Reading
n
Note: There is no chapter
title. (R. Clapper)
n
Note: A fair copy was apparently
made of the material from Reading 1-11 on leaves (#31-55) now missing. (R. Clapper)
It seems as if with a little more reflection all
men would be essentially students & observers—For certainly his nature
& destiny are equally interesting to every man. It is hard to tell if
that time which we really improve is past present or future. I might say
that the student always studies antiques. In our studies we do not look
forward but backward into antiquity with redoubled pauses. Where is that
lost first page of history? We have never found the literature that dated
from antiquity sufficiently remote. The most adventurous student seeks the
remotest antiquity—the history of a time, as it were, prior to time,—Or, if
we prefer, such is the Protean character of things, we may say that he
always interprets prophecies and oracles, and is interested solely in the
future.— In accumulating property for ourselves, or our posterity, in
founding a family, or a state, or acquiring fame, we are mortal, but in dealing
with truth we are immortal, and need fear no change nor accident.—The oldest
Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of
divinity, and still the trembling robe
remains raised, and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in
him that was then so bold, and it is he in me
that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled upon that robe—no time has
elapsed since that divinity was revealed.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their
pursuits, all men would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for
certainly their nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In
accumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a
state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are
immortal, and need fear no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo
philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised,
and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then
so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on
that robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time
which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor
future.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their
pursuits, all men would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for
certainly their nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In
accumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a
state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are
immortal, and need fear no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo
philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised,
and I gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then
so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on
that robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time
which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor
future.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men
would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their
nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property for
ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame
even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear
no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a
corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze
upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold,
and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on that
robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time which we
really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men
would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their
nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property for
ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame
even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear
no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a
corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze
upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold,
and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on that
robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time which we
really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men
would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their
nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property for
ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame
even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear
no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a
corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze
upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold,
and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on that
robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time which we
really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men
would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their
nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property for
ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame
even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear
no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a
corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze
upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold,
and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on that
robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time which we
really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
With a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men
would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their
nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. In accumulating property for
ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame
even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear
no change nor accident. The oldest Egyptian or Hindoo philosopher raised a
corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and I gaze
upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was I in him that was then so bold,
and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. No dust has settled on that
robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. That time which we
really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but
to serious reading, than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the
ordinary circulating library, I had more
than ever come within the influence of those books which circulate round the
world, whose sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied
from time to time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of
the spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but
to serious reading, than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the
ordinary circulating library, I had more
than ever come within the influence of those books which circulate round the
world, whose sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied
from time to time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of
the spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading,
than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary
circulating library, I had more than ever
come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose
sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to
time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of the
spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading,
than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary
circulating library, I had more than ever
come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose
sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to
time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of the
spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading,
than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary
circulating library, I had more than ever
come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose
sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to
time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of the
spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading,
than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary
circulating library, I had more than ever
come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose
sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to
time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of the
spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
My residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading,
than a university; and though I was beyond the range of the ordinary
circulating library, I had more than ever
come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose
sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to
time on to linen paper. Says the poet Mîr Camar Uddîn Mast, “Being seated to run through the region of the
spiritual world; I have had this advantage in books. To be intoxicated by a
single glass of wine; I have experienced this pleasure when I have drunk the
liquor of the esoteric doctrines.”
I kept
a Homer
Homer's Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
Homer’s Iliad
on my table through the summer, though I
glanced
looked
looked
looked
looked
looked
looked
looked
at his page
only
only
only
only
only
only
only
now and then. Incessant labor with my hands,
for I did work hard while my beans were growing having my house
to finish and my beans to hoe at the same time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to
hoe at the same time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to
hoe at the same time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same
time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same
time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same
time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same
time,
at first, for I had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same
time,
made more study impossible. Yet I sustained myself by the prospect of such
reading in
future. Here of course I could read the Iliad, if I would have
books, as well as in Ionia, and not wish myself in Boston or New York—or London
or Rome; in such a place as this rather Homer lived and sung. Here I know
that I am in good company—here is the world. Its centre and metropolis and
all the poems of Asia and the laurels of Greece and the firs of the Arctic
zones incline hither
future.
future.
future.
future.
future.
future.
future.
I read one or two shallow books of travel
in the intervals of my work, till that employment made me ashamed of myself, and
I
asked myself
asked
asked
asked
asked
asked
asked
asked
where it was then that
I
lived.
