A precious treasure had I long possessed,A little yellow, canvas-covered book,A slender abstract of the Arabian Tales;And, from companions in a new abode,When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mineWas but a block hewn from a mighty quarry—That there were four large volumes, laden allWith kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth,A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly,With one not richer than myself, I madeA covenant that each should lay asideThe moneys he possessed, and hoard up more,Till our joint savings had amassed enoughTo make this book our own. Through several months,In spite of all temptations, we preservedReligiously that vow; but firmness failed,Nor were we ever masters of our wish.And when thereafter to my father's houseThe holidays returned me, there to findThat golden store of books which I had left,What joy was mine! How often in the courseOf those glad respites, though a soft west windRuffled the waters to the angler's wish,For a whole day together, have I lainDown by thy side, O Derwent! murmuring stream,On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun,And there have read, devouring as I read,Defrauding the day's glory, desperate!Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach,Such as an idler deals with in his shame,I to the sport betook myself again.A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides,And o'er the heart of man: invisiblyIt comes, to works of unreproved delight,And tendency benign, directing thoseWho care not, know not, think not what they do.The tales that charm away the wakeful nightIn Araby, romances; legends pennedFor solace by dim light of monkish lamps;Fictions, for ladies of their love, devisedBy youthful squires; adventures endless, spunBy the dismantled warrior in old age,Out of the bowels of those very schemesIn which his youth did first extravagate;These spread like day, and something in the shapeOf these will live till man shall be no more.Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,Andthey musthave their food. Our childhood sits,Our simple childhood, sits upon a throneThat hath more power than all the elements.I guess not what this tells of Being past,Nor what it augurs of the life to come;But so it is, and, in that dubious hour,That twilight when we first begin to seeThis dawning earth, to recognise, expect,And, in the long probation that ensues,The time of trial, ere we learn to liveIn reconcilement with our stinted powers;To endure this state of meagre vassalage,Unwilling to forgo, confess, submit,Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellowsTo custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamedAnd humbled down;—oh! then we feel, we feel,We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then,Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then,Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the apePhilosophy will call you:thenwe feelWith what, and how great might ye are in league,Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed,An empire, a possession,—ye whom timeAnd seasons serve; all Faculties to whomEarth crouches, the elements are potter's clay,Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights,Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once.W. Wordsworth.The Prelude.
A precious treasure had I long possessed,A little yellow, canvas-covered book,A slender abstract of the Arabian Tales;And, from companions in a new abode,When first I learnt, that this dear prize of mineWas but a block hewn from a mighty quarry—That there were four large volumes, laden allWith kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth,A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly,With one not richer than myself, I madeA covenant that each should lay asideThe moneys he possessed, and hoard up more,Till our joint savings had amassed enoughTo make this book our own. Through several months,In spite of all temptations, we preservedReligiously that vow; but firmness failed,Nor were we ever masters of our wish.
And when thereafter to my father's houseThe holidays returned me, there to findThat golden store of books which I had left,What joy was mine! How often in the courseOf those glad respites, though a soft west windRuffled the waters to the angler's wish,For a whole day together, have I lainDown by thy side, O Derwent! murmuring stream,On the hot stones, and in the glaring sun,And there have read, devouring as I read,Defrauding the day's glory, desperate!Till with a sudden bound of smart reproach,Such as an idler deals with in his shame,I to the sport betook myself again.
A gracious spirit o'er this earth presides,And o'er the heart of man: invisiblyIt comes, to works of unreproved delight,And tendency benign, directing thoseWho care not, know not, think not what they do.The tales that charm away the wakeful nightIn Araby, romances; legends pennedFor solace by dim light of monkish lamps;Fictions, for ladies of their love, devisedBy youthful squires; adventures endless, spunBy the dismantled warrior in old age,Out of the bowels of those very schemesIn which his youth did first extravagate;These spread like day, and something in the shapeOf these will live till man shall be no more.
Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours,Andthey musthave their food. Our childhood sits,Our simple childhood, sits upon a throneThat hath more power than all the elements.I guess not what this tells of Being past,Nor what it augurs of the life to come;But so it is, and, in that dubious hour,That twilight when we first begin to seeThis dawning earth, to recognise, expect,And, in the long probation that ensues,The time of trial, ere we learn to liveIn reconcilement with our stinted powers;To endure this state of meagre vassalage,Unwilling to forgo, confess, submit,Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellowsTo custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamedAnd humbled down;—oh! then we feel, we feel,We know where we have friends. Ye dreamers, then,Forgers of daring tales! we bless you then,Impostors, drivellers, dotards, as the apePhilosophy will call you:thenwe feelWith what, and how great might ye are in league,Who make our wish, our power, our thought a deed,An empire, a possession,—ye whom timeAnd seasons serve; all Faculties to whomEarth crouches, the elements are potter's clay,Space like a heaven filled up with northern lights,Here, nowhere, there, and everywhere at once.
