Table-Talk, Essays on Men and Manners [44]
are not observing or enjoying the scene, but doing the honours as masters of the ceremonies to nature, and arbiters of elegance to all humanity. If they tell a love-tale of enamoured princesses, it is plain they fancy themselves the hero of the piece. If they discuss poetry, their encomiums still turn on something genial and unsophisticated, meaning their own style. If they enter into politics, it is understood that a hint from them to the potentates of Europe is sufficient. In short, as a lover (talk of what you will) brings in his mistress at every turn, so these persons contrive to divert your attention to the same darling object--they are, in fact, in love with themselves, and, like lovers, should be left to keep their own company.
NOTES to ESSAY VII
[1] Quarto poetry, as well as quarto metaphysics, does not always sell. Going one day into a shop in Paternoster Row to see for some lines in Mr. Wordsworth's _Excursion_ to interlard some prose with, I applied to the constituted authorities, and asked if I could look at a copy of the _Excursion?_ The answer was, 'Into which country, sir?'
[2] These fantastic poets are like a foolish ringer at Plymouth that Northcote tells the story of. He was proud of his ringing, and the boys who made a jest of his foible used to get him in the belfry and ask him, 'Well now, John, how many good ringers are there in Plymouth?' 'Two,' he would say, without any hesitation. 'Ay, indeed! and who are they?' 'Why, first, there's myself, that's one; and-- and--' 'Well, and who's the other?' 'Why, there's-- there's-- Ecod, I can't think of any other but myself.' _Talk we of one Master Launcelot._ The story is of ringers: it will do for any vain, shallow, self-satisfied egotist of them all.
ESSAY VIII
ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED
For the more languages a man can speak, His talent has but sprung the greater leak: And, for the industry he has spent upon't, Must full as much some other way discount. The Hebrew, Chaldee, and the Syriac Do, like their letters, set men's reason back, And turn their wits that strive to understand It (Like those that write the characters) left-handed. Yet he that is but able to express No sense at all in several languages Will pass for learneder than he that's known To speak the strongest reason in his own. --BUTLER.
The description of persons who have the fewest ideas of all others are mere authors and readers. It is better to be able neither to read nor write than to be able to do nothing else. A lounger who is ordinarily seen with a book in his hand is (we may be almost sure) equally without the power or inclination to attend either to what passes around him or in his own mind. Such a one may be said to carry his understanding about with him in his pocket, or to leave it at home on his library shelves. He is afraid of venturing on any train of reasoning, or of striking out any observation that is not mechanically suggested to him by parsing his eyes over certain legible characters; shrinks from the fatigue of thought, which, for want of practice, becomes insupportable to him; and sits down contented with an endless, wearisome succession of words and half-formed images, which fill the void of the mind, and continually efface one another. Learning is, in too many cases, but a foil to common sense; a substitute for true knowledge. Books are less often made use of as 'spectacles' to look at nature with, than as blinds to keep out its strong light and shifting scenery from weak eyes and indolent dispositions. The book-worm wraps himself up in his web of verbal generalities, and sees only the glimmering shadows of things reflected from the minds of others. Nature _puts him out._ The impressions of real objects, stripped of the disguises of words and voluminous roundabout descriptions, are blows that stagger him; their variety distracts, their rapidity exhausts him; and he turns from the bustle, the noise, and glare, and whirling motion of the world about him (which he has not an eye to follow in its fantastic
NOTES to ESSAY VII
[1] Quarto poetry, as well as quarto metaphysics, does not always sell. Going one day into a shop in Paternoster Row to see for some lines in Mr. Wordsworth's _Excursion_ to interlard some prose with, I applied to the constituted authorities, and asked if I could look at a copy of the _Excursion?_ The answer was, 'Into which country, sir?'
[2] These fantastic poets are like a foolish ringer at Plymouth that Northcote tells the story of. He was proud of his ringing, and the boys who made a jest of his foible used to get him in the belfry and ask him, 'Well now, John, how many good ringers are there in Plymouth?' 'Two,' he would say, without any hesitation. 'Ay, indeed! and who are they?' 'Why, first, there's myself, that's one; and-- and--' 'Well, and who's the other?' 'Why, there's-- there's-- Ecod, I can't think of any other but myself.' _Talk we of one Master Launcelot._ The story is of ringers: it will do for any vain, shallow, self-satisfied egotist of them all.
ESSAY VIII
ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED
For the more languages a man can speak, His talent has but sprung the greater leak: And, for the industry he has spent upon't, Must full as much some other way discount. The Hebrew, Chaldee, and the Syriac Do, like their letters, set men's reason back, And turn their wits that strive to understand It (Like those that write the characters) left-handed. Yet he that is but able to express No sense at all in several languages Will pass for learneder than he that's known To speak the strongest reason in his own. --BUTLER.
The description of persons who have the fewest ideas of all others are mere authors and readers. It is better to be able neither to read nor write than to be able to do nothing else. A lounger who is ordinarily seen with a book in his hand is (we may be almost sure) equally without the power or inclination to attend either to what passes around him or in his own mind. Such a one may be said to carry his understanding about with him in his pocket, or to leave it at home on his library shelves. He is afraid of venturing on any train of reasoning, or of striking out any observation that is not mechanically suggested to him by parsing his eyes over certain legible characters; shrinks from the fatigue of thought, which, for want of practice, becomes insupportable to him; and sits down contented with an endless, wearisome succession of words and half-formed images, which fill the void of the mind, and continually efface one another. Learning is, in too many cases, but a foil to common sense; a substitute for true knowledge. Books are less often made use of as 'spectacles' to look at nature with, than as blinds to keep out its strong light and shifting scenery from weak eyes and indolent dispositions. The book-worm wraps himself up in his web of verbal generalities, and sees only the glimmering shadows of things reflected from the minds of others. Nature _puts him out._ The impressions of real objects, stripped of the disguises of words and voluminous roundabout descriptions, are blows that stagger him; their variety distracts, their rapidity exhausts him; and he turns from the bustle, the noise, and glare, and whirling motion of the world about him (which he has not an eye to follow in its fantastic