Has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus (Propertius).My horse must sweating run,That this goal may be won.
Has meus ad metas sudet oportet equus (Propertius).
My horse must sweating run,That this goal may be won.
If in reading I fortune to meet with any difficult points, I fret not myself about them, but after I have given them a charge or two, I leave them as I found them. Should I earnestly plod upon them, I should lose both time and myself, for I have a skipping wit. What I see not at the first view, I shall less see it if I opinionate myself upon it. I do nothing without blitheness; and an over-obstinate continuation and plodding contention doth dazzle, dull, and weary the same: my sight is thereby confounded and diminished.... If one book seem tedious unto me I take another, which I follow not with any earnestness, except it be at such hours as I am idle, or that I am weary with doing nothing. I am not greatly affected to new books, because ancient authors are, in my judgement, more full and pithy: nor am I much addicted to Greek books, forasmuch as my understanding cannot well rid his work with a childish and apprentice intelligence. Amongst modern books merely pleasant, I esteem Boccaccio hisDecameron, Rabelais, and the Kisses of John the Second (if they may be placed under this title), worth the pains-taking to read them. As forAmadisand such like trash of writings, they had never the credit so much as to allure my youth to delight in them. This I will say more, either boldly or rashly, that this old and heavy-paced mind of mine will no more be pleased with Aristotle, or tickled with good Ovid: his facility and quaint inventions which heretofore have so ravished me, they can nowadays scarcely entertain me.... It is neither grammatical subtilties nor logical quiddities, nor the witty contexture of choice words or arguments and syllogisms that will serve my turn.... I would not have a man go about and labour by circumlocutions to induce and win me to attention, and that (as our heralds or criers do) they shall ring out their words: Now hear me, now listen, or ho-yes. The Romans in their religion were wont to say 'Hoc age'; which in ours we say 'Sursum corda'. These are so many lost words for me. I come ready prepared from my house. I need no allurement nor sauce, my stomach is good enough to digest raw meat.—Montaigne.
Interdum speciosa locis morataque recteFabula nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte,Valdius oblectat populum meliusque moraturQuam versus inopes rerum nugaeque canorae.—Hor.
Interdum speciosa locis morataque recteFabula nullius veneris, sine pondere et arte,Valdius oblectat populum meliusque moraturQuam versus inopes rerum nugaeque canorae.—Hor.
It is the custom of the Mahometans, if they see any printed or written paper upon the ground, to take it up and lay it aside carefully, as not knowing but it may contain some piece of their Alcoran. I must confess I have so much of the Mussulman in me, that I cannot forbear looking into every printed paper which comes in my way, under whatsoever despicable circumstances it may appear; for as no mortal author, in the ordinary fate and vicissitude of things, knows to what use his works may some time or other be applied, a man may often meet with very celebrated names in a paper of tobacco. I have lighted my pipe more than once with the writings of a prelate; and know a friend of mine, who, for these several years, has converted the essays of a man of quality into a kind of fringe for his candlesticks. I remember in particular, after having read over a poem of an eminent author on a victory, I met with several fragments of it upon the next rejoicing day, which had been employed in squibs and crackers, and by that means celebrated its subject in a double capacity. I once met with a page of Mr. Baxter under a Christmas pie. Whether or no the pastry-cook had made use of it through chance or waggery, for the defence of that superstitiousviande, I know not; but upon the perusal of it, I conceived so good an idea of the author's piety, that I bought the whole book. I have often profited by these accidental readings, and have sometimes found very curiouspieces, that are either out of print, or not to be met with in the shops of our London booksellers. For this reason, when my friends take a survey of my library, they are very much surprised to find, upon the shelf of folios, two long band-boxes standing upright among my books, till I let them see that they are both of them lined with deep erudition and abstruse literature.—J. Addison.Spectator, 85.
In opposition to these extremes, I meet with another sort of people, that delight themselves in reading, but it is in such a desultory way, running from one book to another, as birds skip from one bough to another, without design, that it is no marvel if they get nothing but their labour for their pains, when they seek nothing but change and diversion: they that ride post can observe but little.
It is in reading, as it is in making many books; there may be a pleasing distraction in it, but little or no profit. I would therefore do in this 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 by, 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, and for the service of God, which is the true end of all action. 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 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.—Sir W. Waller.Divine Meditations.