W. Wordsworth.The Prelude.
In verse alone I ran not wildWhen I was hardly more than child,Contented with the native layOf Pope or Prior, Swift or Gay,Or Goldsmith, or that graver bardWho led me to the lone churchyard.Then listened I to Spenser's strain,Till Chaucer's Canterbury trainCame trooping past, and carried meIn more congenial company.Soon my soul was hurried o'erThis bright scene: the 'solemn roar'Of organ, under Milton's hand,Struck me mute: he bade me standWhere none other ambled near....I obeyed, with love and fear.W. S. Landor.
In verse alone I ran not wildWhen I was hardly more than child,Contented with the native layOf Pope or Prior, Swift or Gay,Or Goldsmith, or that graver bardWho led me to the lone churchyard.Then listened I to Spenser's strain,Till Chaucer's Canterbury trainCame trooping past, and carried meIn more congenial company.Soon my soul was hurried o'erThis bright scene: the 'solemn roar'Of organ, under Milton's hand,Struck me mute: he bade me standWhere none other ambled near....I obeyed, with love and fear.
W. S. Landor.
Cowley says that even when he was 'a very young boy at school, instead of his running about on holidays, and playing with his fellows, he was wont to steal from them and walk into the fields, either alone with a book, or with some one companion, if he could find one of the same temper'. When I was at school, I had no fields to run into, or I should certainly have gone there; and I must own to having played a great deal; but then I drew my sports as much as possible out of books, playing at Trojan wars, chivalrous encounters with coal-staves, and even at religious mysteries. When I was not at these games I was either reading in a corner, or walking round the cloisters with a book under one arm and my friend linked with the other, or with my thoughts. It has since been my fate to realize all the romantic notions I had of a friend at that time.—J. H. Leigh Hunt.My Books.
Then, above all, we had Walter Scott, the kindly, the generous, the pure—the companion of what countless delightful hours; the purveyor of how much happiness; the friend whom we recall as the constant benefactor of our youth! How well I remember the type and the brownish paper of the old duodecimoTales of My Landlord!... Oh! for a half-holiday, and a quiet corner, and one of those books again! Those books, and perhaps those eyes with which we read them; and, it may be, the brains behind the eyes! It may be the tart was good; but how fresh the appetite was!... The boy critic loves the story; grown up, he loves the author who wrote the story. Hence the kindly tie is established between writer and reader, and lasts pretty nearly for life.—W. M. Thackeray.Roundabout Papers.
My father had left a small collection of books in a little room upstairs, to which I had access (for it adjoined my own), and which nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that blessed little room, Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle, Humphrey Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, and Robinson Crusoe, came out, a glorious host, to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy, and my hope of something beyond that place and time,—they, and the Arabian Nights, and the Tales of the Genii—and did me no harm; for whatever harm was in some of them was not there for me;Iknew nothing of it. It is astonishing to me now, how I found time, in the midst of my porings and blunderings over heavier themes, to read those books as I did. It is curious to me how I could ever have consoled myself under my small troubles (which were great troubles to me), by impersonating my favourite characters in them—as I did—and by putting Mr. and Miss Murdstone into all the bad ones—which I did too. I have been Tom Jones (a child's Tom Jones, a harmless creature) for a week together. I have sustained my own idea of Roderick Random for a month at a stretch, I verily believe. I had a greedy relish for a few volumes of Voyages and Travels—I forget what, now—that were on those shelves; and for days and days I can remember to have gone about my region of our house, armed with the centrepiece out of an old set of boot-trees—the perfect realization of Captain Somebody, of the Royal British Navy, in danger of being beset by savages, and resolved to sell his life at a great price. The Captain never lost dignity, from having his ears boxed with the Latin grammar. I did; but the Captain was a Captain and a hero, in despite of all the grammars of all the languages in the world, dead or alive.
This was my only and my constant comfort. When I think of it, the picture always rises in my mind, of a summer evening, the boys at play in the churchyard, and I sitting on my bed, reading as if for life. Every barn in the neighbourhood, every stone in the church, and every foot of the churchyard, had some association of its own, in my mind, connected with these books, and stood for some locality made famous in them.—C. Dickens.David Copperfield.
Books have in a great measure lost their power over me; nor can I revive the same interest in them as formerly. I perceive when a thing is good, rather than feel it. It is true,
'Marcian Colonna' is a dainty book;
'Marcian Colonna' is a dainty book;
and the reading of Mr. Keats'sEve of St. Agneslately made me regret that I was not young again. The beautiful and tender images there conjured up, 'come like shadows—so depart.' The 'tiger-moth's wings', which he has spread over his rich poetic blazonry, just flit across my fancy; the gorgeous twilight window which he has painted over again in his verse, to me 'blushes' almost in vain 'with blood of queens and kings'. I know how I should have felt at one time in reading such passages; and that is all. The sharp luscious flavour, the finearomais fled, and nothing but the stalk, the bran, the husk of literature is left.—W. Hazlitt.On Reading Old Books.
