A GREAT BOOK IS A GREAT EVIL (continued 2)

So whan I saw I might not slepe, Til now late, this other night, Upon my bedde I sat upright, And bad oon reche me a book, A romaunce, and he hit me took To rede and dryve the night away; For me thoghte it better play Than playen either at chesse or tables. G. Chaucer. The Book of the Duchesse.

O for a Booke and a shadie nooke, Eyther in-a-doore or out, With the greene leaves whisp'ring overhede, Or the Streete cryes all about, Where I may Reade all at my ease, Both of the Newe and Olde, For a jollie goode Booke whereon to looke, Is better to me than golde. J. Wilson.

Than mote we to bokes that we finde, Through which that olde thinges been in minde, And to the doctrine of these olde wyse, Yeven credence, in every skilful wyse, And trowen on these olde aproved stories Of holinesse, of regnes, of victories, Of love, of hate, of other sundry thinges, Of whiche I may not maken rehersinges. And if that olde bokes were a-weye, Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye. Wel oghte us than on olde bokes leve, Ther-as ther is non other assay by preve. And, as for me, though that my wit be lyte, On bokes for to rede I me delyte, And in myn herte have hem in reverence; And to hem yeve swich lust and swich credence, That ther is wel unethe game noon That from my bokes make me to goon, But hit be other up-on the haly-day, Or elles in the joly tyme of May; Whan that I here the smale foules singe, And that the floures ginne for to springe, Farwel my studie, as lasting that sesoun! G. Chaucer. The Legend of Good Women.

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; Or surely you'll grow double: Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow. Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it. And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your Teacher. She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness. One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. Sweet is the love which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:— We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art; Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives. W. Wordsworth.

Take me to some still abode, Underneath some woody hill; By some timber-skirted road, By some willow-shaded rill; Where along the rocky brook Flying echoes sweetly sound, And the hoarsely-croaking rook Builds upon the trees around. Take me to some lofty room Lighted from the western sky, Where no glare dispels the gloom Till the golden eve is nigh, Where the works of searching thought, Chosen books, may still impart What the wise of old have taught, What has tried the meek of heart. Books in long-dead tongues, that stirred Living hearts in other climes; Telling to my eyes, unheard, Glorious deeds of olden times. Books that purify the thought, Spirits of the learned dead, Teachers of the little taught, Comforters when friends are fled. W. Barnes.

Summer fading, winter comes— Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs, Window robins, winter rooks, And the picture story-books. Water now is turned to stone Nurse and I can walk upon; Still we find the flowing brooks In the picture story-books. All the pretty things put by, Wait upon the children's eye, Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks, In the picture story-books. We may see how all things are, Seas and cities, near and far, And the flying fairies' looks In the picture story-books. How am I to sing your praise, Happy chimney-corner days, Sitting safe in nursery nooks, Reading picture story-books? R. L. Stevenson. A Child's Garden of Verses.