The student may read Homer or Æschylus
in the
original Greek
Greek
Greek
Greek
Greek
Greek
Greek
Greek
without danger of dissipation or
luxuriousness, for
to do so implies that he should
it implies that he
it implies that he
it implies that he
it implies that he
it implies that he
it implies that he
it implies that he
in some measure emulate their heroes, and consecrate morning hours to their
pages. The heroic books,
though
even if
even if
even if
even if
even if
even if
even if
printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in a language
dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word
and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom
and valor and generosity we have. The modern cheap and fertile press,
even with all its translations,
with all its translations,
with all its translations,
with all its translations,
with all its translations,
with all its translations,
with all its translations,
with all its translations,
has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers of antiquity. They
seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are printed as rare and curious, as
ever. It is
even worth
worth
worth
worth
worth
worth
worth
worth
the expense of youthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words
of an ancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to
be perpetual suggestions and provocations.
Every farmer loves to repeat the few Latin words he has learned.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and
repeats the few Latin words which he has heard.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and
repeats the few Latin words which he has heard.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin
words which he has heard.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin
words which he has heard.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin
words which he has heard.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin
words which he has heard.
It is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few Latin
words which he has heard.
We
Men
Men
Men
Men
Men
Men
Men
sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way
for more modern and practical studies; but the
brave and adventurous
adventurous
adventurous
adventurous
adventurous
adventurous
adventurous
adventurous
student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be
written and however ancient they may
be.—For they have to be studied in the same
spirit that we study nature. They are to a great extent only
valuable commentaries on her works,— or in one sense her own finest
fruits never ancient, and never modern.
be.
be.
be.
be.
be.
be.
be.
What
For what
For what
For what
For what
For what
For what
For what
are the classics but the noblest recorded
thought
thoughts
thoughts
thoughts
thoughts
thoughts
thoughts
thoughts
of man? They are the only oracles which
have not decayed. There
are not decayed, and there
are not decayed, and there
are not decayed, and there
are not decayed, and there
are not decayed, and there
are not decayed, and there
are not decayed, and there
are such answers to the most modern inquiry in them as Delphi and
Dodona
never gave
could never have given.
never gave.
never gave.
never gave.
never gave.
never gave.
never gave.
never gave.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old.
To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble
exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise
which
which
which
which
which
which
which
which
the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes
underwent, the steady intention
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
of the whole life to this object.
Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written.
It is not enough even to be able to speak the language
in
of that nation by
of that nation by
of that nation by
of that nation by
of that nation by
of that nation by
of that nation by
which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the
written and the spoken
spoken and the written
spoken and the written
spoken and the written
spoken and the written
spoken and the written
spoken and the written
spoken and the written
language, the
read and the language heard.
language heard and the language read.
language heard and the language read.
language heard and the language read.
language heard and the language read.
language heard and the language read.
language heard and the language read.
language heard and the language read.
The one is commonly
transient,
transitory,
transitory,
transitory,
transitory,
transitory,
transitory,
transitory,
a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, and we learn it
unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers. The other is the maturity and
experience of
this;
that;
that;
that;
that;
that;
that;
that;
if that is our mother tongue, that this is
our father tongue,
the language of the father of men in respect to which all men but
lisp and are infants
our intellectual father tongue
our father tongue,
our father tongue,
our father tongue,
our father tongue,
our father tongue,
our father tongue,
our father tongue,
a reserved and select expression,
which is too
too
too
too
too
too
too
too
significant to be heard by the ear,
It does not wait to be heard, but is content with its own truth. The
one is natural and convenient, the other is divine and instinctive
which we must be born again in order to speak.
which we must be born again in order to speak.
which we must be born again in order to speak.
which we must be born again in order to speak.
which we must be born again in order to speak.
which we must be born again in order to speak.
which we must be born again in order to speak.
The
herd
mass
crowds
crowds
crowds
crowds
crowds
crowds
crowds
crowds
of men who merely
spoke
the Greek and Latin
tongues in the middle ages were not entitled by the accident of
birth
their birth and age
birth
birth
birth
birth
birth
birth
birth
to
read
the works of genius written in those
languages; for these were not written in that Greek or Latin
peculiarly,
which they knew,
which they knew,
which they knew,
which they knew,
which they knew,
which they knew,
which they knew,
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
but in the select language of literature.