If thou survive my well-contented day,When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripped by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,Exceeded by the height of happier men.O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:But since he died, and poets better prove,Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'W. Shakespeare.Sonnet XXXII.
If thou survive my well-contented day,When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,And shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceasèd lover,Compare them with the bettering of the time,And though they be outstripped by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rime,Exceeded by the height of happier men.O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:But since he died, and poets better prove,Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
W. Shakespeare.Sonnet XXXII.
I'll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt doTo anger destiny, as she doth us;How I shall stay, though she eloign me thus,And how posterity shall know it too;How thine may out-endureSibyl's glory, and obscureHer who from Pindar could allure,And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame,And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name.Study our manuscripts, those myriadsOf letters, which have passed 'twixt thee and me;Thence write our annals, and in them will beTo all whom love's subliming fire invadesRule and example found;There the faith of any groundNo schismatic will dare to wound,That sees how Love this grace to us affords,To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records.This book, as long-lived as the elements,Or as the world's form, this all-gravèd tomeIn cypher writ, or new-made idiom;We for Love's clergy only are instruments;When this book is made thus,Should again the ravenousVandals and the Goths invade us,Learning were safe; in this our universe,Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse.Here Love's divines—since all divinityIs love or wonder—may find all they seek,Whether abstract spiritual love they like,Their souls exhaled with what they do not see;Or, loth so to amuseFaith's infirmity, they chooseSomething which they may see and use;For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit,Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it.Here more than in their books may lawyers find,Both by what titles mistresses are ours,And how prerogative these states devours,Transferred from Love himself to womankind;Who, though from heart and eyes,They exact great subsidies,Forsake him who on them relies;And for the cause, honour or conscience give;Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative.Here statesmen—or of them, they which can read—May of their occupation find the grounds;Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds,If to consider what 'tis, one proceed.In both they do excel,Who the present govern well,Whose weakness none doth, or dares, tell;In this thy book, such will there something see,As in the Bible some can find out alchemy.Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee,As he removes far off, that great heights takes;How great love is, presence best trial makes,But absence tries how long this love will be;To take a latitudeSun, or stars, are fitliest viewedAt their brightest, but to concludeOf longitudes, what other way have we,But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be?J. Donne.
I'll tell thee now (dear love) what thou shalt doTo anger destiny, as she doth us;How I shall stay, though she eloign me thus,And how posterity shall know it too;How thine may out-endureSibyl's glory, and obscureHer who from Pindar could allure,And her, through whose help Lucan is not lame,And her, whose book (they say) Homer did find, and name.
Study our manuscripts, those myriadsOf letters, which have passed 'twixt thee and me;Thence write our annals, and in them will beTo all whom love's subliming fire invadesRule and example found;There the faith of any groundNo schismatic will dare to wound,That sees how Love this grace to us affords,To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records.
This book, as long-lived as the elements,Or as the world's form, this all-gravèd tomeIn cypher writ, or new-made idiom;We for Love's clergy only are instruments;When this book is made thus,Should again the ravenousVandals and the Goths invade us,Learning were safe; in this our universe,Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse.
Here Love's divines—since all divinityIs love or wonder—may find all they seek,Whether abstract spiritual love they like,Their souls exhaled with what they do not see;Or, loth so to amuseFaith's infirmity, they chooseSomething which they may see and use;For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit,Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it.
Here more than in their books may lawyers find,Both by what titles mistresses are ours,And how prerogative these states devours,Transferred from Love himself to womankind;Who, though from heart and eyes,They exact great subsidies,Forsake him who on them relies;And for the cause, honour or conscience give;Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative.
Here statesmen—or of them, they which can read—May of their occupation find the grounds;Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds,If to consider what 'tis, one proceed.In both they do excel,Who the present govern well,Whose weakness none doth, or dares, tell;In this thy book, such will there something see,As in the Bible some can find out alchemy.
Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee,As he removes far off, that great heights takes;How great love is, presence best trial makes,But absence tries how long this love will be;To take a latitudeSun, or stars, are fitliest viewedAt their brightest, but to concludeOf longitudes, what other way have we,But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be?
J. Donne.
... From the table of my memoryI'll wipe away all trivial fond records,All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,That youth and observation copied there;And thy commandment all alone shall liveWithin the book and volume of my brain.W. Shakespeare.Hamlet.
... From the table of my memoryI'll wipe away all trivial fond records,All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,That youth and observation copied there;And thy commandment all alone shall liveWithin the book and volume of my brain.
