Part 19
Study our manuscripts, those myriads Of letters, which have passed 'twixt thee and me; Thence write our annals, and in them will be To all whom love's subliming fire invades Rule and example found; There the faith of any ground No schismatic will dare to wound, That sees how Love this grace to us affords, To make, to keep, to use, to be these his records.
This book, as long-lived as the elements, Or as the world's form, this all-gravèd tome In cypher writ, or new-made idiom; We for Love's clergy only are instruments; When this book is made thus, Should again the ravenous Vandals and the Goths invade us, Learning were safe; in this our universe, Schools might learn sciences, spheres music, angels verse.
Here Love's divines--since all divinity Is love or wonder--may find all they seek, Whether abstract spiritual love they like, Their souls exhaled with what they do not see; Or, loth so to amuse Faith's infirmity, they choose Something which they may see and use; For, though mind be the heaven, where love doth sit, Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it.
Here more than in their books may lawyers find, Both by what titles mistresses are ours, And how prerogative these states devours, Transferred from Love himself to womankind; Who, though from heart and eyes, They exact great subsidies, Forsake him who on them relies; And for the cause, honour or conscience give; Chimeras vain as they or their prerogative.
Here statesmen--or of them, they which can read-- May of their occupation find the grounds; Love, and their art, alike it deadly wounds, If to consider what 'tis, one proceed. In both they do excel, Who the present govern well, Whose weakness none doth, or dares, tell; In this thy book, such will there something see, As in the Bible some can find out alchemy.
Thus vent thy thoughts; abroad I'll study thee, As he removes far off, that great heights takes; How great love is, presence best trial makes, But absence tries how long this love will be; To take a latitude Sun, or stars, are fitliest viewed At their brightest, but to conclude Of longitudes, what other way have we, But to mark when and where the dark eclipses be?
J. DONNE.
THE BOOK OF THE BRAIN
... From the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past, That youth and observation copied there; And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain.
W. SHAKESPEARE. _Hamlet._
LOVE'S PURVEYOR
No greater grief than to remember days Of joy, when misery is at hand. That kens Thy learned instructor. Yet so eagerly If thou art bent to know the primal root, From whence our love gat being, I will do As one, who weeps and tells his tale. One day, For our delight we read of Lancelot, How him love thralled. Alone we were, and no Suspicion near us. Oft-times by that reading Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue Fled from our altered cheek. But at one point Alone we fell. When of that smile we read, The wishèd smile so rapturously kissed By one so deep in love, then he, who ne'er From me shall separate, at once my lips All trembling kissed. The book and writer both Were love's purveyors. In its leaves that day We read no more.
DANTE. _Inferno._
THE DOUBLE LESSON
Maiden of Padua, on thy lap Thus lightly let the volume lie; And as within some pictured map Fair isles and waters we descry, Trace out, with white and gliding finger, Along the truth-illumined page, Its golden lines and words that linger In memory's cell, from youth to age.
The young Preceptor at thy side Had pupil ne'er before so fair; And though that scholar be thy guide, He sits that fellow-learner there. As every page unfolds its meaning, As every rustling leaf turns o'er, He finds, whilst o'er thy studies leaning, Beauty where all was dull before.
Familiar is the book to him, A record of heroic deed; Yet deems he now his eyes were dim, And thine have taught them first to read. Now fades in him the scholar's glory; For he would give the fame he sought, With thee to read the simplest story, And learn what sages never taught.
The precious wealth of countless books, Lies stowed within his grasping mind; Yet should he not peruse thy looks, He now were more than Ignorance blind. From many a language, old, enchanting, Rare truths to nations he enrolls; But one old language yet was wanting, The one you teach him--tis the soul's.
* * * * *
Full long this lesson, Pupil fair! All pupils else hath he forsook; He draws still nearer to thy chair, And bends yet closer o'er the book. As time flies on, now fast, now fleeter, More slowly is the page turned o'er; The lesson seems to both the sweeter, And more enchanting grows the lore.