The men who then glibly spoke the
language of the Roman and the Greek, for their mother-tongue, did not learn
their nobler dialects,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and
Rome,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and
Rome,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome,
They had not learned the nobler dialects of Greece and Rome,
but the very materials on which they were written were waste paper to them,
while
and
and
and
and
and
and
and
they prized instead a cheap contemporary
learning
literature. The classics were virtually
forgotten and lost. So distinct are the spoken & the written
language.
literature.
literature.
literature.
literature.
literature.
literature.
literature.
But when the several nations of
modern Europe
Europe
Europe
Europe
Europe
Europe
Europe
Europe
had acquired
rude original languages sufficient for conversation and the daily
intercourse of life
distinct though ill-compounded and rude languages of
their own sufficient for conversation and an infant literature of their
own then first learning revived, and scholars who were seers
in their kind arose, who could
were enabled to discern from this remote
standpoint
that remoteness the treasures of antiquity;
and works of genius first began to be read, and perhaps found their
truest & fittest audience when their language could no
longer be spoken anywhere.
distinct though rude written languages of their own,
sufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning
revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the
treasures of antiquity.
distinct though rude written languages of their own,
sufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning
revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the
treasures of antiquity.
distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the
purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and
scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of
antiquity.
distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the
purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and
scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of
antiquity.
distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the
purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and
scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of
antiquity.
distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the
purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and
scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of
antiquity.
distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the
purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and
scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of
antiquity.
What even the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
What the Roman and Grecian
multitude could not
hear
, after the lapse of
ages a few scholars
read
,
and a few scholars only are still reading
them.
it.
it.
it.
it.
it.
it.
it.
Admire as we will the occasional sudden burst of
eloquence in the orator—it seems to me that
,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts
of eloquence,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts
of eloquence,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence,
However much we may admire the orator’s occasional bursts of eloquence,
the noblest written words are
commonly
commonly
commonly
commonly
commonly
commonly
commonly
commonly
as far behind or
beyond
above
above
above
above
above
above
above
the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the
clouds.
There
are the stars, and they who can may read
them. The astronomers forever comment on and observe them. They are not exhalations
like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath.
When I ask myself whether any unpremeditated speech or conversation of
equal length, even by the wisest of mankind and the writers of books, would
abide the myriad and impartial tests of time, which some rare and wonderful
books have so triumphantly withstood, I cannot doubt the justice of this
distinction
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found
to be rhetoric in the study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found
to be rhetoric in the study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found
to be rhetoric in the study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the
study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the
study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the
study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the
study.
What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the
study.
The eloquence of the speaker
orator who yields to the inspiration of a
transient occasion can hardly
rarely be compared for deep and permanent
effects with that of the writer whose life is his occasion and whose
audience is the intellect and heart of mankind. So much finer and purer as
well as more durable and salutary is commonly the influence of the
latter—thus that event and thing inward which are the source of inspiration
to the orator are oftenest the cause of distraction and confusion to the
writer.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient
occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life
is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which
inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and health of mankind, to all in
any age who can understand him.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient
occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life
is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which
inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and health of mankind, to all in
any age who can understand him.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to
the mob before him, to those who can hear him;
but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be
distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the
intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to
the mob before him, to those who can hear him;
but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be
distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the
intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to
the mob before him, to those who can hear him;
but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be
distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the
intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to
the mob before him, to those who can hear him;
but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be
distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the
intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to
the mob before him, to those who can hear him;
but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be
distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the
intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.
A written word fitly written is the
most choicest
and select of things
of relics. No wonder that Alexander
carried the Iliad with him on his
expeditions in a precious casket. It has
issomething at once more intimate with us and more universal than
any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not
only be read, but, though it is different from not speechit
may be breathed from every human mouth, and become anew
to some extent the product as it were of our physical
organs, as its sense is recognized by our intellectual ones
of humbler organs
It is the work of art nearest to life itself. Such are the traces of
Zoroaster & Confucius & Moses, indelible on the sands of the
remotest times There are no monuments of antiquity comparable to the
Classics and the Scriptures for interest and importance. It is
not necessary that the scholar should be an antiquarian to study them, for
these works of art have such an immortality as the works of nature, and are
modern at the same time that they are ancient, like the sun and stars,
and they occupy by right
rightfully no small share of the present hour. As we are told,
for instance, that “the serene sky and the brilliant sun of Greece merely
communicate to the marble of Paros and Pentelicus a golden tint, resembling
that of ripe corn, or the autumnal foliage,” while in other climates “stone
of the purest white soon turns black, or of a greenish hue,” so time
lends
so time has lent
2000 summers have imparted to the puremonuments of
Grecian literature as to her marbles only a
golden and mature
maturer golden
maturer golden and
autumnal tint.
