book I
never lost nor bestowed any more, nor any other time, than what was appointed to serve me for taking of my bodily refection, that is, whilst I was eating and drinking. And, indeed, that is the fittest and most proper hour, wherein to write these high matters and deep sentences: as Homer knew very well, the paragon of all philologues, and Ennius, the father of the Latin poets, as Horace calls him, although a certain sneaking jobbernol alleged that his verses smelled more of the wine than oil.--F. RABELAIS. _The Life of Gargantua and Pantagruel. Author's Prologue._
OUT-OF-DOORS READING
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 abstraction 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.--C. LAMB. _Detached Thoughts on Books and Reading._
O FOR A BOOKE
O for a Booke and a shadie nooke, Eyther in-a-doore or out, With the greene leaves whisp'ring overhede, Or the Streete cryes all about, Where I may Reade all at my ease, Both of the Newe and Olde, For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke, Is better to me than golde.
J. WILSON.
FAREWELL TO BOOKS IN SPRINGTIME
Than mote we to bokes that we finde, Through which that olde thinges been in minde, And to the doctrine of these olde wyse, Yeven credence, in every skilful wyse, And trowen on these olde aproved stories Of holinesse, of regnes, of victories, Of love, of hate, of other sundry thinges, Of whiche I may not maken rehersinges. And if that olde bokes were a-weye, Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye. Wel oghte us than on olde bokes leve, Ther-as ther is non other assay by preve. And, as for me, though that my wit be lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And in myn herte have hem in reverence; And to hem yeve swich lust and swich credence, That ther is wel unethe game noon That from my bokes make me to goon, But hit be other up-on the haly-day, Or elles in the joly tyme of May; Whan that I here the smale foules singe, And that the floures ginne for to springe, Farwel my studie, as lasting that sesoun!
G. CHAUCER. _The Legend of Good Women._
THE TABLES TURNED
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless-- Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the love which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:-- We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
W. WORDSWORTH.
LEARNING
Take me to some still abode, Underneath some woody hill; By some timber-skirted road, By some willow-shaded rill;
Where along the rocky brook Flying echoes sweetly sound, And the hoarsely-croaking rook Builds upon the trees around.
Take me to some lofty room Lighted from the western sky, Where no glare dispels the gloom Till the golden eve is nigh,
Where the works of searching thought, Chosen books, may still impart What the wise of old have taught, What has tried the meek of heart.
Books in long-dead tongues, that stirred Living hearts in other climes; Telling to my eyes, unheard, Glorious deeds of olden times.
Books that purify the thought, Spirits of the learned dead, Teachers of the little taught, Comforters when friends are fled.
W. BARNES.
PICTURE BOOKS IN WINTER
Summer fading, winter comes-- Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks In the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye, Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books.
We may see how all things are, Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks In the picture story-books.
How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books?
R. L. STEVENSON. _A Child's Garden of Verses._
THE HORN-BOOK
Hail! ancient Book, most venerable code! Learning's first cradle, and its last abode! The huge unnumbered volumes which we see, By lazy plagiaries are stolen from thee. Yet future times, to thy sufficient store, Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more.
Thee will I sing, in comely wainscoat bound, And golden verge enclosing thee around; The faithful horn before, from age to age, Preserving thy invaluable page; Behind, thy patron saint in armour shines, With sword and lance, to guard thy sacred lines: Beneath his courser's feet the dragon lies Transfixed; his blood thy scarlet cover dyes; The instructive handle's at the bottom fixed, Lest wrangling critics should pervert the text.
Or if to ginger-bread thou shalt descend, And liquorish learning to thy babes extend; Or sugared plane, o'erspread with beaten gold, Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold; Thou still shalt be my song--Apollo's choir I scorn to invoke; Cadmus my verse inspire: 'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought Of all the learning which has since been taught, Soon made complete! for mortals ne'er shall know More than contained of old the Christ-cross row; What masters dictate, or what doctors preach, Wise matrons hence e'en to our children teach: But as the name of every plant and flower (So common that each peasant knows its power) Physicians in mysterious cant express, To amuse the patient, and enhance their fees; So from the letters of our native tongue, Put in Greek scrawls, a mystery too is sprung, Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made, And artful men strike out a gainful trade; Strange characters adorn the learned gate, And heedless youth catch at the shining bait; The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare, And Tau's and Delta's, make their mothers stare; The uncommon sounds amaze the vulgar ear, And what's uncommon never costs too dear. Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the same, Taught by the Grecian master, or the English dame.