The library at Waverley-Honour, a large Gothic room, with double arches and a gallery, contained such a miscellaneous and extensive collection of volumes as had been assembled together, during the course of two hundred years, by a family which had been always wealthy, and inclined, of course, as a mark of splendour, to furnish their shelves with the current literature of the day, without much scrutiny, or nicety of discrimination. Throughout this ample realm Edward was permitted to roam at large.... With a desire of amusement, therefore, which better discipline might soon have converted into a thirst for knowledge, young Waverley drove through the sea of books, like a vessel without a pilot or a rudder. Nothing perhaps increases by indulgence more than a desultory habit of reading, especially under such opportunities of gratifying it. I believe one reason why such numerous instances of erudition occur among the lower ranks is, that, with the same powers of mind, the poor student is limited to a narrow circle for indulging his passion for books, and must necessarily make himself master of the few he possesses ere he can acquire more. Edward, on the contrary, like the epicure who only deigned to take a single morsel from the sunny side of a peach, read no volume a moment after it ceased to excite his curiosity or interest; and it necessarily happened, that the habit of seeking only this sort of gratification rendered it daily more difficult of attainment, till the passion for reading, like other strong appetites, produced by indulgence a sort of satiety.—Sir W. Scott.Waverley.
Not to mention the multitudes who read merely for the sake of talking, or to qualify themselves for the world, or some such kind of reasons; there are, even of the few who read for their own entertainment, and have a real curiosity to see what is said, several, which is prodigious, who have no sort of curiosity to see what is true....
For the sake of this whole class of readers, for they are of different capacities, different kinds, and get into thisway from different occasions, I have often wished that it had been the custom to lay before people nothing in matters of argument but premises, and leave them to draw conclusions themselves; which, though it could not be done in all cases, might in many.
The great number of books and papers of amusement, which, of one kind or another, daily come in one's way, have in part occasioned, and most perfectly fall in with and humour, this idle way of reading and considering things. By this means, time even in solitude is happily got rid of, without the pain of 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.—J. Butler.Preface toSermons.
Mr. Elphinston talked of a new book that was much admired, and asked Dr. Johnson if he had read it. Johnson: 'I have looked into it.' 'What (said Elphinston), have you not read it through?' Johnson, offended at being thus pressed, and so obliged to own his cursory mode of reading, answered tartly, 'No, Sir, doyouread booksthrough?'—J. Boswell.Life of Johnson.
Desultory reading is indeed very mischievous, by fostering habits of loose, discontinuous thought, by turning the memory into a common sewer for rubbish of all sorts 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 an 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.—A. W. andJ. C. Hare.Guesses at Truth.
As in the choice and reading of good books principally consists the enabling and advancement of a man's knowledge and learning; yet if it be not mixed with the conversation of discreet, able, and understanding men, they can make little use of their reading, either for themselves, or the commonwealth where they live. There is not a more common proverb than this,That the Greatest Clerks be not always the wisest men, and reason for it, being a very uneven rule to square all actions, and consultations, only by book precedents. Time hath so many changes, and alterations, and such variety of occasions and opportunities, intervening, and mingled, that it is impossible to go new ways in the old paths; so that though reading do furnish and direct a man's judgement, yet it doth not wholly govern it. Therefore the necessity of knowing the present time, and men, wherein we live, is so great, that it is the principal guide of our actions, and reading but supplemental.—Grey Brydges, Lord Chandos.Horae Subsecivae.
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 that will have a candle burning by him, all the while he is sleeping.—H. Peacham.The Compleat Gentleman.
We have a generation of people in the world, that are so far from putting themselves upon the hazard of knowing too much, that they affect a kind of Socratical knowledge (though it be the clear contrary way), a knowledge of knowing nothing; they hate learning, and wisdom, and understanding with that perfect hatred, that if one could fancy such things to be in paradise, one would think (if I may speak it, as I mean it without profaneness) that the Devil could not tempt them to come near the tree of knowledge;I cannot say these are in a state of innocency, but I am sure they are in a state of simplicity. But among those few persons (especially those of quality) that pretend to look after books, how many are there that affect rather to look upon them, than in them? Some covet to have libraries in their houses, as ladies desire to have cupboards of plate in their chambers, only for show; as if they were only to furnish their rooms, and not their minds; if the only having of store of books were sufficient to improve a man, the stationers would have the advantage of all others; but certainly books were made for use, and not for ostentation; in vain do they boast of full libraries that are contented to live with empty heads.—Sir W. Waller.Divine Meditations.