The poetry of the Greeks wears even now after the lapse of more than 2000
summers only a cereal and autumnal hue. Enveloped still, as it were, in the
inspiration which first breathed it, it carries its
for they have carried their own serene & celestial atmosphere
into all lands to protect them against the corrosions of time. Books are the
treasured wealth of the world, and the fit inheritance of generations & of
nations. Books are the oldest & the best stand naturally and rightfully on
the shelves of every cottage. They do not have to plead their cause—but while
they enlighten the reader the common sense of men will not refuse them. -
The authors of great books, dead or alive, are an invisible upper class
and aristocracy in every civilized society, who
Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society
and more than kings or emperors exert the last and greatest influence
on mankind
When the illiterate and scornful rustic who
is destined to be the founder of a family has earned by his
industry & enterprise his imagined leisure and independence
by his industry & enterprise and is admitted to the
circles of wealth & fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still
higher and yet inaccessible circles of intellect & Genius & is
sensible only of the imperfection of his culture & the vanity and
insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his good sense by the
pains which he takes to secure for his children that intellectual culture
whose want he so keenly feels. And who shall say that the foundations of
genius are not thus laid because the poet is born a poet does not prove that
his ancestors have not contributed to make him such.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
No wonder that Alexander carried the Iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. A written word
is the choicest of relics. It is something at once more intimate with us and
more universal than any other work of art. It is the work of art nearest to
life itself. It may be translated into every language, and not only be read but
actually breathed from all human lips;—not be represented on canvas or in
marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. The symbol of an
ancient man’s thought becomes a modern man’s speech. Two thousand summers have
imparted to the monuments of Grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a
maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and
celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of
time. Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of
generations and nations. Books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and
rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. They have no cause of their own to
plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will
not refuse them. Their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in
every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind.
When the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and
industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles
of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but
yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the
imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches,
and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his
children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it
is that he becomes the founder of a family.
Those who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language in
which they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the history of the
human race;
for of these after all
for
for
for
for
for
for
for
it is remarkable that no transcript of them has ever been made into any
modern
modern
modern
modern
modern
modern
modern
tongue, unless our civilization itself
be regarded as to some extent a transcript. Homer
was never to my knowledge
has never yet been printed in English, nor Socrates
Æschylus—nor Horace
Virgil even. These great Geniuses and wits who have rendered
memorable a remote period of the world's history — now almost in
its early age
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet
been printed in English, nor Æschylus,
nor Virgil even,
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet
been printed in English, nor Æschylus,
nor Virgil even,
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in
English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil
even,
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in
English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil
even,
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in
English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil
even,
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in
English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil
even,
may be regarded as such a transcript. Homer has never yet been printed in
English, nor Æschylus, nor Virgil
even,
—works as refined, as solidly done, and as beautiful
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
almost
as the morning itself;
I think that
for
for
for
for
for
for
for
later writers, say what we will of their genius, have
never
rarely if ever
rarely, if ever
rarely, if ever
rarely, if ever
rarely, if ever
rarely, if ever
rarely, if ever
rarely, if ever
equalled the elaborate
finish &
beauty & finish
and wonderful
the confidence and skill in the steady and
equable excercise of their art, & the
life-long, & heroic
literary
labors & literary architecture of the ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary
labors of the ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary
labors of the ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the
ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the
ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the
ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the
ancients
beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the
ancients
. They only talk of forgetting them who never knew them. It will be soon enough
to forget them when we have the learning and the genius which will enable us to
attend to and appreciate them. That age will be rich indeed when those relics which
we call Classics, and the still older and more than classic but even less known
Scriptures of the nations, shall have still further accumulated, when the
Vaticans
shall be filled with Vedas and
Zendavestas and Bibles,
with Homers and Dantes
and Shakspeares, and all the centuries to come shall have successively deposited
their trophies in the forum of the world. By such a pile we may hope to scale heaven
at last.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by
mankind, for only great poets can read them. They have only been read as the
multitude read the stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by
mankind, for only great poets can read them. They have only been read as the
multitude read the stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only
great poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read the
stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only
great poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read the
stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only
great poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read the
stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only
great poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read the
stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
The works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only
great poets can read them. They have only been read as the multitude read the
stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically.