Hail! ancient Book, most venerable code! Learning's first cradle, and its last abode! The huge unnumbered volumes which we see, By lazy plagiaries are stolen from thee. Yet future times, to thy sufficient store, Shall ne'er presume to add one letter more. Thee will I sing, in comely wainscoat bound, And golden verge enclosing thee around; The faithful horn before, from age to age, Preserving thy invaluable page; Behind, thy patron saint in armour shines, With sword and lance, to guard thy sacred lines: Beneath his courser's feet the dragon lies Transfixed; his blood thy scarlet cover dyes; The instructive handle's at the bottom fixed, Lest wrangling critics should pervert the text. Or if to ginger-bread thou shalt descend, And liquorish learning to thy babes extend; Or sugared plane, o'erspread with beaten gold, Does the sweet treasure of thy letters hold; Thou still shalt be my song—Apollo's choir I scorn to invoke; Cadmus my verse inspire: 'Twas Cadmus who the first materials brought Of all the learning which has since been taught, Soon made complete! for mortals ne'er shall know More than contained of old the Christ-cross row; What masters dictate, or what doctors preach, Wise matrons hence e'en to our children teach: But as the name of every plant and flower (So common that each peasant knows its power) Physicians in mysterious cant express, To amuse the patient, and enhance their fees; So from the letters of our native tongue, Put in Greek scrawls, a mystery too is sprung, Schools are erected, puzzling grammars made, And artful men strike out a gainful trade; Strange characters adorn the learned gate, And heedless youth catch at the shining bait; The pregnant boys the noisy charms declare, And Tau's and Delta's, make their mothers stare; The uncommon sounds amaze the vulgar ear, And what's uncommon never costs too dear. Yet in all tongues the Horn-book is the same, Taught by the Grecian master, or the English dame. But how shall I thy endless virtues tell, In which thou durst all other books excel? No greasy thumbs thy spotless leaf can soil, Nor crooked dog-ears thy smooth corners spoil; In idle pages no errata stand, To tell the blunders of the printer's hand: No fulsome dedication here is writ, Nor flattering verse, to praise the author's wit: The margin with no tedious notes is vexed, Nor various readings to confound the text: All parties in thy literal sense agree, Thou perfect centre of concordancy! Search we the records of an ancient date, Or read what modern histories relate, They all proclaim what wonders have been done By the plain letters taken as they run: 'Too high the floods of passion used to roll, And rend the Roman youth's impatient soul; His hasty anger furnished scenes of blood, And frequent deaths of worthy men ensued: In vain were all the weaker methods tried, None could suffice to stem the furious tide, Thy sacred line he did but once repeat, And laid the storm, and cooled the raging heat.' Thy heavenly notes, like angels' music, cheer Departing souls, and soothe the dying ear. An aged peasant, on his latest bed, Wished for a friend some godly book to read: The pious grandson thy known handle takes, And (eyes lift up) this savoury lecture makes: 'Great A,' he gravely read: the important sound The empty walls and hollow roof rebound: The expiring ancient reared his drooping head, And thanked his stars that Hodge had learned to read. 'Great B,' the younker bawls; O heavenly breath! What ghostly comforts in the hour of death! What hopes I feel! 'Great C,' pronounced the boy; The grandsire dies with ecstasy of joy. Yet in some lands such ignorance abounds, Whole parishes scarce know thy useful sounds. Of Essex hundreds Fame gives this report, But Fame, I ween, says many things in sport. Scarce lives the man to whom thou'rt quite unknown, Though few the extent of thy vast Empire own. Whatever wonders magic spells can do On earth, in air, in sea, in shades below; What words profound and dark wise Mahomet spoke, When his old cow an angel's figure took; What strong enchantments sage Canidia knew, Or Horace sung, fierce monsters to subdue, O mighty Book, are all contained in you! All human arts, and every science meet, Within the limits of thy single sheet: From thy vast root all learning's branches grow, And all her streams from thy deep fountain flow. And, lo! while thus thy wonders I indite, Inspired I feel the power of which I write; The gentler gout his former rage forgets, Less frequent now, and less severe the fits: Loose grow the chains which bound my useless feet; Stiffness and pain from every joint retreat; Surprising strength comes every moment on, I stand, I step, I walk, and now I run. Here let me cease, my hobbling numbers stop, And at thy handle hang my crutches up. T. Tickle.