The book now yields a tenderer theme; The Master loses all his art, The Pupil droops as in a dream, And both are reading with one heart. His eyes upraised a moment glisten With hope, and joy, and fear profound; While thine, oh, Maiden! do they _listen_? They seem to _hear_ his sigh's faint sound.
But hark! what sound indeed breaks through The silence of that life-long hour! Melodious tinklings, such as sue For favour near a lady's bower. Ah! Maid of Padua, music swelling In tribute to thy radiant charms, Now greets thee in thy father's dwelling, To woo thee from a father's arms.
The suitor comes with song and lute, Youth, riches, pleasures, round him wait; Go bid him, Paduan Maid, be mute, Thy lot is cast, he comes too late! One lesson given, and one received, The Book prevails, the Lute's denied; With love thy inmost heart has heaved, And thou shalt be a student's bride.
S. LAMAN BLANCHARD.
CUPID AND THE BOOK OF POEMS
Cadenus many things had writ: Vanessa much esteemed his wit, And called for his Poetic Works: Meantime the boy in secret lurks; And, while the book was in her hand, The urchin from his private stand Took aim, and shot with all his strength A dart of such prodigious length, It pierced the feeble volume through, And deep transfixed her bosom too. Some lines, more moving than the rest, Stuck to the point that pierced her breast, And, borne directly to her heart, With pains unknown increased her smart.
J. SWIFT. _Cadenus and Vanessa._
BOOKS AS SPOKESMEN
O! LET my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast.
W. SHAKESPEARE. _Sonnet XXIII._
TO HIS BOOK: OF HIS LADY
Happy, ye leaves, when as those lily hands, Which hold my life in their dead doing might, Shall handle you, and hold in love's soft bands, Like captives trembling at the victor's sight. And happy lines on which, with starry light, Those lamping eyes will deign sometimes to look, And read the sorrows of my dying spright, Written with tears in heart's close bleeding book. And happy rhymes bathed in the sacred brook Of Helicon, whence she derivèd is, When ye behold that Angel's blessèd look, My soul's long-lackèd food, my heaven's bliss. Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone, Whom if ye please, I care for other none.
E. SPENSER. _Amoretti._
TO THE LADY LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD
And this fair course of knowledge whereunto Your studies, learned Lady, are addressed, Is the only certain way that you can go Unto true glory, to true happiness: All passages on earth besides, are so Incumbered with such vain disturbances; As still we lose our rest in seeking it, Being but deluded with appearances; And no key had you else that was so fit To unlock that prison of your sex, as this; To let you out of weakness, and admit Your powers into the freedom of that bliss That sets you there where you may oversee This rolling world, and view it as it is; And apprehend how the outsides do agree With the inward being of the things we deem And hold in our ill-cast accounts, to be Of highest value and of best esteem; Since all the good we have rests in the mind, By whose proportions only we redeem Our thoughts from out confusion, and do find The measure of our selves, and of our powers.
* * * * *
And though books, madam, cannot make this mind, Which we must bring apt to be set aright; Yet do they rectify it in that kind, And touch it so, as that it turns that way Where judgement lies: and though we cannot find The certain place of truth, yet do they stay And entertain us near about the same; And give the soul the best delight that may Encheer it most, and most our spirits inflame To thoughts of glory, and to worthy ends.
S. DANIEL.
A BOOK OF FLESH AND BLOOD
There's a lady for my humour! A pretty book of flesh and blood, and well Bound up, in a fair letter, too. Would I Had her, with all the Errata.
First I would marry her, that's a verb material, Then I would print her with an _index Expurgatorius_; a table drawn Of her court heresies; and when she's read, _Cum privilegio_, who dares call her wanton?
J. SHIRLEY. _The Cardinal._
WOMEN'S EYES
From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish all the world.