W. Shakespeare.Hamlet.
No greater grief than to remember daysOf joy, when misery is at hand. That kensThy learned instructor. Yet so eagerlyIf thou art bent to know the primal root,From whence our love gat being, I will doAs one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day,For our delight we read of Lancelot,How him love thralled. Alone we were, and noSuspicion near us. Oft-times by that readingOur eyes were drawn together, and the hueFled from our altered cheek. But at one pointAlone we fell. When of that smile we read,The wishèd smile so rapturously kissedBy one so deep in love, then he, who ne'erFrom me shall separate, at once my lipsAll trembling kissed. The book and writer bothWere love's purveyors. In its leaves that dayWe read no more.Dante.Inferno.
No greater grief than to remember daysOf joy, when misery is at hand. That kensThy learned instructor. Yet so eagerlyIf thou art bent to know the primal root,From whence our love gat being, I will doAs one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day,For our delight we read of Lancelot,How him love thralled. Alone we were, and noSuspicion near us. Oft-times by that readingOur eyes were drawn together, and the hueFled from our altered cheek. But at one pointAlone we fell. When of that smile we read,The wishèd smile so rapturously kissedBy one so deep in love, then he, who ne'erFrom me shall separate, at once my lipsAll trembling kissed. The book and writer bothWere love's purveyors. In its leaves that dayWe read no more.
Dante.Inferno.
Maiden of Padua, on thy lapThus lightly let the volume lie;And as within some pictured mapFair isles and waters we descry,Trace out, with white and gliding finger,Along the truth-illumined page,Its golden lines and words that lingerIn memory's cell, from youth to age.The young Preceptor at thy sideHad pupil ne'er before so fair;And though that scholar be thy guide,He sits that fellow-learner there.As every page unfolds its meaning,As every rustling leaf turns o'er,He finds, whilst o'er thy studies leaning,Beauty where all was dull before.Familiar is the book to him,A record of heroic deed;Yet deems he now his eyes were dim,And thine have taught them first to read.Now fades in him the scholar's glory;For he would give the fame he sought,With thee to read the simplest story,And learn what sages never taught.The precious wealth of countless books,Lies stowed within his grasping mind;Yet should he not peruse thy looks,He now were more than Ignorance blind.From many a language, old, enchanting,Rare truths to nations he enrolls;But one old language yet was wanting,The one you teach him—tis the soul's.Full long this lesson, Pupil fair!All pupils else hath he forsook;He draws still nearer to thy chair,And bends yet closer o'er the book.As time flies on, now fast, now fleeter,More slowly is the page turned o'er;The lesson seems to both the sweeter,And more enchanting grows the lore.The book now yields a tenderer theme;The Master loses all his art,The Pupil droops as in a dream,And both are reading with one heart.His eyes upraised a moment glistenWith hope, and joy, and fear profound;While thine, oh, Maiden! do theylisten?They seem tohearhis sigh's faint sound.But hark! what sound indeed breaks throughThe silence of that life-long hour!Melodious tinklings, such as sueFor favour near a lady's bower.Ah! Maid of Padua, music swellingIn tribute to thy radiant charms,Now greets thee in thy father's dwelling,To woo thee from a father's arms.The suitor comes with song and lute,Youth, riches, pleasures, round him wait;Go bid him, Paduan Maid, be mute,Thy lot is cast, he comes too late!One lesson given, and one received,The Book prevails, the Lute's denied;With love thy inmost heart has heaved,And thou shalt be a student's bride.S. Laman Blanchard.
Maiden of Padua, on thy lapThus lightly let the volume lie;And as within some pictured mapFair isles and waters we descry,Trace out, with white and gliding finger,Along the truth-illumined page,Its golden lines and words that lingerIn memory's cell, from youth to age.
The young Preceptor at thy sideHad pupil ne'er before so fair;And though that scholar be thy guide,He sits that fellow-learner there.As every page unfolds its meaning,As every rustling leaf turns o'er,He finds, whilst o'er thy studies leaning,Beauty where all was dull before.
Familiar is the book to him,A record of heroic deed;Yet deems he now his eyes were dim,And thine have taught them first to read.Now fades in him the scholar's glory;For he would give the fame he sought,With thee to read the simplest story,And learn what sages never taught.
The precious wealth of countless books,Lies stowed within his grasping mind;Yet should he not peruse thy looks,He now were more than Ignorance blind.From many a language, old, enchanting,Rare truths to nations he enrolls;But one old language yet was wanting,The one you teach him—tis the soul's.
Full long this lesson, Pupil fair!All pupils else hath he forsook;He draws still nearer to thy chair,And bends yet closer o'er the book.As time flies on, now fast, now fleeter,More slowly is the page turned o'er;The lesson seems to both the sweeter,And more enchanting grows the lore.
The book now yields a tenderer theme;The Master loses all his art,The Pupil droops as in a dream,And both are reading with one heart.His eyes upraised a moment glistenWith hope, and joy, and fear profound;While thine, oh, Maiden! do theylisten?They seem tohearhis sigh's faint sound.