Old Story Books! Old Story Books! we owe ye much, old friends, Bright-coloured threads in Memory's warp, of which Death holds the ends. Who can forget ye? who can spurn the ministers of joy That waited on the lisping girl and petticoated boy? I know that ye could win my heart when every bribe or threat Failed to allay my stamping rage, or break my sullen pet: A 'promised story' was enough, and I turned, with eager smile, To learn about the naughty 'pig that would not mount the stile'. There was a spot in days of yore whereon I used to stand, With mighty question in my head and penny in my hand; Where motley sweets and crinkled cakes made up a goodly show, And 'story books' upon a string appeared in brilliant row. What should I have? the peppermint was incense in my nose, But I had heard of 'hero Jack', who slew his giant foes: My lonely coin was balanced long, before the tempting stall, 'Twixt book and bull's eye—but, forsooth! 'Jack' got it after all. Talk of your 'vellum, gold embossed', 'morocco', 'roan', and 'calf', The blue and yellow wraps of old were prettier by half; And as to pictures—well we know that never one was made Like that where 'Bluebeard' swings aloft his wife-destroying blade. 'Hume's England'—pshaw! what history of battles, states, and men, Can vie with Memoirs 'all about sweet little Jenny Wren'? And what are all the wonders that e'er struck a nation dumb, To those recorded as performed by 'Master Thomas Thumb'? Miss 'Riding Hood', poor luckless child! my heart grew big with dread When the grim 'wolf', in 'grandmamma's' best bonnet, showed his head; I shuddered when, in innocence, she meekly peeped beneath, And made remarks about 'great eyes', and wondered at 'great teeth'. And then the 'House that Jack built', and the 'Beanstalk' Jack cut down, And 'Jack's eleven brothers', on their travels of renown; And 'Jack', whose cracked and plastered head ensured him lyric fame, These, these, methinks, make 'vulgar Jack' a rather classic name. Fair 'Valentine', I loved him well; but, better still the bear That hugged his brother in her arms with tenderness and care. I lingered spellbound o'er the page, though eventide wore late, And left my supper all untouched to fathom 'Orson's' fate. Then 'Robin with his merry men', a noble band were they, We'll never see the like again, go hunting where we may. In Lincoln garb, with bow and barb, rapt Fancy bore me on, Through Sherwood's dewy forest paths, close after 'Little John'. Miss 'Cinderella' and her 'shoe' kept long their reigning powers, Till harder words and longer themes beguiled my flying hours; And 'Sinbad', wondrous sailor he, allured me on his track, And set me shouting when he flung the old man from his back. And oh! that tale—the matchless tale that made me dream at night— Of 'Crusoe's' shaggy robe of fur, and 'Friday's' death-spurred flight; Nay, still I read it, and again, in sleeping visions, see The savage dancers on the sand—the raft upon the sea. Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I doubt if 'Reason's Feast' Provides a dish that pleases more than 'Beauty and the Beast'; I doubt if all the ledger-leaves that bear a sterling sum, Yield happiness like those that told of 'Master Horner's plum'. Old Story Books! Old Story Books! I never pass ye by Without a sort of furtive glance—right loving, though 'tis sly; And fair suspicion may arise—that yet my spirit grieves For dear 'Old Mother Hubbard's Dog' and 'Ali Baba's Thieves'. Eliza Cook.

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 mine Was but a block hewn from a mighty quarry— That there were four large volumes, laden all With kindred matter, 'twas to me, in truth, A promise scarcely earthly. Instantly, With one not richer than myself, I made A covenant that each should lay aside The moneys he possessed, and hoard up more, Till our joint savings had amassed enough To make this book our own. Through several months, In spite of all temptations, we preserved Religiously that vow; but firmness failed, Nor were we ever masters of our wish. And when thereafter to my father's house The holidays returned me, there to find That golden store of books which I had left, What joy was mine! How often in the course Of those glad respites, though a soft west wind Ruffled the waters to the angler's wish, For a whole day together, have I lain Down 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: invisibly It comes, to works of unreproved delight, And tendency benign, directing those Who care not, know not, think not what they do. The tales that charm away the wakeful night In Araby, romances; legends penned For solace by dim light of monkish lamps; Fictions, for ladies of their love, devised By youthful squires; adventures endless, spun By the dismantled warrior in old age, Out of the bowels of those very schemes In which his youth did first extravagate; These spread like day, and something in the shape Of these will live till man shall be no more. Dumb yearnings, hidden appetites, are ours, And they must have their food. Our childhood sits, Our simple childhood, sits upon a throne That 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 see This dawning earth, to recognise, expect, And, in the long probation that ensues, The time of trial, ere we learn to live In reconcilement with our stinted powers; To endure this state of meagre vassalage, Unwilling to forgo, confess, submit, Uneasy and unsettled, yoke-fellows To custom, mettlesome, and not yet tamed And 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 ape Philosophy will call you: then we feel With 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 time And seasons serve; all Faculties to whom Earth 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 wild When I was hardly more than child, Contented with the native lay Of Pope or Prior, Swift or Gay, Or Goldsmith, or that graver bard Who led me to the lone churchyard. Then listened I to Spenser's strain, Till Chaucer's Canterbury train Came trooping past, and carried me In more congenial company. Soon my soul was hurried o'er This bright scene: the 'solemn roar' Of organ, under Milton's hand, Struck me mute: he bade me stand Where none other ambled near.... I obeyed, with love and fear. W. S. Landor.