W. SHAKESPEARE. _Love's Labour's Lost._
My only books Were woman's looks,-- And folly's all they've taught me.
T. MOORE.
[Greek: UPOTHÊKÊ EIS EMAUTON]
Back to thy books! The swift hours spent in vain Are flown and gone: Thou hast no charm to lure them, or regain What loss hath won.
Up from thy sleep! The dream of idle love, So frail and fair, Hath vanished, and its golden wings above Melt in mid air.
Stand not, nor gaze astonied at the skies, Serenely cold: They have no answer for thine eager eyes; Thy tale is told.
Fool, in all folly cradled, swathed from sense, To trust a toy; To purchase from pronounced indifference A shallow joy;
To leave thy studious native heights untrod For that low soil, Where momentary blossoms deck the sod; To pant and toil
In hungry chasings of the painted fly, That fluttered past-- Back to thy summits, where what cannot die Survives the blast!
There, throned in solitary calm, forget Who wrung thy heart: Long hours and days of silent years may yet Restore a part
Of that large heritage and realm sublime, Which, love-elate, Thou fain would'st barter for the fields that time Makes desolate.
J. A. SYMONDS.
OF A NEW MARRIED STUDENT THAT PLAYED FAST AND LOOSE
A student, at his book so placed That wealth he might have won, From book to wife did flit in haste, From wealth to woe to run. Now, who hath played a feater cast, Since juggling first begun? In _knitting_ of himself so _fast_, Himself he hath _undone_.
SIR T. MORE (?)
MARRIAGE AND BOOKS
I understand with a deep sense of sorrow of the indisposition of your Son: I fear he hath too much _mind_ for his _body_, and that superabounds with fancy, which brings him to these fits of distemper, proceeding from the black humour of melancholy: moreover, I have observed that he is too much given to his study and self-society, 'specially to converse with dead men, I mean Books: you know anything in excess is naught. Now, sir, were I worthy to give you advice, I could wish he were well married, and it may wean him from that bookish and thoughtful humour.--J. HOWELL. _Familiar Letters._
MARRIAGE! MY YEARS ARE YOUNG
Marriage, uncle! alas! my years are young, And fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.
W. SHAKESPEARE. _First Part of King Henry the Sixth._
LOVE AND THE LIBRARY
I do not know that I am happiest when alone; but this I am sure of, that I am never long even in the society of her I love without a yearning for the company of my lamp and my utterly confused and tumbled-over library.--G. GORDON, LORD BYRON.
A COUNTER ATTRACTION
So have I known a hopeful youth Sit down in quest of lore and truth, With tomes sufficient to confound him, Like Tohu Bohu, heaped around him,-- Mamurra stuck to Theophrastus, And Galen tumbling o'er Bombastus. When lo! while all that's learned and wise Absorbs the boy, he lifts his eyes, And through the window of his study Beholds some damsel fair and ruddy, With eyes, as brightly turned upon him as The angel's were on Hieronymus. Quick fly the folios, widely scattered, Old Homer's laurelled brow is battered, And Sappho, headlong sent, flies just in The reverend eye of St. Augustin. Raptured he quits each dozing sage, Oh woman, for thy lovelier page: Sweet book!--unlike the books of art,-- Whose errors are thy fairest part: In whom the dear errata column Is the best page in all the volume!
T. MOORE. _The Devil among the Scholars._
TO COSMELIA
Some Verses, written in September, 1676, on presenting a Book.
Go, humble gift, go to that matchless saint, Of whom thou only wast a copy meant: And all, that's read in thee, more richly find Comprised in the fair volume of her mind; That living system, where are fully writ All those high morals, which in books we meet: Easy, as in soft air, there writ they are, Yet firm, as if in brass they graven were.
J. OLDHAM.
ON A PRAYER BOOK SENT TO MRS. M. R.