Most men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they have
learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of
reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little or nothing; yet this only
is reading,
properly speaking,
in a high sense,
in a high sense,
in a high sense,
in a high sense,
in a high sense,
in a high sense,
in a high sense,
not that which lulls
& soothes
us
us
us
us
us
us
us
as a luxury and suffers the nobler faculties to sleep the while, but what we
have to stand on tiptoe to read and devote our most alert and wakeful hours
to—have to gird up our robes and train ourselves
for—as the wrestler is trained for the combat.
to.
to.
to.
to.
to.
to.
to.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in
literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth
classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or
hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book,
the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their
faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in
our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to. There are those who,
like cormorants and ostriches, can digest
all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for
they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to provide this
provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the nine thousandth tale
about Zebulon and Sophronia, and how they
loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true
love run smooth,—at any rate, how it did
run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up
onto a steeple, who had better never have
gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the
happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O
dear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had better
metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man
weathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them
swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother
honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will
not stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a
Romance of the Middle Ages, by the
celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ to
appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together.” All this they read with saucer eyes, and
erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations
even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of
Cinderella,—without any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or
accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a
general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This
sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or
rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and
finds a surer market.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in
literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth
classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or
hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book,
the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their
faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in
our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to. There are those who,
like cormorants and ostriches, can digest
all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for
they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to provide this
provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the nine thousandth tale
about Zebulon and Sophronia, and how they
loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true
love run smooth,—at any rate, how it did
run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up
onto a steeple, who had better never have
gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the
happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O
dear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had better
metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man
weathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them
swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother
honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will
not stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a
Romance of the Middle Ages, by the
celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ to
appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together.” All this they read with saucer eyes, and
erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations
even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of
Cinderella,—without any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or
accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a
general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This
sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or
rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and
finds a surer market.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in
literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth
classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or
hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book,
the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their
faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in
our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to. There are those who,
like cormorants and ostriches, can digest
all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for
they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to provide this
provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the nine thousandth tale
about Zebulon and Sophronia, and how they
loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true
love run smooth,—at any rate, how it did
run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up
onto a steeple, who had better never have
gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the
happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O
dear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had better
metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man
weathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them
swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother
honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will
not stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a
Romance of the Middle Ages, by the
celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ to
appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together.” All this they read with saucer eyes, and
erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations
even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of
Cinderella,—without any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or
accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a
general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This
sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or
rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and
finds a surer market.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in
literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth
classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or
hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book,
the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their
faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in
our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to. There are those who,
like cormorants and ostriches, can digest
all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for
they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to provide this
provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the nine thousandth tale
about Zebulon and Sophronia, and how they
loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true
love run smooth,—at any rate, how it did
run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up
onto a steeple, who had better never have
gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the
happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O
dear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had better
metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man
weathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them
swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother
honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will
not stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a
Romance of the Middle Ages, by the
celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ to
appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together.” All this they read with saucer eyes, and
erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations
even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of
Cinderella,—without any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or
accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a
general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This
sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or
rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and
finds a surer market.
I think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in
literature, and not be forever repeating our a b abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth
classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. Most men are satisfied if they read or
hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book,
the Bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their
faculties in what is called easy reading. There is a work in several volumes in
our Circulating Library entitled Little Reading, which I thought referred to a town of that name which I had not been to. There are those who,
like cormorants and ostriches, can digest
all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for
they suffer nothing to be wasted. If others are the machines to provide this
provender, they are the machines to read it. They read the nine thousandth tale
about Zebulon and Sophronia, and how they
loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true
love run smooth,—at any rate, how it did
run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up
onto a steeple, who had better never have
gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the
happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, O
dear! how he did get down again! For my part, I think that they had better
metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man
weathercocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them
swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother
honest men with their pranks. The next time the novelist rings the bell I will
not stir though the meeting-house burn down. “The Skip of the Tip-Toe-Hop, a
Romance of the Middle Ages, by the
celebrated author of ‘Tittle-Tol-Tan,’ to
appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together.” All this they read with saucer eyes, and
erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations
even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of
Cinderella,—without any improvement, that I can see, in the pronunciation, or
accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral.