'Marcian Colonna' is a dainty book;

If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These 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 do To 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-endure Sibyl's glory, and obscure Her 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 myriads Of letters, which have passed 'twixt thee and me; Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all whom love's subliming fire invades Rule and example found; There the faith of any ground No 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 tome In cypher writ, or new-made idiom; We for Love's clergy only are instruments; When this book is made thus, Should again the ravenous Vandals 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 divinity Is 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 amuse Faith's infirmity, they choose Something 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 latitude Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed At their brightest, but to conclude Of longitudes, what other way have we, But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be? J. Donne.

... From the table of my memory I'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 live Within the book and volume of my brain. W. Shakespeare. Hamlet.

No greater grief than to remember days Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, The wishèd smile so rapturously kissed By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate, at once my lips All trembling kissed. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more. Dante. Inferno.

Maiden of Padua, on thy lap Thus lightly let the volume lie; And as within some pictured map Fair isles and waters we descry, Trace out, with white and gliding finger, Along the truth-illumined page, Its golden lines and words that linger In memory's cell, from youth to age. The young Preceptor at thy side Had 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 glisten With hope, and joy, and fear profound; While thine, oh, Maiden! do they listen? They seem to hear his sigh's faint sound. But hark! what sound indeed breaks through The silence of that life-long hour! Melodious tinklings, such as sue For favour near a lady's bower. Ah! Maid of Padua, music swelling In 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 stand Took aim, and shot with all his strength A 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 eloquence And 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 brook Of 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 whereunto Your studies, learned Lady, are addressed, Is the only certain way that you can go Unto true glory, to true happiness: All passages on earth besides, are so Incumbered 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 fit To unlock that prison of your sex, as this; To let you out of weakness, and admit Your powers into the freedom of that bliss That sets you there where you may oversee This rolling world, and view it as it is; And apprehend how the outsides do agree With the inward being of the things we deem And hold in our ill-cast accounts, to be Of highest value and of best esteem; Since all the good we have rests in the mind, By whose proportions only we redeem Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find The 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 way Where judgement lies: and though we cannot find The certain place of truth, yet do they stay And entertain us near about the same; And give the soul the best delight that may Encheer it most, and most our spirits inflame To thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends. S. Daniel.

There's a lady for my humour! A pretty book of flesh and blood, and well Bound up, in a fair letter, too. Would I Had her, with all the Errata. First I would marry her, that's a verb material, Then I would print her with an index Expurgatorius; a table drawn Of 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.

My only books Were woman's looks,— And folly's all they've taught me. T. Moore.

Back to thy books! The swift hours spent in vain Are flown and gone: Thou hast no charm to lure them, or regain What loss hath won. Up from thy sleep! The dream of idle love, So frail and fair, Hath vanished, and its golden wings above Melt 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 indifference A shallow joy; To leave thy studious native heights untrod For 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 die Survives the blast! There, throned in solitary calm, forget Who wrung thy heart: Long hours and days of silent years may yet Restore a part Of that large heritage and realm sublime, Which, love-elate, Thou fain would'st barter for the fields that time Makes desolate. J. A. Symonds.

A student, at his book so placed That 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? In knitting of himself so fast, Himself he hath undone. Sir T. More (?)

Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young, And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. W. Shakespeare. First Part of King Henry the Sixth.

So have I known a hopeful youth Sit 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 wise Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, And through the window of his study Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as The angel's were on Hieronymus. Quick fly the folios, widely scattered, Old Homer's laurelled brow is battered, And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in The 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 column Is the best page in all the volume! T. Moore. The Devil among the Scholars.

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 find Comprised in the fair volume of her mind; That living system, where are fully writ All 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 disdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast! It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all Heaven's royal host; encamped thus small To 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 lie Close 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 yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those 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 air Of 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 owe These devotions, fairest, know While I thus lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine. R. Crashaw.

My Helen, for its golden fraught Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought, Where Poesy finds fitting voice For 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 well You guess the reason, ere I tell, Which makes to me the single rhymes More prized, more conned, a hundred times. Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt Affection ne'er was born without, Found we not here a magic key Opening thy secret soul to me? Found we not here a mystic sign Interpreting thy heart to mine? What sympathies up-springing fast Through all the future, all the past, In tenderest links began to bind Spirit to spirit, mind to mind, As we, together wandering o'er The little volume's precious store, Mused, with alternate smile and tear, On the high themes awakened here Of 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 above Was shed that confidence of love, Which in such happy moments nurst When soul with soul had converse first, Now through the snares and storms of life Blesses the husband and the wife! W. M. Praed.

