be angry with his judgment for not agreeing with me
in that from which, within a few days, I should dissent
myself. "
I believe that the main object of literary culture at
the present time ought to be to counteract the
dominant tendencies flowing from the money-getting
pursuits of the age, and so, without lessening the
energy and attention at present devoted to those
pursuits, to check the evil consequences apt to result
from them, by the cultivation of tastes and habits of
thought of an opposite, or rather, perhaps I should say,
of a wholly different kind. As the ardent longing after
money inclines a man to be self-seeking to an excessive
extent, he should, if he would preserve a proper
mental balance, devote as much time as he can spare,
after the performance of his money-getting labours, to
the investigation of subjects which may teach him the
worth of money, and the fact that there are gifts
which mere wealth can never purchase, nor mere
opulence ever enjoy; that his interests as a human
FF
482 JOHN MO R LEY.
being are not confined to the narrow circle of his own
business, but are co-extensive with those of the race to
which he belongs; and that such interests are only
promoted by a careful adherence to generous principles
and the purest rectitude.
The consolation of reading is not futile nor imaginary.
It is no chimera of the recluse or the bookworm, but a
potent reality. As a stimulus to flagging energies, as
an inspirer of lofty aim, literature stands unrivalled.
In the life of all, blank days come when we are
inclined to envy those who say, * * Let us eat and drink,
for to-morrow we die;" when the spirit of our
youthful enthusiasm, like the ghost of some betrayed
love, rises up and stands reproachfully before us,
recalling the resolutions and aspirations of the past ;
reminding us how base and unworthy we should in
those times have deemed the indolence and want of
faith of these ; and mutely asking if age, instead of
ripening our wisdom and strengthening our will, has
drawn a thick film over the eyes of our faith, and
paralysed the right hand of our purpose. In moments
like these, the lofty themes of poetry, the grandeur of
history, and the noble examples of biography, kindle
in those who will have recourse to them, a new energy
and a fresh heart. This powerful quality of literature
is not sufficiently recognised nor employed. Men
know not the great agent of restoration which lies so
near their hand. Other resources are not available in
every circumstance, at all times, and at all ages ; but
literature — the song of the poet, the meditations of the
philosopher, the records of the historian, and the lives
JOHN MO R LEY. 483
of men who have left great names upon the earth —
this (to use the language of Cicero) is at once the
instructor and guide of youth, and the comfort and
grace of our riper years; it is an adornment to
prosperity, a refuge and a solace in adversity; in
private it is our delight, in public our help; and
whether at home or abroad, whether in town or
country, by day or by night, it remains an abiding joy
and employment. — Re7narks on Readings delivered at
the Blackburn Mechanics' Institute ^ 1864.
'I|•f^
BOOK-BORROWERS.
Menage says : " The first thing one ought to do,
after having borrowed a book, is to read it, so as to be
able to return it as soon as possible."
Toinard pungently remarks that "The reason why
borrowed books are seldom returned, is because it is
easier to retain the books themselves than what is
inside of them." .,
In a book-plate of the last century, the owner of the
book has the following pertinent quotation from the
Psalms : — " It is the wicked that borroweth, and
payeth not again. "
The following suggestion occurs in a newspaper
article : — *'If ever a new religion is able to impose new
festivals and fast-days on the human race, it is to be
hoped that A solemn week of returning books
TO THEIR owners will every year precede the Feast
of Property. "
A correspondent of The Tunes thus writes on the
day after the commencement of the Parcel Post : — "A
new idea often serves as a tonic to the relaxed con-
science. If, while the joy of the new Parcel Post is
fully on them, folks would only turn out their cupboards
and examine their bookshelves for volumes long bor-
rowed and never returned, they would probably set in
motion for the time being the largest circulating library
in the world, and administer consolation to tens of
thousands of long despondent rightful owners. "
INDEX.