The result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a
general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. This
sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or
rye-and-Indian in almost every oven, and
finds a surer market.
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.
What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very
few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English
literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so
called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no
acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of
mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who
will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to become
acquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says,
for he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice,” he being a Canadian
by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in
this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English. This is
about as much as the college bred generally do or aspire to do, and they
take an English paper for the purpose. One who has just come from reading
perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can
converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic
in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so called
illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence
about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he
has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered
the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy
to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures,
or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most
men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man,
any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but
here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and
whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we
learn to read
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.
What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very
few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English
literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so
called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no
acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of
mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who
will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to become
acquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says,
for he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice,” he being a Canadian
by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in
this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English. This is
about as much as the college bred generally do or aspire to do, and they
take an English paper for the purpose. One who has just come from reading
perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can
converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic
in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so called
illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence
about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he
has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered
the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy
to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures,
or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most
men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man,
any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but
here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and
whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we
learn to read
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.
What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very
few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English
literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so
called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no
acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of
mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who
will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to become
acquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says,
for he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice,” he being a Canadian
by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in
this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English. This is
about as much as the college bred generally do or aspire to do, and they
take an English paper for the purpose. One who has just come from reading
perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can
converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic
in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so called
illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence
about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he
has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered
the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy
to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures,
or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most
men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man,
any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but
here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and
whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we
learn to read
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.
What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very
few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English
literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so
called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no
acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of
mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who
will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to become
acquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says,
for he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice,” he being a Canadian
by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in
this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English. This is
about as much as the college bred generally do or aspire to do, and they
take an English paper for the purpose. One who has just come from reading
perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can
converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic
in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so called
illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence
about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he
has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered
the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy
to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures,
or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most
men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man,
any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but
here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and
whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we
learn to read
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers.
What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very
few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English
literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so
called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no
acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of
mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who
will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts any where made to become
acquainted with them. I know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a French paper, not for news as he says,
for he is above that, but to “keep himself in practice,” he being a Canadian
by birth; and when I ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in
this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his English. This is
about as much as the college bred generally do or aspire to do, and they
take an English paper for the purpose. One who has just come from reading
perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can
converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic
in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so called
illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence
about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he
has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered
the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy
to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures,
or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? Most
men do not know that any nation but the Hebrews have had a scripture. A man,
any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but
here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and
whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of;—and yet we
learn to read
only as far as Easy Reading,
the
primers and class-books,
and when we leave
school, the “Little Reading,” and story books, which are for boys and beginners;
and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very
low and inferior level —low
statured & feeble and
low level,
low level,
low level,
low level,
low level,
low level,
low level,
worthy only of pygmies and manikins.
I aspire to be acquainted with wiser men than this our Concord soil has
produced, whose names are hardly known here. Or shall I hear the name of Plato and
never read his book? As if Plato were my townsman and I never saw him,—my next
neighbor and I never heard him speak or attended to the wisdom of his words. But how
actually is it? His Dialogues, which contain what was immortal in him, lie on the
next shelf, and yet I never read
them I describe my own case
here.
them.
them.
them.
them.
them.
them.
them.
We are underbred and low-lived and illiterate; and in this respect I confess I
do not make any very broad distinction between the illiterateness of
my townsman
him
my townsman
my townsman
my townsman
my townsman
my townsman
my townsman
my townsman
who cannot read at all, and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read
only what is for children and feeble intellects. We should be as good as the worthies
of antiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were. We are a race of
tit-men,
and soar but little higher in our
intellectual flights than the columns of the daily paper.
It is not all books that are as dull as their
readers.
It is not all books that are as dull as their
readers.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
It is not all books that are as dull as their readers.
There are
probably
probably
probably
probably
probably
probably
probably
words addressed to our condition
exactly,
exactly,
exactly,
exactly,
exactly,
exactly,
exactly,
exactly,
which, if we could
really
really
really
really
really
really
really
really
bear and understand, would be
as salutary as
more salutary than
more salutary than
more salutary than
more salutary than
more salutary than
more salutary than
more salutary than
the morning or the spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the
face of things
for us.
for us.
for us.
for us.
for us.
for us.
for us.
for us.