Read well, and then these following lines are mine,But read them like a botcher, they are thine.Such virtue from some readers doth proceed,They make the verse the better which they read:They know their idioms, accents, emphases,Commas, stops, colons, and parentheses,Full points, and periods, brief apostrophes,Good knowing readers understand all these:But such as dares my book to take in hand,Who scarce can read or spell or understand;Yet, like Sir reverence Geese, they will be gagling,And tear my lines to tatters with their hagling;Such I request, if bachelors they be,To leave my book, and learn their A.B.C.:If married men they be, let them take painTo exercise their horn-books once again.
Read well, and then these following lines are mine,But read them like a botcher, they are thine.Such virtue from some readers doth proceed,They make the verse the better which they read:They know their idioms, accents, emphases,Commas, stops, colons, and parentheses,Full points, and periods, brief apostrophes,Good knowing readers understand all these:But such as dares my book to take in hand,Who scarce can read or spell or understand;Yet, like Sir reverence Geese, they will be gagling,And tear my lines to tatters with their hagling;Such I request, if bachelors they be,To leave my book, and learn their A.B.C.:If married men they be, let them take painTo exercise their horn-books once again.
J. Taylor.Epigrams, Written on purpose to be read: with a Proviso, that they may be understood by the Reader.
J. Taylor.Epigrams, Written on purpose to be read: with a Proviso, that they may be understood by the Reader.
... is oftener in his study than at his book.... His table is spread wide with some classic folio, which is as constant to it as the carpet, and hath lain open in the same page thishalf year.... He walks much alone in the posture of meditation, and has a book still before his face in the fields. His pocket is seldom without a Greek Testament, or Hebrew Bible, which he opens only in the church, and this when some stander-by looks over.... He is a great nomenclator of authors, whom he has read in general in the catalogue, and in particular in the title, and goes seldom so far as the dedication.—J. Earle.Microcosmographie.
Man has a natural desire to know,But the one half is for interest, the other show:As scriveners take more pains to learn the slightOf making knots than all the hands they write:So all his study is not to extendThe bounds of knowledge, but some vainer end;To appear and pass for learnèd, though his claimWill hardly reach beyond the empty name:For most of those that drudge and labour hard,Furnish their understandings by the yard,As a French library by the whole is,So much an ell for quartos and for folios;To which they are the indexes themselves,And understand no further than the shelves;But smatter with their tables and editions,And place them in their classical partitions;When all a student knows of what he readsIs not in 's own but under general headsOf commonplaces not in his own power,But, like a Dutchman's money, i' th' cantore;Where all he can make of it, at the best,Is hardly three per cent. for interest;And whether he will ever get it outInto his own possession is a doubt:Affects all books of past and modern ages,But reads no further than the title-pages,Only to con the author's names by rote,Or, at the best, those of the books they quoteEnough to challenge intimate acquaintanceWith all the learnèd Moderns and the Ancients.As Roman noblemen were wont to greet,And compliment the rabble in the street,Had nomenclators in their trains, to claimAcquaintance with the meanest by his name,And by so mean contemptible a bribeTrepanned the suffrages of every tribe;So learned men, by authors' names unknown,Have gained no small improvement to their own,And he's esteemed the learnedest of all othersThat has the largest catalogue of authors.S. Butler.Satire upon the imperfectionand abuse of human learning.
Man has a natural desire to know,But the one half is for interest, the other show:As scriveners take more pains to learn the slightOf making knots than all the hands they write:So all his study is not to extendThe bounds of knowledge, but some vainer end;To appear and pass for learnèd, though his claimWill hardly reach beyond the empty name:For most of those that drudge and labour hard,Furnish their understandings by the yard,As a French library by the whole is,So much an ell for quartos and for folios;To which they are the indexes themselves,And understand no further than the shelves;But smatter with their tables and editions,And place them in their classical partitions;When all a student knows of what he readsIs not in 's own but under general headsOf commonplaces not in his own power,But, like a Dutchman's money, i' th' cantore;Where all he can make of it, at the best,Is hardly three per cent. for interest;And whether he will ever get it outInto his own possession is a doubt:Affects all books of past and modern ages,But reads no further than the title-pages,Only to con the author's names by rote,Or, at the best, those of the books they quoteEnough to challenge intimate acquaintanceWith all the learnèd Moderns and the Ancients.As Roman noblemen were wont to greet,And compliment the rabble in the street,Had nomenclators in their trains, to claimAcquaintance with the meanest by his name,And by so mean contemptible a bribeTrepanned the suffrages of every tribe;So learned men, by authors' names unknown,Have gained no small improvement to their own,And he's esteemed the learnedest of all othersThat has the largest catalogue of authors.