But how shall I thy endless virtues tell, In which thou durst all other books excel? No greasy thumbs thy spotless leaf can soil, Nor crooked dog-ears thy smooth corners spoil; In idle pages no errata stand, To tell the blunders of the printer's hand: No fulsome dedication here is writ, Nor flattering verse, to praise the author's wit: The margin with no tedious notes is vexed, Nor various readings to confound the text: All parties in thy literal sense agree, Thou perfect centre of concordancy! Search we the records of an ancient date, Or read what modern histories relate, They all proclaim what wonders have been done By the plain letters taken as they run: 'Too high the floods of passion used to roll, And rend the Roman youth's impatient soul; His hasty anger furnished scenes of blood, And frequent deaths of worthy men ensued: In vain were all the weaker methods tried, None could suffice to stem the furious tide, Thy sacred line he did but once repeat, And laid the storm, and cooled the raging heat.'
Thy heavenly notes, like angels' music, cheer Departing souls, and soothe the dying ear. An aged peasant, on his latest bed, Wished for a friend some godly book to read: The pious grandson thy known handle takes, And (eyes lift up) this savoury lecture makes: 'Great A,' he gravely read: the important sound The empty walls and hollow roof rebound: The expiring ancient reared his drooping head, And thanked his stars that Hodge had learned to read. 'Great B,' the younker bawls; O heavenly breath! What ghostly comforts in the hour of death! What hopes I feel! 'Great C,' pronounced the boy; The grandsire dies with ecstasy of joy.
Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds, Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds. Of Essex hundreds Fame gives this report, But Fame, I ween, says many things in sport. Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite unknown, Though few the extent of thy vast Empire own. Whatever wonders magic spells can do On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below; What words profound and dark wise Mahomet spoke, When his old cow an angel's figure took; What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew, Or Horace sung, fierce monsters to subdue, O mighty Book, are all contained in you! All human arts, and every science meet, Within the limits of thy single sheet: From thy vast root all learning's branches grow, And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow. And, lo! while thus thy wonders I indite, Inspired I feel the power of which I write; The gentler gout his former rage forgets, Less frequent now, and less severe the fits: Loose grow the chains which bound my useless feet; Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat; Surprising strength comes every moment on, I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run. Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop, And at thy handle hang my crutches up.
T. TICKLE.
OLD STORY BOOKS
Old Story Books! Old Story Books! we owe ye much, old friends, Bright-coloured threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends. Who can forget ye? who can spurn the ministers of joy That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet: A 'promised story' was enough, and I turned, with eager smile, To learn about the naughty 'pig that would not mount the stile'.
There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to stand, With mighty question in my head and penny in my hand; Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show, And 'story books' upon a string appeared in brilliant row. What should I have? the peppermint was incense in my nose, But I had heard of 'hero Jack', who slew his giant foes: My lonely coin was balanced long, before the tempting stall, 'Twixt book and bull's eye--but, forsooth! 'Jack' got it after all.
Talk of your 'vellum, gold embossed', 'morocco', 'roan', and 'calf', The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half; And as to pictures--well we know that never one was made Like that where 'Bluebeard' swings aloft his wife-destroying blade. 'Hume's England'--pshaw! what history of battles, states, and men, Can vie with Memoirs 'all about sweet little Jenny Wren'? And what are all the wonders that e'er struck a nation dumb, To those recorded as performed by 'Master Thomas Thumb'?
Miss 'Riding Hood', poor luckless child! my heart grew big with dread When the grim 'wolf', in 'grandmamma's' best bonnet, showed his head; I shuddered when, in innocence, she meekly peeped beneath, And made remarks about 'great eyes', and wondered at 'great teeth'. And then the 'House that Jack built', and the 'Beanstalk' Jack cut down, And 'Jack's eleven brothers', on their travels of renown; And 'Jack', whose cracked and plastered head ensured him lyric fame, These, these, methinks, make 'vulgar Jack' a rather classic name.
Fair 'Valentine', I loved him well; but, better still the bear That hugged his brother in her arms with tenderness and care. I lingered spellbound o'er the page, though eventide wore late, And left my supper all untouched to fathom 'Orson's' fate. Then 'Robin with his merry men', a noble band were they, We'll never see the like again, go hunting where we may. In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt Fancy bore me on, Through Sherwood's dewy forest paths, close after 'Little John'.