PAGE
Addison, Joseph . . . . . . . . . . . . 107
Aikin, Dr. John . . •. 124
Alcott, A. Bronson 265
Alexandrian Library . . . . . . . . . . 2
Allatius, Leo . . • . . . . . . . . . . . . 53
Alonzo of Arragon . . .... 32
Anonymous Authors . . . . . . . . . . 460
Arnold, Dr. . . . . . , . . , . , . . . 260
Arnott, Dr. . . . , . , . . . . . . . . 230
Ascham, Roger .. .. .. .. .. .. 18
Axon, William E. A 447
Bacon, Lord . . . . . . . . 28
Bailey, Philip James . . . . . . . . . . 361
Barrow, Dr. Lsaac . . . . . . . . . . . . 86
Bartholin, Thomas V. . , . . . . . . . . 82
Baxter, Rev. Richard . . . . . . . . . . 72
Bayle, Pierre .. .. .. .. .. .. 113
Bedford, Earl of 71
Beecher, Rev. Henry Ward 352
Bennoch, Francis . . . . . . . . . . . . 348
Blades, William .. .. .. .. .. ,. 445
Blount, Charles . . . . . . . . . . . . loi
Book-Borrowers . . . . . . . . . . . . 484
Bray, Charles . . . . . . . . . . . . 457
Bright, John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 343
Brougham, Lord . . . . . . . . . . . . 225
Browne, Sir Thomas . . . . . . . . . . 61
Brown, Dr. John . . . . . . . . . . . . 340
Bjowning, Elizabeth Barrett 325
486 INDEX.
Bruyere, John de la . . , . . . . . . . 98
Brydges, Sir Samuel Egerton 137
Burke, Edmund .. .. .. .. .. .. 120
Burton, Robert . . . . . , 45
Burton, Dr. John Hill . . . . . . . . . . 326
Bury, Bishop Richard de " 7
Buxton Charles 396
Byron, Lord . . . . . . . . 229
Cameron, John . . . . . . . . . . . . 475
Carlyle, Thomas . . . . 246
Carr, Frank (Launcelot Cross) . . . . . . . . 442
Cecil, Richard .. . .. 130
Chambers, William . . . . . . . . . . . . 275
Chambers, Robert . , 285
Chandos, Lord . . . . . . . . . . . . 52
Channing, Dr. W. E. . . 193
Charpentier, Francis . . 82
Chaucer, Geoffrey . . . . . . . . . . . , 12
Chesterfield, Lord .. .. 112
Chevreau, Urban . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Cicero . . . . 2