S. Butler.Satire upon the imperfectionand abuse of human learning.
Among the numerous fools, by Fate designedOft to disturb, and oft divert, mankind,The reading coxcomb is of special note,By rule a poet, and a judge by rote:Grave son of idle Industry and Pride,Whom learning but perverts, and books misguide.In error obstinate, in wrangling loud,For trifles eager, positive, and proud,Forth steps at last the self-applauding wight,Of points and letters, chaff and straws, to write:Sagely resolved to swell each bulky pieceWith venerable toys from Rome and Greece;How oft, in Homer, Paris curled his hair;If Aristotle's cap were round or square;If in the cave, where Dido first was sped,To Tyre she turned her heels, to Troy her head.Hence Plato quoted or the Stagyrite,To prove that flame ascends and snow is white:Hence much hard study, without sense or breeding,And all the grave impertinence of reading.If Shakespeare says, the noon-day sun is bright,His scholiast will remark, it then was light;Turn Caxton, Wynkyn, each old Goth and Hun,To rectify the reading of a pun.Thus, nicely trifling, accurately dull,How one may toil, and toil—to be a fool!—D. Mallet.
Among the numerous fools, by Fate designedOft to disturb, and oft divert, mankind,The reading coxcomb is of special note,By rule a poet, and a judge by rote:Grave son of idle Industry and Pride,Whom learning but perverts, and books misguide.
In error obstinate, in wrangling loud,For trifles eager, positive, and proud,Forth steps at last the self-applauding wight,Of points and letters, chaff and straws, to write:Sagely resolved to swell each bulky pieceWith venerable toys from Rome and Greece;How oft, in Homer, Paris curled his hair;If Aristotle's cap were round or square;If in the cave, where Dido first was sped,To Tyre she turned her heels, to Troy her head.Hence Plato quoted or the Stagyrite,To prove that flame ascends and snow is white:Hence much hard study, without sense or breeding,And all the grave impertinence of reading.If Shakespeare says, the noon-day sun is bright,His scholiast will remark, it then was light;Turn Caxton, Wynkyn, each old Goth and Hun,To rectify the reading of a pun.Thus, nicely trifling, accurately dull,How one may toil, and toil—to be a fool!—D. Mallet.
As to the devotees of the circulating libraries, I dare not compliment theirpass-time, or ratherkill-time, with the name ofreading. Call it rather a sort of beggarly daydreaming, during which the mind of the dreamer furnishes for itself nothing but laziness and a little mawkish sensibility; while the wholematerialand imagery of the doze is suppliedab extraby a sort of mentalcamera obscuramanufactured at the printing office, whichpro temporefixes, reflects and transmits the moving phantasms of one man's delirium, so as to people the barrenness of an hundred other brains afflicted with the same trance or suspension of all common sense and all definite purpose. We should therefore transfer this species ofamusement(if indeed those can be said to retirea musis, who were never in their company, or relaxation be attributable to those whose bows are never bent) from the genusreadingto the comprehensive class characterized by the power of reconciling the two contrary yet co-existing propensities of human nature, namely, indulgence of sloth and hatred of vacancy. In addition to novels and tales of chivalry in prose or rhyme (by which last I mean neither rhythm nor metre) this genus comprises as its species gaming, swinging, or swaying on a chair or gate; spitting over a bridge; smoking; snuff-taking;tête à têtequarrels after dinner between husband and wife; conning word by word all the advertisements of the daily advertizers in a public-house on a rainy day, &c., &c., &c.—S. T. Coleridge.Biographia Literaria.
Dr. Johnson this day, when we were by ourselves [on the journey to the Hebrides] observed, how common it was for people to talk from books; to retail the sentiments of others, and not their own; in short, to converse without any originality of thinking. He was pleased to say, 'You and I do not talk from books.'—J. Boswell.Life of Johnson.
There are no race of people who talk about books, or perhaps, who read books, so little as literary men.—W. M. Thackeray.