But hark! what sound indeed breaks throughThe silence of that life-long hour!Melodious tinklings, such as sueFor favour near a lady's bower.Ah! Maid of Padua, music swellingIn tribute to thy radiant charms,Now greets thee in thy father's dwelling,To woo thee from a father's arms.
The suitor comes with song and lute,Youth, riches, pleasures, round him wait;Go bid him, Paduan Maid, be mute,Thy lot is cast, he comes too late!One lesson given, and one received,The Book prevails, the Lute's denied;With love thy inmost heart has heaved,And thou shalt be a student's bride.
S. Laman Blanchard.
Cadenus many things had writ:Vanessa much esteemed his wit,And called for his Poetic Works:Meantime the boy in secret lurks;And, while the book was in her hand,The urchin from his private standTook aim, and shot with all his strengthA dart of such prodigious length,It pierced the feeble volume through,And deep transfixed her bosom too.Some lines, more moving than the rest,Stuck to the point that pierced her breast,And, borne directly to her heart,With pains unknown increased her smart.J. Swift.Cadenus and Vanessa.
Cadenus many things had writ:Vanessa much esteemed his wit,And called for his Poetic Works:Meantime the boy in secret lurks;And, while the book was in her hand,The urchin from his private standTook aim, and shot with all his strengthA dart of such prodigious length,It pierced the feeble volume through,And deep transfixed her bosom too.Some lines, more moving than the rest,Stuck to the point that pierced her breast,And, borne directly to her heart,With pains unknown increased her smart.
J. Swift.Cadenus and Vanessa.
O! LET my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast.W. Shakespeare.Sonnet XXIII.
O! LET my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast.
W. Shakespeare.Sonnet XXIII.
Happy, ye leaves, when as those lily hands,Which hold my life in their dead doing might,Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.And happy lines on which, with starry light,Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,And read the sorrows of my dying spright,Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brookOf Helicon, whence she derivèd is,When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look,My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss.Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,Whom if ye please, I care for other none.E.Spenser.Amoretti.
Happy, ye leaves, when as those lily hands,Which hold my life in their dead doing might,Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands,Like captives trembling at the victor's sight.And happy lines on which, with starry light,Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look,And read the sorrows of my dying spright,Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book.And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brookOf Helicon, whence she derivèd is,When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look,My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss.Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone,Whom if ye please, I care for other none.
E.Spenser.Amoretti.
And this fair course of knowledge whereuntoYour studies, learned Lady, are addressed,Is the only certain way that you can goUnto true glory, to true happiness:All passages on earth besides, are soIncumbered with such vain disturbances;As still we lose our rest in seeking it,Being but deluded with appearances;And no key had you else that was so fitTo unlock that prison of your sex, as this;To let you out of weakness, and admitYour powers into the freedom of that blissThat sets you there where you may overseeThis rolling world, and view it as it is;And apprehend how the outsides do agreeWith the inward being of the things we deemAnd hold in our ill-cast accounts, to beOf highest value and of best esteem;Since all the good we have rests in the mind,By whose proportions only we redeemOur thoughts from out confusion, and do findThe measure of our selves, and of our powers.And though 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 wayWhere judgement lies: and though we cannot findThe certain place of truth, yet do they stayAnd entertain us near about the same;And give the soul the best delight that mayEncheer it most, and most our spirits inflameTo thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends.S. Daniel.
And this fair course of knowledge whereuntoYour studies, learned Lady, are addressed,Is the only certain way that you can goUnto true glory, to true happiness:All passages on earth besides, are soIncumbered with such vain disturbances;As still we lose our rest in seeking it,Being but deluded with appearances;And no key had you else that was so fitTo unlock that prison of your sex, as this;To let you out of weakness, and admitYour powers into the freedom of that blissThat sets you there where you may overseeThis rolling world, and view it as it is;And apprehend how the outsides do agreeWith the inward being of the things we deemAnd hold in our ill-cast accounts, to beOf highest value and of best esteem;Since all the good we have rests in the mind,By whose proportions only we redeemOur thoughts from out confusion, and do findThe measure of our selves, and of our powers.
And though 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 wayWhere judgement lies: and though we cannot findThe certain place of truth, yet do they stayAnd entertain us near about the same;And give the soul the best delight that mayEncheer it most, and most our spirits inflameTo thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends.
S. Daniel.
There's a lady for my humour!A pretty book of flesh and blood, and wellBound up, in a fair letter, too. Would IHad her, with all the Errata.First I would marry her, that's a verb material,Then I would print her with anindexExpurgatorius; a table drawnOf her court heresies; and when she's read,Cum privilegio, who dares call her wanton?J. Shirley.The Cardinal.
There's a lady for my humour!A pretty book of flesh and blood, and wellBound up, in a fair letter, too. Would IHad her, with all the Errata.
First I would marry her, that's a verb material,Then I would print her with anindexExpurgatorius; a table drawnOf her court heresies; and when she's read,Cum privilegio, who dares call her wanton?
