A natural turn for reading and intellectual pursuits probably preserved
me from the moral shipwreck, so apt to befall those who are deprived in
early life of the paternal pilotage. At the very least, my books kept me
aloof from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon, with their
degrading orgies. For the closet associate of Pope and Addison--the mind
accustomed to the noble, though silent, discourse of Shakespeare and
Milton--will hardly seek, or put up with, low company and slang. The
reading animal will not be content with the brutish wallowings that
satisfy the unlearned pigs of the world.
Later experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that
literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow--how powerfully
intellectual pursuits can help in keeping the head from crazing, and the
heart from breaking,--nay, not to be too grave, how generous mental food
can even atone for a meagre diet--rich fare on the paper for short
commons on the cloth.
Poisoned by the malaria of the Dutch marshes, my stomach, for many
months, resolutely set itself against fish, flesh, or fowl; my appetite
had no more edge than the German knife placed before me. But, luckily,
the mental palate and digestion were still sensible and vigorous; and
whilst I passed untasted every dish at the Rhenish _table d'hôte_, I
could yet enjoy my _Peregrine Pickle_, and the feast after the manner of
the ancients. There was no yearning towards calf's head _à la tortue_,
or sheep's heart; but I could still relish Head _à la Brunnen_ and the
_Heart of Midlothian_.
Still more recently, it was my misfortune, with a tolerable appetite, to
be condemned to lenten fare, like Sancho Panza, by my physician--to a
diet, in fact, lower than any prescribed by the poor-law commissioners;
all animal food, from a bullock to a rabbit, being strictly interdicted;
as well as all fluids stronger than that which lays dust, washes
pinafores, and waters polyanthus. But 'the feast of reason and the flow
of soul' were still mine. Denied beef, I had _Bul_wer and
_Cow_per,--forbidden mutton, there was _Lamb_,--and in lieu of pork, the
great _Bacon_ or _Hogg_.
Then, as to beverage, it was hard, doubtless, for a Christian to set his
face like a Turk against the juice of the grape. But, eschewing wine, I
had still my _Butler_; and in the absence of liquor, all the _choice
spirits_ from Tom Browne to Tom Moore.
Thus, though confined, physically, to the drink that drowns kittens, I
quaffed mentally, not merely the best of our own home-made, but the
rich, racy, sparkling growths of France and Italy, of Germany and
Spain--the champagne of Molière, and the Monte Pulciano of Boccaccio,
the hock of Schiller, and the sherry of Cervantes. Depressed bodily by
the fluid that damps everything, I got intellectually elevated with
Milton, a little merry with Swift, or rather jolly with Rabelais, whose
Pantagruel, by the way, is quite equal to the best gruel with rum in it.
So far can literature palliate or compensate for gastronomical
privations. But there are other evils, great and small, in this world,
which try the stomach less than the head, the heart, and the
temper--bowls that will not roll right--well-laid schemes that will
'gang aglee'--and ill winds that blow with the pertinacity of the
monsoon. Of these, Providence has allotted me a full share; but still,
paradoxical as it may sound, my _burden_ has been greatly lightened by a
_load of books_. The manner of this will be best understood by a feline
illustration. Everybody has heard of the two Kilkenny cats, who devoured
each other; but it is not so generally known that they left behind them
an orphan kitten, which, true to the breed, began to eat itself up, till
it was diverted from the operation by a mouse. Now, the human mind,
under vexation, is like that kitten, for it is apt to _prey upon
itself_, unless drawn off by a new object; and none better for the
purpose than a book; for example, one of Defoe's; for who, in reading
his thrilling _History of the Great Plague_, would not be reconciled to
a few little ones?
Many, many a dreary, weary hour have I got over--many a gloomy misgiving
postponed--many a mental or bodily annoyance forgotten, by help of the
tragedies and comedies of our dramatists and novelists! Many a trouble
has been soothed by the still small voice of the moral philosopher--many
a dragon-like care charmed to sleep by the sweet song of the poet, for
all which I cry incessantly, not aloud, but in my heart, Thanks and
honour to the glorious masters of the pen, and the great inventors of
the press! Such has been my own experience of the blessing and comfort
of literature and intellectual pursuits; and of the same mind,
doubtless, was Sir Humphry Davy, who went for 'consolations in
_Travel_', not to the inn or the posting house, but to his library and
his books.--T. HOOD (Letter to the Manchester Athenaeum, 1843).