There is a sort of vanity some men have, of talking of and reading obscure and half-forgotten authors, because it passes as a matter of course, that he who quotes authors which are so little read, must be completely and thoroughly acquainted with those authors which are in every man's mouth. For instance, it is very common to quote Shakespeare; but it makes a sort of stare to quote Massinger. I have very little credit for being well acquainted with Virgil; but if I quote Silius Italicus, I may stand some chance of being reckoned a great scholar. In short, whoever wishes to strike out of the great road, and to make a short cut to fame, let him neglect Homer, and Virgil, and Horace, and Ariosto and Milton, and, instead of these, read and talk of Frascatorius, Sannazarius, Lorenzini, Pastorini, and the thirty-six primary sonneteers of Bettinelli;—let him neglect everything which the suffrage of ages has made venerable and grand, and dig out of their graves a set of decayed scribblers, whom the silent verdict of the public has fairly condemned to everlasting oblivion. If he complain of the injustice with which they have been treated, and call for a new trial with loud and importunate clamour, though I am afraid he will not make much progress in the estimation of men of sense, he will be sure to make some noise in the crowd, and to be dubbed a man of very curious and extraordinary erudition.—S. Smith.Moral Philosophy, Lecture IX. On the Conduct of the Understanding.
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 theirtitles, and then boast of an intimate acquaintance.—C. C. Colton.Lacon.
The author who speaks about his own books is almost as bad as a mother who talks about her own children.—B. Disraeli, Lord Beaconsfield.
The priest and the barber of the place, who were Don Quixote's great friends, happened to be there [at Don Quixote's house]; and the housekeeper was saying to them aloud: What is your opinion, Señor Licentiate Pero Perez (for that was the priest's name) of my master's misfortune? for neither he, nor his horse, nor the target, nor the lance, nor the armour have been seen these six days past. Woe is me! I am verily persuaded, and it is as certainly true as I was born to die, that these cursed books of knight-errantry which he keeps, and is so often reading, have turned his brain; and now I think of it, I have often heard him say, talking to himself, that he would turn knight-errant, and go about the world in quest of adventures. The devil and Barabbas take all such books, that have thus spoiled the finest understanding in all La Mancha. The niece joined with her, and said moreover: Know, master Nicholas (for that was the barber's name), that it has often happened, that my honoured uncle has continued poring on these confounded books of disadventures two whole days and nights.... But I take the blame of all this to myself, that I did not advertise you, gentlemen, of my dear uncle's extravagances, before they were come to the height that they now are, that you might have prevented them by burning all those cursed books, of which he has so great a store, and which as justly deserve to be committed to the flames, as if they were heretical....
Whilst Don Quixote still slept on, the priest asked the niece for the keys of the chamber where the books were, those authors of the mischief; and she delivered them with a very good will. They all went in, and the housekeeper with them. They found above a hundred volumes in folio, very well bound, besides a great many small ones. And no sooner did the housekeeper see them, than she ran out of the room in great haste, and immediately returned with a pot of holy water and a bunch of hyssop, and said: Señor Licentiate, take this and sprinkle the room, lest some enchanter, of the many these books abound with, should enchant us in revenge for what we intend to do, in banishing them out of the world. The priest smiled at the housekeeper's simplicity, and ordered the barber to reach himthe books one by one, that they might see what they treated of; for, perhaps, they might find some that might not deserve to be chastised by fire. No, said the niece, there is no reason why any of them should be spared.... The housekeeper said the same; so eagerly did they both thirst for the death of those innocents. But the priest would not agree to that, without first reading the titles at least....
That night the housekeeper set fire to, and burnt all the books that were in the yard [whither they had been cast], and in the house too; and some must have perished, that deserved to be treasured up in perpetual archives.—Cervantes.Don Quixote.
There have indeed been minds overlaid by much reading, men who have piled such a load of books on their heads, their brains have seemed to be squashed by them.—A. W. andJ. C. Hare.Guesses at Truth.
Books are chiefly useful as they help us to interpret what we see and experience. When they absorb men, as they sometimes do, and turn them from observation of nature and life, they generate a learned folly, for which the plain sense of the labourer could not be exchanged but at great loss. It deserves attention that the greatest men have been formed without the studies which at present are thought by many most needful to improvement. Homer, Plato, Demosthenes, never heard the name of chemistry, and knew less of the solar system than a boy in our common schools. Not that these sciences are unimportant; but the lesson is, that human improvement never wants the means, where the purpose of it is deep and earnest in the soul.—W. E. Channing.Self-Culture.