J. Shirley.The Cardinal.
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain, and nourish all the world.W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain, and nourish all the world.
W. Shakespeare.Love's Labour's Lost.
My only booksWere woman's looks,—And folly's all they've taught me.T. Moore.
My only booksWere woman's looks,—And folly's all they've taught me.
T. Moore.
Back to thy books! The swift hours spent in vainAre flown and gone:Thou hast no charm to lure them, or regainWhat loss hath won.Up from thy sleep! The dream of idle love,So frail and fair,Hath vanished, and its golden wings aboveMelt in mid air.Stand not, nor gaze astonied at the skies,Serenely cold:They have no answer for thine eager eyes;Thy tale is told.Fool, in all folly cradled, swathed from sense,To trust a toy;To purchase from pronounced indifferenceA shallow joy;To leave thy studious native heights untrodFor that low soil,Where momentary blossoms deck the sod;To pant and toilIn hungry chasings of the painted fly,That fluttered past—Back to thy summits, where what cannot dieSurvives the blast!There, throned in solitary calm, forgetWho wrung thy heart:Long hours and days of silent years may yetRestore a partOf that large heritage and realm sublime,Which, love-elate,Thou fain would'st barter for the fields that timeMakes desolate.J. A. Symonds.
Back to thy books! The swift hours spent in vainAre flown and gone:Thou hast no charm to lure them, or regainWhat loss hath won.
Up from thy sleep! The dream of idle love,So frail and fair,Hath vanished, and its golden wings aboveMelt in mid air.
Stand not, nor gaze astonied at the skies,Serenely cold:They have no answer for thine eager eyes;Thy tale is told.
Fool, in all folly cradled, swathed from sense,To trust a toy;To purchase from pronounced indifferenceA shallow joy;
To leave thy studious native heights untrodFor that low soil,Where momentary blossoms deck the sod;To pant and toil
In hungry chasings of the painted fly,That fluttered past—Back to thy summits, where what cannot dieSurvives the blast!
There, throned in solitary calm, forgetWho wrung thy heart:Long hours and days of silent years may yetRestore a part
Of that large heritage and realm sublime,Which, love-elate,Thou fain would'st barter for the fields that timeMakes desolate.
J. A. Symonds.
A student, at his book so placedThat wealth he might have won,From book to wife did flit in haste,From wealth to woe to run.Now, who hath played a feater cast,Since juggling first begun?Inknittingof himself sofast,Himself he hathundone.Sir T. More(?)
A student, at his book so placedThat wealth he might have won,From book to wife did flit in haste,From wealth to woe to run.Now, who hath played a feater cast,Since juggling first begun?Inknittingof himself sofast,Himself he hathundone.
Sir T. More(?)
I understand with a deep sense of sorrow of the indisposition of your Son: I fear he hath too muchmindfor hisbody, and that superabounds with fancy, which brings him to these fits of distemper, proceeding from the black humour of melancholy: moreover, I have observed that he is too much given to his study and self-society, 'specially to converse with dead men, I mean Books: you know anything in excess is naught. Now, sir, were I worthy to give you advice, I could wish he were well married, and it may wean him from that bookish and thoughtful humour.—J. Howell.Familiar Letters.
Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young,And fitter is my study and my booksThan wanton dalliance with a paramour.W. Shakespeare.First Part of King Henry the Sixth.
Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young,And fitter is my study and my booksThan wanton dalliance with a paramour.
W. Shakespeare.First Part of King Henry the Sixth.
I do not know that I am happiest when alone; but this I am sure of, that I am never long even in the society of her I love without a yearning for the company of my lamp and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library.—G. Gordon, Lord Byron.
So have I known a hopeful youthSit down in quest of lore and truth,With tomes sufficient to confound him,Like Tohu Bohu, heaped around him,—Mamurra stuck to Theophrastus,And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.When lo! while all that's learned and wiseAbsorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes,And through the window of his studyBeholds some damsel fair and ruddy,With eyes, as brightly turned upon him asThe angel's were on Hieronymus.Quick fly the folios, widely scattered,Old Homer's laurelled brow is battered,And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just inThe reverend eye of St. Augustin.Raptured he quits each dozing sage,Oh woman, for thy lovelier page:Sweet book!—unlike the books of art,—Whose errors are thy fairest part:In whom the dear errata columnIs the best page in all the volume!T. Moore.The Devil among the Scholars.
So have I known a hopeful youthSit down in quest of lore and truth,With tomes sufficient to confound him,Like Tohu Bohu, heaped around him,—Mamurra stuck to Theophrastus,And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus.When lo! while all that's learned and wiseAbsorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes,And through the window of his studyBeholds some damsel fair and ruddy,With eyes, as brightly turned upon him asThe angel's were on Hieronymus.Quick fly the folios, widely scattered,Old Homer's laurelled brow is battered,And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just inThe reverend eye of St. Augustin.Raptured he quits each dozing sage,Oh woman, for thy lovelier page:Sweet book!—unlike the books of art,—Whose errors are thy fairest part:In whom the dear errata columnIs the best page in all the volume!
