SCHOOL LEARNING
I AM sometimes inclined to think that pigs are brought up upon a wiser system than boys at a grammar school. The pig is allowed to feed upon any kind of offal, however coarse, on which he can thrive, till the time approaches when pig is to commence pork, or take a degree as bacon.
LOVERS OF LITERATURE
YOUR true lover of literature is never fastidious. I do not mean the helluo librorum, the swinish feeder, who thinks that every name which is to be found in a title-page, or on a tombstone, ought to be rescued from oblivion; nor those first cousins of the moth, who labor under a passion for black letter, and believe everything to be excellent which was written in the reign of Elizabeth. I mean the man of robust and healthy intellect, who gathers the harvest of literature into his barns, thrashes the straw, winnows the grain, grinds it at his own mill, bakes it in his own oven, and then eats the true bread of knowledge. If he take his loaf upon a cabbage leaf, and eat onions with his bread and cheese, let who will find fault with him for his taste—not I!
YOUR true lover of literature is never fastidious. I do not mean the helluo librorum, the swinish feeder, who thinks that every name which is to be found in a title-page, or on a tombstone, ought to be rescued from oblivion; nor those first cousins of the moth, who labor under a passion for black letter, and believe everything to be excellent which was written in the reign of Elizabeth. I mean the man of robust and healthy intellect, who gathers the harvest of literature into his barns, thrashes the straw, winnows the grain, grinds it at his own mill, bakes it in his own oven, and then eats the true bread of knowledge. If he take his loaf upon a cabbage leaf, and eat onions with his bread and cheese, let who will find fault with him for his taste—not I!
VANITY OF HUMAN FAME
AN OLD woman in a village of the west of England was told one day that the king of Prussia was dead, such a report having arrived when the great Frederick was in the noonday of his glory. Old Mary lifted up her great slow eyes at the news, and, fixing them in the fullness of vacancy upon her informant, replied, “Is a! is a! the Lord ha’ mercy! Well, well! the king of Prussia! and who’s he?” The “who’s he?” of this old woman might serve as a text for a notable sermon upon ambition. “Who’s he?” may now be asked of men greater as soldiers in their day than Frederick and Wellington; greater as discoverers than Sir Isaac, or Sir Humphrey. Who built the pyramids? Who ate the first oyster? Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas!
AN OLD woman in a village of the west of England was told one day that the king of Prussia was dead, such a report having arrived when the great Frederick was in the noonday of his glory. Old Mary lifted up her great slow eyes at the news, and, fixing them in the fullness of vacancy upon her informant, replied, “Is a! is a! the Lord ha’ mercy! Well, well! the king of Prussia! and who’s he?” The “who’s he?” of this old woman might serve as a text for a notable sermon upon ambition. “Who’s he?” may now be asked of men greater as soldiers in their day than Frederick and Wellington; greater as discoverers than Sir Isaac, or Sir Humphrey. Who built the pyramids? Who ate the first oyster? Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas!
RETIREMENT
IT is neither so easy a thing, nor so agreeable a one, as men commonly expect, to dispose of leisure when they retire from the business of the world. Their old occupations cling to them even when they hope that they have emancipated themselves. Go to any seaport town, and you will see that the sea captain, who has retired upon his well-earned earnings, sets up a weather cock in full view from his window, and watches the variations of the wind as duly as when he was at sea, though no longer with the same anxiety. A tallow chandler, having amassed a fortune, disposed of his business, and took a house in the country, not far from London, that he might enjoy himself; and, after a few months’ trial of a holiday life, requested permission of his successor to come into town and assist him on melting days. The keeper of a retail spirit-shop, having in like manner retired from trade, used to employ himself by having one puncheon filled with water, and measuring it off by pints into another. A butcher in a small town, for some time after he had left off business, informed his old customers that he meant to kill a lamb once a week just for amusement.
IT is neither so easy a thing, nor so agreeable a one, as men commonly expect, to dispose of leisure when they retire from the business of the world. Their old occupations cling to them even when they hope that they have emancipated themselves. Go to any seaport town, and you will see that the sea captain, who has retired upon his well-earned earnings, sets up a weather cock in full view from his window, and watches the variations of the wind as duly as when he was at sea, though no longer with the same anxiety. A tallow chandler, having amassed a fortune, disposed of his business, and took a house in the country, not far from London, that he might enjoy himself; and, after a few months’ trial of a holiday life, requested permission of his successor to come into town and assist him on melting days. The keeper of a retail spirit-shop, having in like manner retired from trade, used to employ himself by having one puncheon filled with water, and measuring it off by pints into another. A butcher in a small town, for some time after he had left off business, informed his old customers that he meant to kill a lamb once a week just for amusement.
PREACHING TO THE POOR
A WOMAN in humble life was asked one day on her way back from church whether she had understood the sermon—a stranger having preached. “Wud I hae the presumption!” was her simple and contented answer.
A WOMAN in humble life was asked one day on her way back from church whether she had understood the sermon—a stranger having preached. “Wud I hae the presumption!” was her simple and contented answer.
“Well, Master Jackson,” said his minister, walking homeward after service, with an industrious laborer, who was a constant attendant, “well, Master Jackson, Sunday must be a blessed day of rest for you, who work so hard all the week! And you make good use of the day, for you are always to be seen at church.” “Aye, sir,” replied Jackson, “it is, indeed, a blessed day; I works hard enough all the week; and then I comes to church o’ Sundays, and sets me down, and lays my legs up, and thinks o’ nothing.”
VOLUMINOUS TRIFLING
DR. SHAW, the naturalist, was one day showing to a friend two volumes written by a Dutchman, upon the wings of a butterfly, in the British Museum. “The dissertation is rather voluminous, perhaps you will think,” said the doctor gravely, “but it is immensely important.”
DR. SHAW, the naturalist, was one day showing to a friend two volumes written by a Dutchman, upon the wings of a butterfly, in the British Museum. “The dissertation is rather voluminous, perhaps you will think,” said the doctor gravely, “but it is immensely important.”
PARLIAMENTARY JOKES
OF what use a story may be, even in the most serious debates, may be seen from the circulation of old Joes in parliament, which are as current there as their current namesakes used to be in the city some threescore years ago. A jest, though it shall be as stale as last year’s newspapers, and as flat as Lord Flounder’s face, is sure to be received with laughter by the collective wisdom of the nation; nay, it is sometimes thrown out like a tub to the whale, or like a trail of carrion to draw off hounds from the scent.
OF what use a story may be, even in the most serious debates, may be seen from the circulation of old Joes in parliament, which are as current there as their current namesakes used to be in the city some threescore years ago. A jest, though it shall be as stale as last year’s newspapers, and as flat as Lord Flounder’s face, is sure to be received with laughter by the collective wisdom of the nation; nay, it is sometimes thrown out like a tub to the whale, or like a trail of carrion to draw off hounds from the scent.
BOOK MADNESS
A COLLECTOR of scarce books was one day showing me his small but curious hoard. “Have you ever seen a copy of this book?” he asked, with every volume that he put into my hands; and when my reply was that I had not, he always rejoined, with a look and tone of triumphant delight, “I should have been exceedingly sorry if you had!”
A COLLECTOR of scarce books was one day showing me his small but curious hoard. “Have you ever seen a copy of this book?” he asked, with every volume that he put into my hands; and when my reply was that I had not, he always rejoined, with a look and tone of triumphant delight, “I should have been exceedingly sorry if you had!”