Who readeth much, and never meditates,Is like a greedy eater of much food,Who so surcloys his stomach with his cates,That commonly they do him little good.J. Sylvester.Tetrasticha.
Who readeth much, and never meditates,Is like a greedy eater of much food,Who so surcloys his stomach with his cates,That commonly they do him little good.
J. Sylvester.Tetrasticha.
As for the disgraces which learning receiveth from politics, they be of this nature; that learning doth soften men's minds, and makes them more unapt for the honour and exercise of arms; that it doth mar and pervert men's dispositions for matter of government and policy, in making them too curious and irresolute by variety of reading, or too peremptory or positive by strictness of rules and axioms, or too immoderate and overweening by reason of the greatness of examples, or too incompatible and differing from the times by reason of the dissimilitude of examples; or at least, that it doth divert men's travails from action and business, and bringeth them to a love of leisure and privateness; and that it doth bring into states a relaxation of discipline, whilst every man is more ready to argue than to obey and execute....
If any man be laborious in reading and study and yet idle in business and action, it groweth from some weakness of body or softness of spirit; such as Seneca speaketh of:Quidam tam sunt umbratiles, ut putent in turbido esse quicquid in luce est; and not of learning: well may it be that such a point of a man's nature may make him give himself to learning, but it is not learning that breedeth any such point in his nature.—F. Bacon, Lord Verulam.Of the Advancement of Learning.
Many books,Wise men have said, are wearisome; who readsIncessantly, and to his reading brings notA spirit and judgement, equal or superior,(And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere seek?)Uncertain and unsettled still remains,Deep-versed in books, and shallow in himself;Crude or intoxicate, collecting toysAnd trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge;As children gathering pebbles on the shore.J. Milton.Paradise Regained.
Many books,Wise men have said, are wearisome; who readsIncessantly, and to his reading brings notA spirit and judgement, equal or superior,(And what he brings, what needs he elsewhere seek?)Uncertain and unsettled still remains,Deep-versed in books, and shallow in himself;Crude or intoxicate, collecting toysAnd trifles for choice matters, worth a sponge;As children gathering pebbles on the shore.
J. Milton.Paradise Regained.
The heartMay give an useful lesson to the head,And learning wiser grow without his books.Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwellsIn heads replete with thoughts of other men;Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.Books are not seldom talismans and spells,By which the magic art of shrewder witsHolds an unthinking multitude enthralled.Some to the fascination of a nameSurrender judgement, hood-winked. Some the styleInfatuates, and through labyrinths and wildsOf error leads them by a tune entranced.While sloth seduces more, too weak to bearThe insupportable fatigue of thought,And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice,The total grist unsifted, husks and all.But trees, and rivulets whose rapid courseDefies the check of winter, haunts of deer,And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,And lanes in which the primrose ere her timePeeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,Not shy, as in the world, and to be wonBy slow solicitation, seize at onceThe roving thought, and fix it on themselves.W. Cowper.The Winter Walk at Noon.
The heartMay give an useful lesson to the head,And learning wiser grow without his books.Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,Have oft-times no connexion. Knowledge dwellsIn heads replete with thoughts of other men;Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.Knowledge, a rude unprofitable mass,The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.Books are not seldom talismans and spells,By which the magic art of shrewder witsHolds an unthinking multitude enthralled.Some to the fascination of a nameSurrender judgement, hood-winked. Some the styleInfatuates, and through labyrinths and wildsOf error leads them by a tune entranced.While sloth seduces more, too weak to bearThe insupportable fatigue of thought,And swallowing, therefore, without pause or choice,The total grist unsifted, husks and all.But trees, and rivulets whose rapid courseDefies the check of winter, haunts of deer,And sheep-walks populous with bleating lambs,And lanes in which the primrose ere her timePeeps through the moss that clothes the hawthorn root,Deceive no student. Wisdom there, and truth,Not shy, as in the world, and to be wonBy slow solicitation, seize at onceThe roving thought, and fix it on themselves.
W. Cowper.The Winter Walk at Noon.
Much reading is like much eating, wholly useless without digestion.—R. South.
If I had read as much as other men, I should have been as ignorant as they.—T. Hobbes.