Clarendon, Earl of . . . . . . 65
Clarke, Rev. J. Freeman . . 450
Cobbett, William 136
Cobden, Richard . . . . . . 316
Cockburn, Chief Justice . . . . 293
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor .. ..154
Coleridge, Hartley .. 261
Collier, Rev. Jeremy . . . . 98
Collyer, Rev. Robert . . . . 401
Colton, Rev. Charles C 192
Congreve, William . . . . 106
Cook, Eliza 376
Cotton, Charles . . . . 91
Cowley, Abraham . . . . 76
INDEX, 487
PAGE
Cowper, William 121
Crabbe, George . . ^ 132
Crossley, James . . . . 278
Daniel, Samuel .. .. 31
Davenant, Sir William .. .. .. •- •• 61
Dawson, George 39^
Dibdin, C. Frognall 472
Diderot, Denys 118
Disraeli, Isaac . . . . . . • . • • • • 141
Disraeli, Benjamin (Lord Beaconsfield) .. ..318
Divine, A Seventeenth Century 98
Dobson, Austin •• •• 45^
Dodd, Rev. William 120
Earle, Dr. John 61
Emerson, Ralph Waldo 306
English Writer, Early . - 69
Erasmus, Desiderius 16
Evans, Marian (George Eliot) 388
Feltham, Owen 68
F^n^lon, Archbishop loi
Ferriar, Dr. John 141
Fielding, Henry 114
Fletcher, John 44
Florio, John 27
Foster, John 148
Freeland, William 446
Friswell, James Hain . . . . 405
Fuller, Dr. Thomas.. .. .. .. .. .. 63
Fuller, Thomas, M.D 103
Gale, Roger 469
Gellius, Aulus . . . . 5
Genlis, Countess de . . 124
488 INDEX.
PAGE
Gibbon, Edward 123
Gilfillan, Rev. George 349
Gladstone, William Ewart 334
Godwin, William .. 133
Goethe, J. Wolfgang von 126
Goldsmith, Oliver .. .. .. .. .. .. 119
Green, Matthew .. .. 114
Guevara, Antonio de . . . . 33
Hale, Sir Matthew 66
Hales, John 50
Hall, Bishop Joseph 36
Hall, John 84
Halley, Edmund 114
Hamerton, Philip Gilbert .. ..431
Hare, Rev. Julius C. . . 245
Harrison, Frederic. .. .. .. .. .. 415
Havergal, Frances R . . . . . . 445
Hazlitt, William . . . . . , 172
Helps, Sir Arthur . . 363
Herder, J. G. von 130
Herschel, Sir John .. 238
Hillard, George S. . . . . 321
Hindu Saying , . . . 6
Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell 328
Horace . . . . 3
Houghton, Lord (R. M. Milnes) 337
Huet, Bishop . . . . . . 92
Hugo, Victor 294
Hume, David 117
Hunt, Leigh 197
I nchbald, Elizabeth 131
Irving, Washington 196
Johnson, Dr. Samuel .. .. .. .. ..115
Jones, Sir William . . .. .. .- .. .. 123
INDEX. 489
PAGE
Kempis, Thomas a . . .. .. .. .. .. 13
Kenyon, John . . . . . , . . . . . . 473
Kingsley, Rev. Charles . . . . . . . . . . 365
Knight, Charles . . . . . . . . . . . . 235
Lamb, Charles ,. .. .. .. ,, .. 163
Landor, Walter Savage .. .. .. .. .. 171
Lang, Andrew . . . . . . . . . . . . 449
Langford, J. A. . . . . . . . . . . . . 399
Leighton, Robert . . . . . . 397
Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim . . . . . , . . 120
Locke, John . . . . . . . . 94
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth . . . . . . . . 320
Lowell, James Russell . . . . . , . . . , 376
Luther, Martin 18
Lylye, John . . . . . . . . 28
Lytton, Lord (E. L. Bulwer) , , . . . . . . 299
Lytton, Earl (Owen Meredith) , . . . . . . . 429
Macaulay, Lord . . . . . , , . . . . . 270
Machiavelli, Niccolo ,. ,. .. .. .. 18
Mackenzie, Sir George . . , , . . . , . . 97
Mahon, Lord . . . . . , . . . . . . 236
Mancini, Dominico. . .. .. 11
Matthew, Gospel of St 5
Maurice, Rev. Frederick Penison .. .. .. 317
Manage, Gilles ' " . . 69
Middleton, Dr. Conyers . . . . , . . , . . no
Miller, Hugh . . 475
Milton, John 64
Montagu, Lady Mary Wortley .. .. .. ..in
Montaigne, Michel de . . . . 24
Montesquieu, Baron .. ..in
Montgomery, James . . . , . . . . . . 472
Moore, Dr. John ., .. .. ., .. .. 121
Morley, John . . . . . . 479
Moulin, Peter du 59
490 INDEX.
PAGE
Nierembergius, Jean Eusebe . . . . . . . . 55
Norris, Rev. John, of Bemerton . . . . . . 103
Norton, Mrs. Caroline . . . . 324
Osborne, Francis . . . . . . . . . - . . 67
Overbury, Sir Thomas , . . . . . . . . . 49
Owen, Dr. John . . . . . . 75