Lo, here a little volume, but great book! A nest of new-born sweets, Whose native fires disdaining To be thus folded, and complaining Of these ignoble sheets, Affect more comely bands, Fair one, from thy kind hands, And confidently look To find the rest Of a rich binding in your breast!
It is in one choice handful, heaven; and all Heaven's royal host; encamped thus small To prove that true, schools use to tell, A thousand angels in one point can dwell.
It is love's great artillery, Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie Close couched in your white bosom; and from thence, As from a snowy fortress of defence, Against your ghostly foes to take your part, And fortify the hold of your chaste heart.
It is an armoury of light; Let constant use but keep it bright, You'll find it yields To holy hands and humble hearts More swords and shields Than sin hath snares, or hell hath darts. Only be sure The hands be pure That hold these weapons, and the eyes Those of turtles, chaste and true, Wakeful, and wise; Here is a friend shall fight for you; Hold but this book before your heart, Let prayer alone to play his part.
R. CRASHAW.
ON GEORGE HERBERT'S 'THE TEMPLE' SENT TO A GENTLEWOMAN
Know you, fair, on what you look? Divinest love lies in this book: Expecting fire from your fair eyes, To kindle this his sacrifice. When your hands untie these strings, Think, you've an angel by the wings; One that gladly would be nigh, To wait upon each morning sigh; To flutter in the balmy air Of your well-perfumed prayer;
These white plumes of his he'll lend you, Which every day to heaven will send you: To take acquaintance of each sphere, And all your smooth-faced kindred there. And though Herbert's name do owe These devotions, fairest, know While I thus lay them on the shrine Of your white hand, they are mine.
R. CRASHAW.
TO HELEN
Written in the first leaf of Keble's _Christian Year_, a birthday Present.
My Helen, for its golden fraught Of prayer and praise, of dream and thought, Where Poesy finds fitting voice For all who hope, fear, grieve, rejoice, Long have I loved, and studied long, The pious minstrel's varied song.
Whence is the volume dearer now? There gleams a smile upon your brow, Wherein, methinks, I read how well You guess the reason, ere I tell, Which makes to me the single rhymes More prized, more conned, a hundred times.
Ere vanished quite the dread and doubt Affection ne'er was born without, Found we not here a magic key Opening thy secret soul to me? Found we not here a mystic sign Interpreting thy heart to mine?
What sympathies up-springing fast Through all the future, all the past, In tenderest links began to bind Spirit to spirit, mind to mind, As we, together wandering o'er The little volume's precious store,
Mused, with alternate smile and tear, On the high themes awakened here Of fervent hope, of calm belief, Of cheering joy, of chastening grief, The trials borne, the sins forgiven, The task on earth, the meed in heaven.
My Own! oh surely from above Was shed that confidence of love, Which in such happy moments nurst When soul with soul had converse first, Now through the snares and storms of life Blesses the husband and the wife!
W. M. PRAED.
SENT WITH POEMS
Little volume, warm with wishes, Fear not brows that never frown! After Byron's peppery dishes Matho's mild skim-milk goes down.
Change she wants not, self-concentered, She whom Attic graces please, She whose Genius never entered Literature's gin-palaces.