You might read all the books in the British Museum (if you could live long enough) and remain an utterly 'illiterate', uneducated person; but ... if you read ten pages of a good book, letter by letter,—that is to say, with real accuracy,—you are for evermore in some measure an educated person.—J. Ruskin.Sesame and Lilies.
Do I boast of my omnivorousness of reading, even apart from romances? Certainly no!—never, except in joke. It's against my theories and ratiocinations, which take upon themselves to assert that we all generally err byreading too much, or out of proportion to what wethink. I should be wiser, I am persuaded, if I had not read half as much—should have had stronger and better exercised faculties. The fact is, that thene plus ultraof intellectual indolence is this reading of books. It comes next to what the Americans call 'whittling'.—E. B. Browning(Letter to R. H. Horne).
He that sets out on the journey of life, with a profound knowledge of books, but a shallow knowledge of men, with much sense of others, but little of his own, will find himself as completely at a loss on occasions of common and of constant recurrence, as a Dutchman without his pipe, a Frenchman without his mistress, an Italian without his fiddle, or an Englishman without his umbrella.—C. C. Colton.Lacon.
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks;Small have continual plodders ever won,Save base authority from others' books.W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
Study is like the heaven's glorious sun,That will not be deep-searched with saucy looks;Small have continual plodders ever won,Save base authority from others' books.
W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
Who, loving leisure and his studious ease,And books, and what of noblest lore they bring,Will not confess that sometimes, called asideTo humbler work and less delightful tasks,He has been tempted to exclaim in heart—'How pleasant were it might we only dwell,And ever hold sweet converse undisturbedThus with the choicest spirits of the worldIn council, and in letters, and in arms.Easy to live with, always at command,They come at bidding, at our word depart,Friends whose society not ever cloys.Glorious it were by intercourse with theseTo learn whatever men have thought or done,And travel the great orb of knowledge round.But oh! how most unwelcome the constraint,How harsh the summons bidding us to pause,And for a season turn from our high toils,From that serener atmosphere come down,And grow perforce acquainted with the woe,The strife, the discord of the actual world,And all the ignoble work beneath the sun.'But other feelings occupied my heart,And other words found utterance from my lips,When that day's work was finished, and my feetAgain turned homeward—alteration strangeOf feeling, with a better, humbler mind.For I was thankful now ...... that thus I wasCompelled, as by a gentle violenceNot in the pages of dead books alone,Nor merely in the fair page nature shows,But in the living page of human lifeTo look and learn—not merely left to spinFine webs and woofs around me like the worm,Till in mine own coil I had hid myselfAnd quite shut out the light of common day,And common air by which men breathe and live.It was brought home unto my heart of heartsThere was no doom more pitiable than his,Who at safe distance hears life's stormy waves,Which break for ever on a rugged shore,In which are shipwrecked mariners, for their livesContending some, some momently sucked up,But as a gentle murmur afar offTo soothe his sleep, and lull him in his dreams:Who, while he boasts he has been building upA palace for himself, in sooth has rearedWhat shall be first his prison, then his tomb.R. C. Trench.Anti-Gnosticus.
Who, loving leisure and his studious ease,And books, and what of noblest lore they bring,Will not confess that sometimes, called asideTo humbler work and less delightful tasks,He has been tempted to exclaim in heart—'How pleasant were it might we only dwell,And ever hold sweet converse undisturbedThus with the choicest spirits of the worldIn council, and in letters, and in arms.Easy to live with, always at command,They come at bidding, at our word depart,Friends whose society not ever cloys.Glorious it were by intercourse with theseTo learn whatever men have thought or done,And travel the great orb of knowledge round.But oh! how most unwelcome the constraint,How harsh the summons bidding us to pause,And for a season turn from our high toils,From that serener atmosphere come down,And grow perforce acquainted with the woe,The strife, the discord of the actual world,And all the ignoble work beneath the sun.'
But other feelings occupied my heart,And other words found utterance from my lips,When that day's work was finished, and my feetAgain turned homeward—alteration strangeOf feeling, with a better, humbler mind.For I was thankful now ...... that thus I wasCompelled, as by a gentle violenceNot in the pages of dead books alone,Nor merely in the fair page nature shows,But in the living page of human lifeTo look and learn—not merely left to spinFine webs and woofs around me like the worm,Till in mine own coil I had hid myselfAnd quite shut out the light of common day,And common air by which men breathe and live.