T. Moore.The Devil among the Scholars.
Some Verses, written in September, 1676, on presenting a Book.
Go, humble gift, go to that matchless saint,Of whom thou only wast a copy meant:And all, that's read in thee, more richly findComprised in the fair volume of her mind;That living system, where are fully writAll those high morals, which in books we meet:Easy, as in soft air, there writ they are,Yet firm, as if in brass they graven were.J. Oldham.
Go, humble gift, go to that matchless saint,Of whom thou only wast a copy meant:And all, that's read in thee, more richly findComprised in the fair volume of her mind;That living system, where are fully writAll those high morals, which in books we meet:Easy, as in soft air, there writ they are,Yet firm, as if in brass they graven were.
J. Oldham.
Lo, here a little volume, but great book!A nest of new-born sweets,Whose native fires disdainingTo be thus folded, and complainingOf these ignoble sheets,Affect more comely bands,Fair one, from thy kind hands,And confidently lookTo find the restOf a rich binding in your breast!It is in one choice handful, heaven; and allHeaven's royal host; encamped thus smallTo prove that true, schools use to tell,A thousand angels in one point can dwell.It is love's great artillery,Which here contracts itself, and comes to lieClose couched in your white bosom; and from thence,As from a snowy fortress of defence,Against your ghostly foes to take your part,And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.It is an armoury of light;Let constant use but keep it bright,You'll find it yieldsTo holy hands and humble heartsMore swords and shieldsThan sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.Only be sureThe hands be pureThat hold these weapons, and the eyesThose of turtles, chaste and true,Wakeful, and wise;Here is a friend shall fight for you;Hold but this book before your heart,Let prayer alone to play his part.R. Crashaw.
Lo, here a little volume, but great book!A nest of new-born sweets,Whose native fires disdainingTo be thus folded, and complainingOf these ignoble sheets,Affect more comely bands,Fair one, from thy kind hands,And confidently lookTo find the restOf a rich binding in your breast!
It is in one choice handful, heaven; and allHeaven's royal host; encamped thus smallTo prove that true, schools use to tell,A thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is love's great artillery,Which here contracts itself, and comes to lieClose couched in your white bosom; and from thence,As from a snowy fortress of defence,Against your ghostly foes to take your part,And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is an armoury of light;Let constant use but keep it bright,You'll find it yieldsTo holy hands and humble heartsMore swords and shieldsThan sin hath snares, or hell hath darts.Only be sureThe hands be pureThat hold these weapons, and the eyesThose of turtles, chaste and true,Wakeful, and wise;Here is a friend shall fight for you;Hold but this book before your heart,Let prayer alone to play his part.
R. Crashaw.
Know you, fair, on what you look?Divinest love lies in this book:Expecting fire from your fair eyes,To kindle this his sacrifice.When your hands untie these strings,Think, you've an angel by the wings;One that gladly would be nigh,To wait upon each morning sigh;To flutter in the balmy airOf your well-perfumed prayer;These white plumes of his he'll lend you,Which every day to heaven will send you:To take acquaintance of each sphere,And all your smooth-faced kindred there.And though Herbert's name do oweThese devotions, fairest, knowWhile I thus lay them on the shrineOf your white hand, they are mine.R. Crashaw.
Know you, fair, on what you look?Divinest love lies in this book:Expecting fire from your fair eyes,To kindle this his sacrifice.When your hands untie these strings,Think, you've an angel by the wings;One that gladly would be nigh,To wait upon each morning sigh;To flutter in the balmy airOf your well-perfumed prayer;
These white plumes of his he'll lend you,Which every day to heaven will send you:To take acquaintance of each sphere,And all your smooth-faced kindred there.And though Herbert's name do oweThese devotions, fairest, knowWhile I thus lay them on the shrineOf your white hand, they are mine.
R. Crashaw.
Written in the first leaf of Keble'sChristian Year, a birthday Present.
My Helen, for its golden fraughtOf prayer and praise, of dream and thought,Where Poesy finds fitting voiceFor all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice,Long have I loved, and studied long,The pious minstrel's varied song.Whence is the volume dearer now?There gleams a smile upon your brow,Wherein, methinks, I read how wellYou guess the reason, ere I tell,Which makes to me the single rhymesMore prized, more conned, a hundred times.Ere vanished quite the dread and doubtAffection ne'er was born without,Found we not here a magic keyOpening thy secret soul to me?Found we not here a mystic signInterpreting thy heart to mine?What sympathies up-springing fastThrough all the future, all the past,In tenderest links began to bindSpirit to spirit, mind to mind,As we, together wandering o'erThe little volume's precious store,Mused, with alternate smile and tear,On the high themes awakened hereOf fervent hope, of calm belief,Of cheering joy, of chastening grief,The trials borne, the sins forgiven,The task on earth, the meed in heaven.My Own! oh surely from aboveWas shed that confidence of love,Which in such happy moments nurstWhen soul with soul had converse first,Now through the snares and storms of lifeBlesses the husband and the wife!W. M. Praed.