Little volume, warm with wishes, Fear not brows that never frown! After Byron's peppery dishes Matho's mild skim-milk goes down. Change she wants not, self-concentered, She whom Attic graces please, She whose Genius never entered Literature's gin-palaces. W. S. Landor.

There, obedient to her praying, did I read aloud the poems Made to Tuscan flutes, or instruments more various of our own; Read the pastoral parts of Spenser—or the subtle interflowings Found in Petrarch's sonnets—here's the book—the leaf is folded down! Or at times a modern volume,—Wordsworth's solemn-thoughted idyl, Howitt's ballad-verse, or Tennyson's enchanted reverie,— Or from Browning some 'Pomegranate', which, if cut deep down the middle, Shows a heart within blood-tinctured, of a veined humanity. E. B. Browning. Lady Geraldine's Courtship.

I sate on in my chamber green, And lived my life, and thought my thoughts, and prayed My prayers without the vicar; read my books, Without considering whether they were fit To do me good. Mark, there. We get no good By being ungenerous, even to a book, And calculating profits,—so much help By so much reading. It is rather when We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth— 'Tis then we get the right good from a book. I read much. What my father taught before From many a volume, Love re-emphasized Upon the self-same pages: Theophrast Grew tender with the memory of his eyes, And Aelian made mine wet. The trick of Greek And Latin, he had taught me, as he would Have taught me wrestling or the game of fives If such he had known,—most like a shipwrecked man Who heaps his single platter with goats' cheese And scarlet berries; or like any man Who loves but one, and so gives all at once, Because he has it, rather than because He counts it worthy. Thus, my father gave; And thus, as did the women formerly By young Achilles, when they pinned the veil Across the boy's audacious front, and swept With tuneful laughs the silver-fretted rocks, He wrapt his little daughter in his large Man's doublet, careless did it fit or no.... I read books bad and good—some bad and good At once (good aims not always make good books: Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils In digging vineyards even); books that prove God's being so definitely, that man's doubt Grows self-defined the other side the line, Made atheist by suggestion; moral books, Exasperating to licence; genial books, Discounting from the human dignity; And merry books, which set you weeping when The sun shines,—aye, and melancholy books, Which make you laugh that any one should weep In this disjointed life for one wrong more. The world of books is still the world, I write, And both worlds have God's providence, thank God, To keep and hearten. E. B. Browning. Aurora Leigh.

Her household motions light and free And steps of virgin liberty.

'Twere well with most, if books, that could engage Their childhood, pleased them at a riper age. W. Cowper. Tirocinium.

Non illa colo calathisve Minervae Foemineas assueta manus.—Virg.

Convivae prope dissentire videntur, Poscentes vario multum diversa palato. Quid dem? quid non dem? Hor.

When just proportion in each part, And colours mixed with nicest art, Conspire to show the grace and mien Of Chloe or the Cyprian queen: With elegance throughout refined, That speaks the passions of the mind, The glowing canvas will proclaim A Raphael's or a Titian's name. So when through every learnèd page Each distant clime, each distant age Display a rich variety Of wisdom in epitome; Such elegance and taste will tell The hand that could select so well. But when we all their beauties view, United and improved by you, We needs must own an emblem faint To express those charms no art can paint. Books must, with such correctness writ, Refine another's taste and wit; 'Tis to your merit only due That theirs can be refined by you. R. Jago.