It was brought home unto my heart of heartsThere was no doom more pitiable than his,Who at safe distance hears life's stormy waves,Which break for ever on a rugged shore,In which are shipwrecked mariners, for their livesContending some, some momently sucked up,But as a gentle murmur afar offTo soothe his sleep, and lull him in his dreams:Who, while he boasts he has been building upA palace for himself, in sooth has rearedWhat shall be first his prison, then his tomb.
R. C. Trench.Anti-Gnosticus.
Studious let me sit,And hold high converse with the mighty dead—Sages of ancient time, as gods revered,As gods beneficent, who blessed mankindWith arts and arms, and humanized a world.Roused at the inspiring thought, I throw asideThe long-lived volume.J. Thomson.The Seasons.
Studious let me sit,And hold high converse with the mighty dead—Sages of ancient time, as gods revered,As gods beneficent, who blessed mankindWith arts and arms, and humanized a world.Roused at the inspiring thought, I throw asideThe long-lived volume.
J. Thomson.The Seasons.
If books are only dead things, if they do not speak to one, or answer one when one speaks to them, if they have nothing to do with the common things that we are busy with—with the sky over our head, and the ground under our feet—I think that they had better stay on the shelves.... What I regret is that many of us spend much of our time in reading books, and in talking of books—that we like nothing worse than the reputation of being indifferent to them, and nothing better than the reputation of knowing a great deal about them; and yet that, after all, we do not know them in the same way as we know our fellow-creatures, not even in the way we know any dumb animal that we walk with or play with. This is a great misfortune, in my opinion, and one which I am afraid is increasing as what we call'the taste for literature' increases. It is very pleasant to think in what distant parts of the earth it [the English language] is spoken, and that in all those parts these books which are friends of ours are acknowledged as friends. And there is a living and productive power in them. They have produced an American literature, which is coming back to instruct us. They will produce by and by an Australian literature, which will be worth all the gold that is sent to us from the diggings.—F. D. Maurice.The Friendship of Books.
In modern times instruction is communicated chiefly by means of Books. Books are no doubt very useful helps to knowledge, and in some measure also, to the practice of useful arts and accomplishments, but they are not, in any case, the primary and natural sources of culture, and, in my opinion, their virtue is not a little apt to be overrated, even in those branches of acquirement where they seem most indispensable. They are not creative powers in any sense; they are merely helps, instruments, tools; and even as tools they are only artificial tools, superadded to those with which the wise prevision of Nature has equipped us, like telescopes and microscopes, whose assistance in many researches reveals unimagined wonders, but the use of which should never tempt us to undervalue or to neglect the exercise of our own eyes. The original and proper sources of knowledge are not books, but life, experience, personal thinking, feeling, and acting. When a man starts with these, books can fill up many gaps, correct much that is inaccurate, and extend much that is inadequate; but, without living experience to work on, books are like rain and sunshine fallen on unbroken soil.—J. S. Blackie.On Self-culture.
How well he's read, to reason against reading!
W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
This plodding occupation of books is as painful as any other, and as great an enemy unto health, which ought principally to be considered. And a man should not suffer himself to be inveigled by the pleasure he takes in them.... Books are delightful; but if by continual frequenting them, we in the end lose both health and cheerfulness (our best parts) let us leave them. I am one of those who think their fruit can no way countervail this loss.... As for me, I love no books but such as are pleasant and easy, and which tickle me, or such as comfort or counsel me, to direct my life and death....
If any say to me, It is a kind of vilifying the Muses to use them only for sport and recreation, he wots not as I do, what worth, pleasure, sport, and pastime is of: I had well nigh termed all other ends ridiculous. I live from hand to mouth, and, with reverence be it spoken, I live but to myself: there end all my designs. Being young I studied for ostentation; then a little to enable myself and become wiser; now for delight and recreation, never for gain.... Books have and contain divers pleasing qualities to those that can duly choose them. But no good without pains; no roses without prickles. It is a pleasure not absolutely pure and neat; no more than all others; it hath his inconveniences attending on it, and sometimes weighty ones: the mind is therein exercised, but the body (the care whereof I have not yet forgotten) remaineth there—whilst without action, and is wasted, and ensorrowed. I know no excess more hurtful for me, nor more to be avoided by me, in this declining age.—Montaigne.