Palmer, Samuel . . . , . 318
Parker, Rev. Theodore 339
Parton, Sara P. (Fanny Fern) 355
Pattison, Mark 476
Paul, C. Kegan 406
Paul, St. 6
Peacham, Henry . . . . 45
Peacock, Thomas Love . . . . 224
Persian, Saying from the . . . . 6
Persian, Saying from the . . . . 7
Petrarca, Francesco 9
Phillips, George S. (January Searle) . . . . . . 357
Plato I
Pliny, the younger 6
Plutarch . . 5
Pope, Alexander .. no
Prayer, Book of Common . . . . 28
Procter, Bryan Waller (Barry Cornwall) . . . . 228
Quincey, Thomas de 224
Quintilian 5
Rands, W. H. (Matthew Browne) . . . . . . 412
Rhodiginus, Balthasar Bonifacius 52
Richardson, Charles F . . 453
Richter, Jean Paul F 140
Ringelbergius, J. Fortius .. 14
Rioja, Francesco di • . . . . . . . . . . 59
Robertson, Rev. Frederick William 362
INDEX, 491
PAGE
Rochefoucauld, Due de la 71
Roscoe, William 131
Rousseau, Jean Jacques 117
Ruskin, John 366
Saxe, John G . . - ■ 363
Scaliger, Joseph 35
Schiller, Friedrich , . 1 34
Schopenhauer, Arthur .. .. 231
Seneca . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3
Shaftesbury, Earl of 284
Shakespeare, William , 32
Shenstone, William .. .. .. ,. ..119
Sherbrooke, Lord (Robert Lowe) . . . . . . 347
Shirley, James 56
Sidney, Sir Philip . . . . . . . . . . . . 28
Smith, Alexander . . 408
Socrates . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i
Solomon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i
Song, Old English 35
Sorbiere, Samuel . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
South, Dr. Robert 96
Southey, Robert .. -157
Steele, Sir Richard. . .. .. .. .. .. 107
Sterne, Laurence .. .. .. .. .. .. 118
Stevenson, Robert Louis .. .. .. .. ..451
Swift, Jonathan . . . . . . . . . . . . 106
Sylvester, Joshua . . . . . . . . . . . . 469
Talfourd, Judge . . . . . . . . . . . . 260
Taylor, Isaac . . . . 474
Taylor, Bishop Jeremy . . . . , . . . . . 70
Temple, Sir William 84
Thackeray, W. Makepeace . . . . . . . 343
Thirlwall, Bishop . . . . . . . . . . . . 262
Thomson, James . . . , . . . . . . . . 470
492 INDEX.
PAGE
Toinard, M. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 70
Trollope, Anthony . . . . . . . . . . . . 356
Tuckney, Antony . . . . 58
Vaughan, Henry 83
Voltaire, Frangois M. A. de .. .. ., ., 114
Waller, Sir William 56
Walpole, Horace .. .. .. .. .. .. 119
Watts, Dr. Isaac . . . . . . . . . . . . 109
Wesley, John .. .. .. .. .. .. 471
Whately, Archbishop . . . . . . . . . . 226
Whichcote, Dr. Benjamin . . . . . . . . 67
Whipple, Edwin P. .. .. .. ., .. 447
Whitman, Walt 382
Willmott, Rev. Robert Aris . . . . . . . . 324
Wither, George . . . . 54
Wordsworth, William .. ..153
Writer, Sixteenth Century . . 36
Wyttenbach, Daniel 124
Yriarte, Tomas de . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
■ ^C'jt^ " '
MANCHESTER:
PRINTED BT A. IRELAND AND CO.,
PALL Mall.
^be BooK^Xover's jencbiriMon :
THOUGHTS ON THE
Solace and Companionship of Books.
^12 pages. Cloth gilt, lettered. Price 6s.
In Parchment, Embossed 'in Gold, with Gilt Edges,
suitable for an elegant Gift-Book, los. 6d.
London : Simpkin, Marshall, & Co.
London & Edinburgh : W. & R. Chambers.
©pinions oX tbe ipress
(Selected from more than Fifty Newspaper Reviews and
Notices).
The Times. — A choice volume, the compilation of which has
evidently been a labour of love, and the result is a storehouse of
admirable quotations, which readers should make much of.
Daily Telegraph. — Were we asked to choose the single volume
most appropriate for a present to a person of refined and studious
habits, we should unhesitatingly name Alexander Ireland's
" Book- Lover's Enchiridion." It contains the best thoughts of
the best minds on the pleasures of reading and the reward of
scholarship, lovingly transcribed and arranged in praiseworthy
order by one who is himself an indefatigable reader and a pro-
found student of literature.