How many a man has dated a new era in his
life, or a second birth as it were
life
life
life
life
life
life
life
from the reading of a book.
The book
exists for us
perchance
perchance
perchance
perchance
perchance
perchance
perchance
perchance
which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones. The at present
unutterable things we
shall
may
may
may
may
may
may
may
may
find somewhere uttered.
Moreover with wisdom we shall learn liberality. These same questions
that disturb & puzzle & confound us—have in their turn occurred to all
the wise men—not one has been omitted, and each has answered them, according to
his ability in his words & his life. They have had the same problems
to solve.— Moreover with wisdom we shall learn
liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound
us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted;
and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his
life. Moreover, with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound
us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted;
and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his
life. Moreover, with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their
turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has
answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. Moreover,
with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their
turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has
answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. Moreover,
with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their
turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has
answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. Moreover,
with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their
turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has
answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. Moreover,
with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
These same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their
turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has
answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. Moreover,
with wisdom we shall learn liberality.
The solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of Concord, who has had his
second birth
and peculiar religious experience,
and is driven as he
thinks
believes
believes
believes
believes
believes
believes
believes
into the silent gravity and exclusiveness by his faith, may think it is not
true; but Zoroaster,
thousands of years ago,
travelled the same road and had the same experience; but he, being wise, knew it to
be universal, and treated
men
his neighbors
his neighbors
his neighbors
his neighbors
his neighbors
his neighbors
his neighbors
his neighbors
accordingly, and is even said to have invented and established worship among
men. Let him humbly commune with Zoroaster then, and, through the liberalizing
influence of all the worthies, with Jesus Christ himself, and let “our church” go
by
the board.
We boast that we belong to the nineteenth century and are making the most
rapid strides of any nation. But consider how little this village does for its own
culture. I do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to be flattered by them, for that
will not advance either of us. We need to be provoked,—goaded like oxen, as we are,
into a trot. We have a comparatively decent system of common schools, schools for
infants only; but excepting the half-starved Lyceum in the winter,
and latterly the puny beginning of a library suggested by the
state,
no school for ourselves. We spend
more on almost any article of bodily aliment or ailment than on our mental aliment.
It is time that we had uncommon schools,
that
we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women. It is time that
villages were universities, and their elder inhabitants the fellows of universities,
with leisure—if they are, indeed, so well off—to pursue liberal studies the rest of
their lives. Shall the world be confined to one Paris or one Oxford forever? Cannot
students be boarded here and get a liberal education under the skies of Concord? Can
we not hire some Abelard
to lecture to us?
Alas! what with foddering the cattle and tending the store, we are kept from school
too long, and our education is sadly neglected. In this country, the village should
in some respects take the place of the nobleman of Europe. It should be the patron
of
the fine arts. It is rich enough. It wants only the magnanimity and refinement. It
can spend money enough on such things as farmers and traders value, but it is thought
Utopian to propose spending money for things which more intelligent men know to be
of
far more worth. This town has spent seventeen thousand dollars on a town-house, thank
fortune or politics,
but probably it will not
spend so much on living wit, the true meat to put into that shell, in a hundred
years. The one hundred and twenty-five dollars
annually subscribed for a Lyceum in the winter is better spent than any other equal
sum raised in the town. If we live in the nineteenth century, why should we not enjoy
the advantages which the nineteenth century offers? Why should our life be in any
respect provincial? If we will read newspapers, why not skip the gossip of Boston
and
take the best newspaper in the world at once?—not be sucking the pap of “neutral
family” papers,
or browsing “Olive-Branches”
here in New England.
Let the reports of all the
learned societies come to us, and we will see if they know any thing. Why should we
leave it to Harper & Brothers and Redding & Co.
to select our reading?
As the nobleman of cultivated taste surrounds himself with whatever conduces to his
culture,—genius—learning—wit—books—paintings—statuary—music—philosophical
instruments, and the like; so let the village do,—not stop short at a pedagogue, a
parson, a sexton, a parish library, and three selectmen,
because our pilgrim forefathers
got through a cold winter once on a bleak rock with these. To
act collectively is according to the spirit of our institutions; and I am confident
that, as our circumstances are more flourishing, our means are greater than the
nobleman’s. New England can hire all the wise men in the world to come and teach her,
and board them round the while,
and not be
provincial at all. That is the
uncommon
school we
want. Instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men. If it is necessary,
omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least
over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.
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