LUCY. Indeed, ma'am, I traversed half the town in search of it: I don't believe there's a circulating library in Bath I ha'n't been at. LYDIA LANGUISH. And could not you get The Reward of Constancy? LUCY. No, indeed, ma'am. LYDIA. Nor The Fatal Connexion? LUCY. No, indeed, ma'am. LYDIA. Nor The Mistakes of the Heart? LUCY. Ma'am, as ill luck would have it, Mr. Bull said Miss Sukey Saunter had just fetched it away. LYDIA. Heigh-ho!—Did you inquire for The Delicate Distress? LUCY.——Or, The Memoirs of Lady Woodford? Yes, indeed, ma'am. I asked everywhere for it; and I might have brought it from Mr. Frederick's, but Lady Slattern Lounger, who had just sent it home, had so soiled and dog's-eared it, it wa'n't fit for a Christian to read. LYDIA. Heigh-ho!—Yes, I always know when Lady Slattern has been before me. She has a most observing thumb; and I believe cherishes her nails for the convenience of making marginal notes.—Well, child, what have you brought me? LUCY. Oh! here, ma'am. [Taking books from under her cloak, and from her pockets.] This is The Gordian Knot, and this Peregrine Pickle. Here are The Tears of Sensibility, and Humphrey Clinker. This is The Memoirs of a Lady of Quality, written by herself, and here the second volume of The Sentimental Journey. LYDIA. Heigh-ho!—What are those books by the glass? LUCY. The great one is only The Whole Duty of Man, where I press a few blonds, ma'am. ... O Lud! ma'am, they are both coming upstairs.... LYDIA. Here, my dear Lucy, hide these books. Quick, quick. Fling Peregrine Pickle under the toilet—throw Roderick Random into the closet—put The Innocent Adultery into The Whole Duty of Man—thrust Lord Aimworth under the sofa—cram Ovid behind the bolster—there—put The Man of Feeling into your pocket—so, so, now lay Mrs. Chapone in sight, and leave Fordyce's Sermons open on the table. LUCY. Oh, burn it, ma'am, the hairdresser has torn away as far as Proper Pride. LYDIA. Never mind—open at Sobriety. Fling me Lord Chesterfield's Letters.—Now for 'em. [Mrs. Malaprop and Sir Anthony Absolute enter and after Lydia has been ordered to her room—] MRS. MALAPROP. There's a little intricate hussy for you! SIR ANTHONY. It is not to be wondered at, ma'am—all this is the natural consequence of teaching girls to read. Had I a thousand daughters, by Heaven! I'd as soon have them taught the black art as their alphabet! MRS. MALAPROP. Nay, nay, Sir Anthony, you are an absolute misanthropy. SIR ANTHONY. In my way hither, Mrs. Malaprop, I observed your niece's maid coming forth from a circulating library! She had a book in each hand—they were half-bound volumes, with marble covers! From that moment I guessed how full of duty I should see her mistress! MRS. MALAPROP. Those are vile places, indeed! SIR ANTHONY. Madam, a circulating library in a town is as an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge! It blossoms through the year! And depend on it, Mrs. Malaprop, that they who are so fond of handling the leaves, will long for the fruit at last.—R. B. Sheridan. The Rivals.

My books were changed; I now preferred the truth To the light reading of unsettled youth; Novels grew tedious, but by choice or chance, I still had interest in the wild romance: There is an age, we know, when tales of love Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve; Then as we read we feel, and are indeed, We judge, the heroic men of whom we read; But in our after life these fancies fail, We cannot be the heroes of the tale; The parts that Cliffords, Mordaunts, Bevilles play We cannot,—cannot be so smart and gay. But all the mighty deeds and matchless powers Of errant knights we never fancied ours, And thus the prowess of each gifted knight Must at all times create the same delight; Lovelace a forward youth might hope to seem, But Lancelot never,—that he could not dream; Nothing reminds us in the magic page Of old romance, of our declining age: If once our fancy mighty dragons slew, This is no more than fancy now can do; But when the heroes of a novel come, Conquered and conquering, to a drawing-room, We no more feel the vanity that sees Within ourselves what we admire in these, And so we leave the modern tale, to fly From realm to realm with Tristram or Sir Guy. Not quite a Quixote, I could not suppose That queens would call me to subdue their foes; But, by a voluntary weakness swayed, When fancy called, I willingly obeyed. G. Crabbe. Tales of the Hall.

The state, whereon I studied, Is like a good thing, being often read, Grown feared and tedious. W. Shakespeare. Measure for Measure.

A clerk ther was of Oxenford also That un-to logik hadde long y-go. As lene was his hors as is a rake, And he was nat right fat, I undertake; But loked holwe, and ther-to soberly. Ful thredbar was his overest courtepy; For he had geten him yet no benefyce, Ne was so worldly for to have offyce. For him was lever have at his beddes heed Twenty bokes, clad in blak or reed, Of Aristotle and his philosophye, Than robes riche, or fithele, or gay sautrye. But al be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but litel gold in cofre; But al that he mighte of his freendes hente, On bokes and on lerninge he it spente, And bisily gan for the soules preye Of hem that yaf him wher-with to scoleye. Of studie took he most cure and most hede. Noght o word spak he more than was nede, And that was seyd in forme and reverence, And short and quik, and ful of hy sentence. Souninge in moral vertu was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. G. Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales.