( I )
Pall Mali Gazette.— \t is creditable to this hasty age that it
should within ten months have demanded a third edition of so
solid a work as the " Book-lover's Enchiridion." Mr. Alexander
Ireland is an old book-lover himself, and has, we are sure, written
of books as fondly and sympathetically as any of the two hundred
and forty authors from whom he gives us quotations. The result
of his labours is a wholesome and unexceptionable little volume,
calculated to stimulate the energy of the young student and to
solace the leisure of age.
The S^ectator.r-' rh^ extracts have been most judiciously
selected, and are evidently the result of years of careful reading
and close observation. The highest commendation we can give
the book is to say that the compiler's object, as described by
himself in the preface to this (the third) edition, has been fully
achieved. "My object," he says, "has been to bring together,
from the reading of a lifetime, a body of thought, old and new,
which cannot fail to be welcome to those who find their purest
and highest enjoyment in studious contemplation ; who love to
retire from 'the fretful stir unprofitable, and the fever of the
world,' and dwell for a time in 'the heaven revealed to medita-
tion ;' and who feel their inner life sustained and refreshed, by a
knowledge of the consolations which the most gifted minds have
ever found in books."
Saturday Review.— M.t. Ireland's " Enchiridion" has already
shown that it possesses popular qualities. It is now in its third
edition; in many ways it deserves to see many more editions.
. . . The volume contains many passages about bibliophilism
which will be new even to omnivorous readers. . . . Mr.
Ireland's old English writers are among the very best, most
sensible, and least read of his authorities.
AthencBum. — A very charming volume, arranged in a way
that shows a true love of literature. The extracts supply some
delightful reading. The volume does infinite credit not only to
the printer, but to the compiler.
Academy. — The selection is very catholic. Many happy
hours of studious, leisure must have gone to the in-gathering
of the contents of this volume ; and to a good and pleasant
result.
( 2 )
Illustrated London News.~T\i^ whole number of individual
authors enlisted in the editor's service is now increased from 125
to about 210 ; while in the quality and aptness of the extracts he
has chosen, there is certainly no abatement. It is wonderful that
so many original reflections could have been made with so little
repetition of the same ideas, upon a topic of common experience
such as that of the uses and delights of literature.
Manchester Guardian.— h. dainty gift-book, which will give
great pleasure to every lover of literature. No better gift could
be devised for a studious youth or girl.
Scotsman. — It is beautifully got up, and printed with great
clearn^s and beauty. It contains a selection of thought, the like
of which we do not remember to have met with before.
The Literary ff^^r/^.— That this small volume should have
reached a third edition within a year may sufficiently vouch for
its sterling worth and popularity. . . . Mr. Ireland has
supplied book-lovers with a charming companion, and one that,
once obtained, they will not readily part with.
The Bookseller.— To all who love books for themselves and
not as furniture, this little book will be a valuable acquisition.
The bibliophile will find in it the touch of nature which pro-
claims its authors here. All that the wisest and greatest writers
have said about books will be found here.
The Publishers' Circular.— \X. is in truth a book of pure and
elevated thought, and of noble suggestion, and its wide range of
reading makes it a pleasant companion.
Harper's Magazine (New York). —A most valuable and
attractive volume — a more companionable book for a country
ramble or the winter fireside of a reading man could hardly be
thought of. The compiler gives evidence of deep reading and
accurate scholarship, and his annotations are not the least in-
teresting part of this very charming book.
Manchester City News.^-Ks Mr. Ireland has chosen to
arrange his selection chronologically, the volume is one rather for
odd moments than continuous perusal ; and it addresses itself
mainly to those who have already found their solace in the com-
( 3 )
panionship of books, and need no convincement. In a classified
form it might be made immensely serviceable to studious
beginners. As it stands it can hardly fail to realise the author's
hope, that it may " meet some of the special needs and moods of
those who are thoughtful, reverent, and earnest, and who seek to
gain from books something more than passing amusement."