W. S. LANDOR.
WOMAN AND BOOKS
Hear them [books] speak for themselves.... 'We are expelled with heart and hand from the domiciles of the clergy, apportioned to us by hereditary right, in some interior chamber of which we had our peaceful cells: but, to their shame, in these nefarious times we are altogether banished to suffer opprobrium out of doors; our places, moreover, are occupied by hounds and hawks, and sometimes by a biped beast; woman to wit,--whose cohabitation was formerly shunned by the clergy, from whom we have ever taught our pupils to fly, more than from the asp and the basilisk; wherefore this beast, ever jealous of our studies, and at all times implacable, spying us at last in a corner, protected only by the web of some long-deceased spider, drawing her forehead into wrinkles, laughs us to scorn, abuses us in virulent speeches, points us out as the only superfluous furniture lodged in the whole house; complains that we are useless for any purpose of domestic economy whatever, and recommends our being bartered away forthwith for costly head-dresses, cambric, silk, twice-dipped purple garments, woollen, linen, and furs.'--R. DE BURY. _Philobiblon._
THE GHOST OF BETTY BARNES
I beheld a female form, with mob-cap, bib, and apron, sleeves tucked up to the elbow, a dredging-box in the one hand, and in the other a sauce-ladle. I concluded, of course, that it was my friend's cook-maid walking in her sleep; and as I knew he had a value for Sally, who could toss a pancake with any girl in the country, I got up to conduct her safely to the door. But as I approached her, she said,--'Hold, sir! I am not what you take me for;'--words which seemed so apposite to the circumstances that I should not have much minded them, had it not been for the peculiarly hollow sound in which they were uttered. 'Know, then,' she said, in the same unearthly accents, 'that I am the spirit of Betty Barnes.'--'Who hanged herself for love of the stage-coachman,' thought I; 'this is a very proper spot of work!'--'Of that unhappy Elizabeth or Betty Barnes, long cook-maid to Mr. Warburton, the painful collector, but ah! the too careless custodier, of the largest collection of ancient plays ever known--of most of which the titles only are left to gladden the Prolegomena of the Variorum Shakespeare. Yes, stranger, it was these ill-fated hands that consigned to grease and conflagration the scores of small quartos, which, did they now exist, would drive the whole Roxburghe Club out of their senses--it was these unhappy pickers and stealers that singed fat fowls and wiped dirty trenchers with the lost works of Beaumont and Fletcher, Massinger, Jonson, Webster--what shall I say?--even of Shakespeare himself!'--SIR W. SCOTT. _Introductory Epistle to The Fortunes of Nigel._
A CHEAP AND LASTING PLEASURE
I yet retain, and carefully cherish, my love of reading. If relays of eyes were to be hired like post-horses, I would never admit any but silent companions: they afford a constant variety of entertainment, which is almost the only one pleasing in the enjoyment, and inoffensive in the consequence.... Every woman endeavours to breed her daughter a fine lady, qualifying her for a station in which she never will appear: and at the same time incapacitating her for that retirement to which she is destined. Learning, if she has a real taste for it, will not only make her contented, but happy in it. No entertainment is so cheap as reading, nor any pleasure so lasting. She will not want new fashions, nor regret the loss of expensive diversions, or variety of company, if she can be amused with an author in her closet.... Daughter! daughter! don't call names; you are always abusing my pleasures, which is what no mortal will bear. Trash, lumber, sad stuff, are the titles you give to my favourite amusement. If I called a white staff a stick of wood, a gold key gilded brass, and the ensigns of illustrious orders coloured strings, this may be philosophically true, but would be very ill received. We have all our playthings; happy are they that can be contented with those they can obtain: those hours are spent in the wisest manner that can easiest shade the ills of life, and are least productive of ill consequences. I think my time better employed in reading the adventures of imaginary people, than the Duchess of Marlborough's, who passed the latter years of her life in paddling with her will, and contriving schemes of plaguing some, and extracting praise from others to no purpose; eternally disappointed and eternally fretting. The active scenes are over at my age. I indulge, with all the art I can, my taste for reading. If I would confine it to valuable books, they are almost as rare as valuable men. I must be content with what I can find. As I approach a second childhood, I endeavour to enter into the pleasures of it. Your youngest son is, perhaps, at this very moment riding on a poker with great delight, not at all regretting that it is not a gold one, and much less wishing it an Arabian horse, which he would not know how to manage; I am reading an idle tale, not expecting wit or truth in it, and am very glad it is not metaphysics to puzzle my judgement, or history to mislead my opinion: he fortifies his health by exercise; I calm my cares by oblivion. The methods may appear low to busy people; but if he improves his strength, and I forget my infirmities, we both attain very desirable ends.--LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU. _Letters._
THE POETS