I am the first fool of all the whole navy, To keep the poop, the helm and eke the sail. For this is my mind, this one pleasure have I: Of books to have great plenty and aparayle. I take no wisdom by them, nor yet avail Nor them preceive not: and then I them despise. Thus am I a fool and all that sew that guise. That in this ship the chief place I govern, By this wide sea with fools wandering, The cause is plain and easy to discern; Still am I busy books assembling, For to have plenty it is a pleasant thing, In my conceit, and to have them ay in hand, But what they mean do I not understand. But yet I have them in great reverence And honour, saving them from filth and ordure, By often brushing and much diligence, Full goodly bound in pleasant coverture Of damask, satin, or else of velvet pure: I keep them sure, fearing lest they should be lost, For in them is the cunning wherein I me boast. But if it fortune that any learned men Within my house fall to disputation, I draw the curtain to show my books then, That they of my cunning should make probation I care not to fall in altercation: And while they commune, my books I turn and wind For all is in them, and nothing in my mind. Tholomeus the rich caused, long agone, Over all the world good books to be sought; Done was his commandment anon. These books he had and in his study brought Which passed all earthly treasure as he thought, But nevertheless he did him not apply Unto their doctrine, but lived unhappily. Lo in likewise of books I have store, But few I read, and fewer understand; I follow not their doctrine, nor their lore, It is enough to bear a book in hand; It were too much to be in such a band, For to be bound to look within the book; I am content on the fair covering to look. Why should I study to hurt my wit thereby, Or trouble my mind with study excessive? Sith many are which study right busily And yet thereby shall they never thrive: The fruit of wisdom can they not contrive. And many to study so much are inclined That utterly they fall out of their mind. Each is not lettered that now is made a lord, Nor each a clerk that hath a benefice; They are not all lawyers that pleas do record, All that are promoted are not fully wise; On such chance now fortune throws her dice, That though one know but the Irish game Yet would he have a gentleman's name. So in likewise, I am in such case, Though I naught can, I would be called wise; Also I may set another in my place Which may for me my books exercise; Or else I shall ensue the common guise, And say concedo to every argument, Lest by much speech my Latin should be spent. S. Brant. Shyp of Folys of the Worlde, 1509.

Say worthy doctors and clerks curious: What moveth you of books to have such number, Since divers doctrines through ways contrarious Doth man's mind dsitract and sore encumber; Alas, blind men awake, out of your slumber, And if ye will needs your books mutliply With diligence endeavour you some to occupy. A. Barclay.

With what, O Codrus! is thy fancy smit? The flower of learning, and the bloom of wit. Thy gaudy shelves with crimson bindings glow, And Epictetus is a perfect beau. How fit for thee bound up in crimson too, Gilt, and, like them, devoted to the view! Thy books are furniture. Methinks 'tis hard That Science should be purchased by the yard, And T——n, turned upholsterer, send home The gilded leather to fit up thy room. If not to some peculiar end assigned, Study's the specious trifling of the mind; Or is at best a secondary aim, A chase for sport alone, not game: If so, sure they who the mere volume prize, But love the thicket where the quarry lies. On buying books Lorenzo long was bent; But found at length that it reduced his rent. His farms were flown; when lo! a sale comes on, A choice collection! What is to be done? He sells his last; for he the whole will buy; Sells even his house, nay wants whereon to lie: So high the generous ardour of the man For Romans, Greeks, and Orientals ran. When terms were drawn, and brought him by the clerk, Lorenzo signed the bargain—with his mark. Unlearned men of books assume the care, As eunuchs are the guardians of the fair. Not in his authors' liveries alone Is Codrus' erudite ambition shown. Editions various, at high prices bought, Inform the world what Codrus would be thought; And, to his cost, another must succeed, To pay a sage, who says that he can read, Who titles knows, and Indexes has seen; But leaves to —— what lies between, Of pompous books who shuns the proud expense, And humbly is contented with the sense. E. Young. The Love of Fame.