The Manchester Trade youmal. — This book is the work of a
literary man of the old genuine type, rare now, and revives one's
early reminiscences of Leigh Hunt and others who.were saturated
with the spirit of book-hunting for love. We read maturity of
taste on every page ; the very excisions are eloquent, creating
epigram frequently, but never at the cost of the original meaning
to be conveyed. . . . The title includes an apt definition of
the purposes of literature y2?r the help and betterment of readers^
and the book constitutes in itself a powerful missionary.
The Isle of Man Examiner. — What men who have written
books have said about books, and how books have been to them
a solace and an enjoyment — the inspiration of their best and
truest thinking, is the purpose of this sweet little book. It is
confined to no one age or people: whoever has said aught in
praise of books, commencing with Solomon, and coming down to
our own nation and time, finds a loving appreciative record in
the Book Lover, How eloquently those who have realised
Channing's dictum that "nothing can supply the place of books,"
and who commend their study and companionship to all who
would avoid life's evils and conserve its chief good, is the burthen
and charm of every page. Instead of books being a mere
appendage, something to fill a shelf, or add to the furniture of a
house — which they too often are, — the Book Lover would have
them to be daily and hourly companions, so that the wisdom of
the past may become the experience of the present ; and life as a
result be more joyous and beautiful.
The Freeman. — The compiler of this admirable volume is not
a book-lover merely, but a book-knower, for only in the course
of long years of the widest and most discriminating reading
would it have been possible to collect together the varied in-
tellectual materials which in their mass, their versatility, their
interest, and their suggestiveness fully justify the use of Marlowe's
line, "infinite riches in a. little room." . . . There is no
( 4 )
single testimony to the preciousness of a true book from the pen
of any great writer or actor upon the world's stage which does not
find a place somewhere in the pages of this volume. . . . More
than 200 writers of all ages and nations are laid under contribu-
tion, and he must be a very wide and omnivorous reader who
does not come across many happy thoughts which are new friends
to him. . . . Each author has something to say which we
cannot spare, because it has been said in the same way by no one
else, because it has some individual touch which makes it an
unique influence. We are glad to see that the compiler has drawn
so largely from the writings of Leigh Hunt, whose exquisite
prose, much of which, though of the rarest and most delicate
quality, is practically unknown to the. present generation of
readers.
The Chrisiian Leader. — This is the daintiest book of a season
unusually fruitful in typographical gems. It contains the distilled
essence of a reader of fifty years' acquaintance with the best
authors of past and present times. Everything that printer and
binder could possibly do to make the volume *'a thing of beauty "
has been done, so that externally it is a perfect work of art ; and
the selections, worthy of such a setting, will indeed be a "joy for
ever" to all who become possessors of the book. No section of
the vast field of the world's literature has been overlooked ;
apostles and philosophers, evangelists and novelists, the leaders of
science and the sons of song, are laid under tribute ; we have
them all, from St. Paul and Plato, Horace and Cicero, to Carlyle,
Emerson, and Ruskin. The collection deserves praise not only
for its sound judgment and exquisite taste, 'but also for its
catholicity. The maker of this little book does not bow down to
mere names. He takes the really good thing, no matter where
he finds it.
Glasgow Herald.— To a wide and thorough knowledge of
books Mr. Ireland unites a catholic and yet a discriminating taste,
a sympathy with all honest thought, and an unaffected appre-
ciation of the pleasure literature can give to every rational being.
On certain men and periods in our literary history Mr. Ireland is
one of the best living authorities, and as befits his well-known
leanings, Charles Lamb, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt receive due
honour in this little volume. John Bright's wise words about
books are quoted from his speech at the opening of the Birmingham
( 5 )
New Free Library; and from Carlyle, Emerson, George Eliot,
Bacon, Shakspere, and a host of other worthies we have noble
utterances. . . . But we must refer our readers to the book
itself for all the great names and beautiful thoughts it helps to
commemorate. There are many ways by which men travel
through this life in search of happiness, but assuredly there are
none more innocent, more wholesome, and more certain of leading
us to a good end than a love of reading and the cultivation of the
power to appreciate what the wise and the earnest have written
for our guidance.
lEjtracts from betters.