Miss 'Cinderella' and her 'shoe' kept long their reigning powers, Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours; And 'Sinbad', wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track, And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back. And oh! that tale--the matchless tale that made me dream at night-- Of 'Crusoe's' shaggy robe of fur, and 'Friday's' death-spurred flight; Nay, still I read it, and again, in sleeping visions, see The savage dancers on the sand--the raft upon the sea.
Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I doubt if 'Reason's Feast' Provides a dish that pleases more than 'Beauty and the Beast'; I doubt if all the ledger-leaves that bear a sterling sum, Yield happiness like those that told of 'Master Horner's plum'. Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I never pass ye by Without a sort of furtive glance--right loving, though 'tis sly; And fair suspicion may arise--that yet my spirit grieves For dear 'Old Mother Hubbard's Dog' and 'Ali Baba's Thieves'.
ELIZA COOK.
THE FIRST AUTHORS FOR YOUTH
And as it is fit to read the best authors to youth first, so let them be of the openest and clearest: as Livy before Sallust, Sidney before Donne; and beware of letting them taste Gower or Chaucer at first, lest falling too much in love with antiquity, and not apprehending the weight, they grow rough and barren in language only. When their judgements are firm and out of danger, let them read both the old and the new; but no less take heed that their new flowers and sweetness do not as much corrupt as the others' dryness and squalor, if they choose not carefully. Spenser, in affecting the ancients, writ no language: yet I would have him read for his matter, but as Virgil read Ennius. The reading of Homer and Virgil is counselled by Quintilian as the best way of informing youth and confirming man. For, besides that the mind is raised with the height and sublimity of such a verse, it takes spirit from the greatness of the matter, and is tincted with the best things. Tragic and lyric poetry is good too; and comic with the best, if the manners of the reader be once in safety.--BEN JONSON. _Timber._
BOOKS AND THE WORLD
A man who, without a good fund of knowledge and parts, adopts a Court life, makes the most ridiculous figure imaginable. He is a machine, little superior to the Court clock; and, as this points out the hours, he points out the frivolous employment of them. He is, at most, a comment upon the clock; and, according to the hours that it strikes, tells you, now it is levee, now dinner, now supper time, &c. The end which I propose by your education is, to unite in you all the knowledge of a scholar, with the manners of a courtier, and to join, what is seldom joined in any of my countrymen, Books and the World. They are commonly twenty years old before they have spoken to anybody above their Schoolmaster and the Fellows of their college. If they happen to have learning, it is only Greek and Latin; but not one word of Modern History or Modern Languages. Thus prepared, they go abroad, as they call it; but, in truth, they stay at home all that while; for being very awkward, confoundedly ashamed, and not speaking the languages, they go into no foreign company, at least none good; but dine and sup with one another only, at the tavern.--LORD CHESTERFIELD. _Letters to his Son._
ADVICE TO MOTHERS
Mr. B---- has just put into my hands Mr. Locke's _Treatise on Education_, and he commands me to give him my thoughts upon it in writing. He has a very high regard for this author, and tells me that my tenderness for Billy will make me think some of the first advice given in it a little harsh, perhaps; but, although he has not read it through, only having dipped into it here and there, he believes, from the name of the author, I cannot have a better directory; and my opinion of it, after I have well considered it, will inform him, he says, of my own capacity and prudence, and how far he may rely upon both in the point of a first education.--S. RICHARDSON. _Pamela._
GETTING A BOY FORWARD
I am always for getting a boy forward in his learning; for that is a sure good. I would let him at first read _any_ English book which happens to engage his attention; because you have done a great deal when you have brought him to have entertainment from a book. He'll get better books afterwards.--S. JOHNSON. (Boswell's _Life_.)
AT LARGE IN THE LIBRARY
I would put a child into a library (where no unfit books are) and let him read at his choice. A child should not be discouraged from reading anything that he takes a liking to, from a notion that it is above his reach. If that be the case, the child will soon find it out and desist; if not, he of course gains the instruction; which is so much the more likely to come, from the inclination with which he takes up the study.--S. JOHNSON. (Boswell's _Life_.)
THE BEST BOOKS THE COMMONEST
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 sentiment 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 immortality 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.--W. HAZLITT. _On the Conduct of Life; or Advice to a Schoolboy._
MONTAIGNE'S EARLY READING
The first taste or feeling I had of books, was of the pleasure I took in reading the fables of Ovid's _Metamorphoses_; for, being but seven or eight years old, I would steal and sequester myself from all other delights, only to read them: Forsomuch as the tongue wherein they were written was to me natural; and it was the easiest