" Little and good " is better than big and useless. Nimble Jack was too much for the giant Blunderbore, The ants do more than the tortoises. Old Parr, who died of too much cakes and ale at Charles the Second's court, was a mere boy when he died because, in a century and a half, he had not learned as much, or done as much, or tried to do as much, as many a village lad who marvelled at him and why he went on living when all other folks died decently. Plato taught men centuries ago that it is far better to learn a little well than a great deaf confusedly. Smattering is bad both in life and reading. Many a centenarian has only smattered through life, and does not know much about it when his book of life is shut for- ever. The same is true of indiscriminate and desultory readers. They remind one of those who have no ear for music, but think it must be fine in proportion to the loudness of the noise it makes. The still small voice is inaudible to them ; they want thunder from plenty of big drums. Some people's taste in books is like that of the New York gamins in plays ; they must have plenty of blood for their money, and the play to suit them must be " full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." There are certain marks and signs by which one may know the mental habits of others, just as a man's good breeding or the reverse may be manifested in little things. Good old Launcelot Andrews, Bishop of Winchester, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, used to be 122 THE hearthstone; or, life at home. very much annoyed by idle visitors who disturbed him while he was studying in his library of a morning. " Methink," said he, "that they be no true scholars who call upon man before noon." In the same way, we may set down a few of the tokens by which the sham thinker and shallow reader may be known. There are persons — their name is legion — who borrow books as they do umbrellas, without the remotest intention of ever returning them. This is bad enough, but it is almost as bad to deface, "dog's- ear," or tear a book before returning it. Some valuable books when they come back to their too kindly owner present the appearance of having been used as a portable dinner-table, the once unsullied pages wearing the aspect of a greasy table-cloth. This is vulgar and in- decent, but even worse than this is it to find one's book desecrated by the idiotic remarks and egotistic emendations of the conceited coxcomb, or, let us charitably hope, silly lunatic, to whom in a moment of amiable weakness we lent the cherished volume which had solaced many a lonely and enlivened many a leisure hour. The shock is almost as great as if we saw again the face of a dear friend besmeared with mud by some miserable urchin of the gutter. Nothing has ever made a rational being regret his ability to read so much as the perusal of these inane, asinine comments and presumed improvements on some favorite author, written on the margin. Show us the girl who cannot admire a sentence or a sentiment with- out scrawling " very true " or '! how beautiful " beside it, and we will show you a girl whom the sensible young men of her neighborhood will do well to avoid. No rational man would make love or offer marriage to one of these feminine annotators. She would write her impressions on his shirt front and make remarks upon his cuffs.

AI-modernized reading of the original text

" Little and good " is better than big and useless. Nimble Jack was too much for the giant Blunderbore, The ants do more than the tortoises. Old Parr, who died of too much cakes and ale at Charles the Second's court, was a mere boy when he died because, in a century and a half, he had not learned as much, or done as much, or tried to do as much, as many a village lad who marvelled at him and why he went on living when all other folks died decently. Plato taught men centuries ago that it is far better to learn a little well than a great deal confusedly. Smattering is bad both in life and reading. Many a centenarian has only smattered through life, and does not know much about it when his book of life is shut forever. The same is true of indiscriminate and desultory readers. They remind one of those who have no ear for music, but think it must be fine in proportion to the loudness of the noise it makes. The still small voice is inaudible to them ; they want thunder from plenty of big drums. Some people's taste in books is like that of the New York gamins in plays ; they must have plenty of blood for their money, and the play to suit them must be " full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." There are certain marks and signs by which one may know the mental habits of others, just as a man's good breeding or the reverse may be manifested in little things. Good old Launcelot Andrews, Bishop of Winchester, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, used to be 122 THE hearthstone; or, life at home. very much annoyed by idle visitors who disturbed him while he was studying in his library of a morning. " Methink," said he, "that they be no true scholars who call upon man before noon." In the same way, we may set down a few of the tokens by which the sham thinker and shallow reader may be known. There are persons — their name is legion — who borrow books as they do umbrellas, without the remotest intention of ever returning them. This is bad enough, but it is almost as bad to deface, "dog'sear," or tear a book before returning it. Some valuable books when they come back to their too kindly owner present the appearance of having been used as a portable dinner-table, the once unsullied pages wearing the aspect of a greasy table-cloth. This is vulgar and indecent, but even worse than this is it to find one's book desecrated by the idiotic remarks and egotistic emendations of the conceited coxcomb, or, let us charitably hope, silly lunatic, to whom in a moment of amiable weakness we lent the cherished volume which had solaced many a lonely and enlivened many a leisure hour. The shock is almost as great as if we saw again the face of a dear friend besmeared with mud by some miserable urchin of the gutter. Nothing has ever made a rational being regret his ability to read so much as the perusal of these inane, asinine comments and presumed improvements on some favorite author, written on the margin. Show us the girl who cannot admire a sentence or a sentiment without scrawling " very true " or '! how beautiful " beside it, and we will show you a girl whom the sensible young men of her neighborhood will do well to avoid. No rational man would make love or offer marriage to one of these feminine annotators. She would write her impressions on his shirt front and make remarks upon his cuffs.

The hearthstone; or, Life at home