Her Royal and Imperial Highness the Crown Princess of
Germany (late Princess Royal of England).
Dear Mrs. , Many thanks for your kind letter and Mr.
Ireland's charming book, which I admire very much indeed. The
perusal of it has given me great pleasure.
The Rev. fames Martineau, LL.D.
Your "Enchiridion" is a truly fascinating book — a precious
repertory of the fine things which the wise have to say about
wisdom.
The Honourable fames Russell Lowell.
Hearty thanks for the thought of making this book. It is a
true Contemplative Man's Recreation, a secluded nook where he
will always be sure of a bite. You have done for the fisher after
choice passages what dear old Izaac Walton did for the more
vulgar angler, and your name will swim with his.
Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes.
I must tell you how I first carried your "Enchiridion" into
my parlor. It was too lovely for the library, and it lies in its
virginal dress among the volumes of favorite writers that adorn
my wife's centre-table. But I take it up often as "a box where
( 6 )
sweets compacted lie," and am never disappointed in what I find
in the inside. It was a charming thought to bring together the
thoughts of so many scholars in different lands and in different
ages. This one book makes a whole library more valuable ; for
every work which is quoted gains in our estimate thereof. I have
not taken down my little Elzevir Colloquia of Erasmus for many a
long day, but no sooner does my eye fall on your quotation from
it than at once I must go to my shelves and verify it. And that
story of Heinsius, which I was a little while ago reading in my
old folio Burton, comes back to me with an added pleasure as I
found it in your pages. Your book is one which it is a luxury to
read and also a luxury to look upon.
JohnMorley, M.P.
Nothing could be more delightful or fascinating than this
volume ; I am truly enchanted to find myself its possessor, and
most grateful to you for compiling such a book. It will be on my
table for the rest of my natural life. I thank you for a really
delicate and abundant feast.
Frederic Harrison^ M.A.
Your volume is a very charming one. It is really an Enchi-
ridion, fit to take up again and again at spare half-hours, and is
certainly a masterpiece of typography and skilful arrangement.
You have done for me what I have never yet managed to do for
myself— put some of my fugitive passages into a solid form that
may go on a library shelf, and I shall be in future less careless
than I have hitherto been of my stray lectures, when I remember
the good company into which you have introduced my rags and
tatters.
Philip Gilbert Hamerton,
Your book cannot fail to increase the appreciation of Books,
which is scarcely yet so great as it ought to be. Few people quite
realise their value in comparison with other things less capable of
affording prolonged pleasure of a high kind.
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Vour book is admirably done, and I find it not only beautiful
for the eye, but quite one of those volumes which one can read
and re-read without end or weariness.
( 7 )
I «?4
Mrs. Anne Gilchrist., Author of " The Life of Mary
Lamb. "
Its "infinite riches in a little room" suits well with the
becoming contemplative mood which belongs to a holiday. But
it will suit all times and moods. The breadth of range in it is a
wonderful charm, and I heartily thank you, as one of the public,
for your judicious realisation of an excellent scheme.
The late James Crossley (Presidetit of the Chetham Society).
It is a perfect gem — merum. sail My literary tastes and
sympathies afford me an intense enjoyment when I meet with a
thoroughly good book like this. I have been so constantly
occupied with it since I got it that my ordinary occupations have
for the time been abandoned. In it I shake hands with all my
old friends and add fresh ones, who instantly become friends for
ever, and I am in a state of beatified enjoyment. Thousands
will yet thank you for your beautiful selection.
W. E. A. Axon.
Your book will be a healthy influence wherever it goes. Such
influences are greatly needed.
R. R. D.
A beautiful book both in body and in soul. Of the taste and#
the many-sided culture which have presided over its production,
I need not speak. I promise myself constant pleasure in turning
to its charming pages.
( 8 )