My Helen, for its golden fraughtOf prayer and praise, of dream and thought,Where Poesy finds fitting voiceFor all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice,Long have I loved, and studied long,The pious minstrel's varied song.
Whence is the volume dearer now?There gleams a smile upon your brow,Wherein, methinks, I read how wellYou guess the reason, ere I tell,Which makes to me the single rhymesMore prized, more conned, a hundred times.
Ere vanished quite the dread and doubtAffection ne'er was born without,Found we not here a magic keyOpening thy secret soul to me?Found we not here a mystic signInterpreting thy heart to mine?
What sympathies up-springing fastThrough all the future, all the past,In tenderest links began to bindSpirit to spirit, mind to mind,As we, together wandering o'erThe little volume's precious store,
Mused, with alternate smile and tear,On the high themes awakened hereOf fervent hope, of calm belief,Of cheering joy, of chastening grief,The trials borne, the sins forgiven,The task on earth, the meed in heaven.
My Own! oh surely from aboveWas shed that confidence of love,Which in such happy moments nurstWhen soul with soul had converse first,Now through the snares and storms of lifeBlesses the husband and the wife!
W. M. Praed.
Little volume, warm with wishes,Fear not brows that never frown!After Byron's peppery dishesMatho's mild skim-milk goes down.Change she wants not, self-concentered,She whom Attic graces please,She whose Genius never enteredLiterature's gin-palaces.W. S. Landor.
Little volume, warm with wishes,Fear not brows that never frown!After Byron's peppery dishesMatho's mild skim-milk goes down.
Change she wants not, self-concentered,She whom Attic graces please,She whose Genius never enteredLiterature's gin-palaces.
W. S. Landor.
Hear them [books] speak for themselves.... 'We are expelled with heart and hand from the domiciles of the clergy, apportioned to us by hereditary right, in some interior chamber of which we had our peaceful cells: but, to their shame, in these nefarious times we are altogether banished to suffer opprobrium out of doors; our places, moreover, are occupied by hounds and hawks, and sometimes by a biped beast; woman to wit,—whose cohabitation was formerly shunned by the clergy, from whom we have ever taught our pupils to fly, more than from the asp and the basilisk; wherefore this beast, ever jealous of our studies, and at all times implacable, spying us at last in a corner, protected only by the web of some long-deceased spider, drawing her forehead into wrinkles, laughs us to scorn, abuses us in virulent speeches, points us out as the only superfluous furniture lodged in the whole house; complains that we are useless for any purpose of domestic economy whatever, and recommends our being bartered away forthwith for costly head-dresses, cambric, silk, twice-dipped purple garments, woollen, linen, and furs.'—R. de Bury.Philobiblon.
I beheld a female form, with mob-cap, bib, and apron, sleeves tucked up to the elbow, a dredging-box in the one hand, and in the other a sauce-ladle. I concluded, of course, that it was my friend's cook-maid walking in her sleep; and as I knew he had a value for Sally, who could toss a pancake with any girl in the country, I got up to conduct her safely to the door. But as I approached her, she said,—'Hold, sir! I am not what you take me for;'—words which seemed so apposite to the circumstances that I should not have much minded them, had it not been for the peculiarly hollow sound in which they were uttered. 'Know, then,' she said, in the same unearthly accents, 'that I am the spirit of Betty Barnes.'—'Who hanged herself for love of the stage-coachman,' thought I; 'this is a very proper spot of work!'—'Of that unhappy Elizabethor Betty Barnes, long cook-maid to Mr. Warburton, the painful collector, but ah! the too careless custodier, of the largest collection of ancient plays ever known—of most of which the titles only are left to gladden the Prolegomena of the Variorum Shakespeare. Yes, stranger, it was these ill-fated hands that consigned to grease and conflagration the scores of small quartos, which, did they now exist, would drive the whole Roxburghe Club out of their senses—it was these unhappy pickers and stealers that singed fat fowls and wiped dirty trenchers with the lost works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jonson, Webster—what shall I say?—even of Shakespeare himself!'—Sir W. Scott.Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel.
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 enjoyment, 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, sad stuff, are the titles you give to my favourite amusement. 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 would be very ill received. We have all our playthings; 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 least productive of ill consequences. I think my timebetter employed in reading the adventures of imaginary people, than the Duchess of Marlborough's, 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 disappointed 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 would 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 would 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 judgement, 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 very desirable ends.—Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.Letters.