Page:Once a Week, Series 1, Volume II Dec 1859 to June 1860.pdf/157

144 He looked rather “seedy,” a cap in his hand, A parcel just opened to show, She collapsed—the disturber on seeing her stand Amazed—“took an attitude,” sheepish and bland, Like a goose, but she couldn’t say beau.

My master has done, miss, the best that he can,” (Displaying a marvel of skill), Your master—the dyer—you infamous man!” He stared—“Go away, sir, as fast as you can, And I’ll send the amount of your bill.”

He thought she was mad, not at all, she was sane, As a woman so worried could be, She crawled to her chamber assisted by Jane, And (after restoratives) came down again To her breakfast of toast and of tea.

Rather late in the day, with her spirits restored (Much sooner than Jane had expected), She searched out a card from an odd little hoard, And entered this call on this mystical board, As the twenty-first offer—Rejected. 5em

much truth is there in the popular notion of the effects of a student life? The ordinary conception of “a bookworm” (as every man is liable to be called whose life is spent amongst books) is of an uncomfortable-looking personage who cannot hold up his head, nor tread firmly, nor see a yard before him. His limbs are lank: his hair is limp: his shoulders are shelves to hold dust: his head droops forward: his face works nervously in conversation: there is scarcely anything that he can digest: he is disconcerted if any visitor, any news, or household incidents break in upon his habits and his plans. Nothing seems to him worth such a sacrifice; for he has long been convinced that nothing in the world is of so much consequence as the particular subject which occupies him: and it follows of course that to obstruct his labours upon it is to do the greatest possible injury to the world. If he is married, it is a mistake; for he gives his wife only the second place in his heart after his books; and the children are very disturbing little people. If he is too much absorbed to hear their voices in play or in grief, they may jog his chair, or even shake the room; and no bookworm can stand that. If they are ever so well disciplined, they are occasionally ill; or one may even die—and that is a painful and irresistible interruption. I need say no more. A mere outline will call up the image of the recluse student, as it is presented to the minds of the practical people of everyday life.

“Is it true?” is the first question. Yes, it is. For ages there have been such persons; and there are such at this moment. We may comfort ourselves with the certainty that the number diminishes; and at present so rapidly, that we may fairly hope that a true specimen of the bookworm will soon be a subject of investigation as interesting as the dodo in Madagascar—setting naturalists to work to ascertain whether a known specimen is really the last of its species.

The next question is, Why we may expect the species to die out? And this involves the fundamental inquiry of all, How such a thing came to exist?

The bookworm is a transformation from the proper type of man, wrought by the too strong action of some law of nature, in the exclusion of other laws which it is a folly and a crime to evade. In the course of the education of the human race, there must be a period during which books must have a higher value than they can have in the long run: and during that period, there must be men who overrate the value of books in general, and sacrifice themselves individually to the worship of some particular class of them. Such a period must necessarily occur before men understand their own nature and position well enough to perceive how they may make the best use of books, as of everything else; that is, as means and not as an end. During the bookish ages which originated and followed the invention of printing, men were unaware that the brain is the organ by which “we live and move and have our being;” and that no part of it (and therefore of our frame) can work as well as it might do unless the whole is exercised sufficiently for its health. Our growing knowledge and understanding of the structure and functions of the brain, and of the laws of health generally, is our security against a perpetual succession of bookworms. We may hope that intemperance in study will in time become rare, like other kinds of intemperance which we believe that men will outgrow, sooner or later. For some time past we have been accustomed to look into Germany for perfect specimens of the bookworm; yet even in Germany there is a strong conviction of the value of schools of physical training, in counteraction of the tendencies of study. This is right: for Germany has afforded the richest specimen perhaps of the bookworm in modern times; and to balance this, it is fair that she should furnish founders of gymnasia, at home and abroad. Eichhorn is one of the latest examples we have of the recluse student of the bookish ages of the world. If I remember right, he lived for twenty-five years shut up in his study, never crossing the threshold (except, I suppose, to go to bed), and never having worn coat or shoes during that time. If ever seen at all, he was seen in gown and slippers. One would like to know how many human faces he did see—how many voices of his own kind he heard during those years. With all his learning, he certainly missed the great truth that the man who makes no use of his environment lives but half a life, or more probably scarcely anything of a life at all, but rather a waking dream.

What, then, is the student to do? There must be men whose business lies in the library and at the desk. Such men are honoured by the wise, and most honoured by the wisest. Is this really an unfortunate destiny?

Not if they are wise. Not if they are aware that to exercise their limbs and senses, to cultivate their social faculties, and to lay a firm grasp on some practical business in life, is the true way to get the greatest value out of book-study. It is not necessary for them, any more than for other people, to be always thinking about their health, and consulting their own welfare. That is in