with a little more deliberation in the choice of their pursuits, all men would perhaps become essentially students and observers, for certainly their nature and destiny are interesting to all alike. in accumulating property for ourselves or our posterity, in founding a family or a state, or acquiring fame even, we are mortal; but in dealing with truth we are immortal, and need fear no change nor accident. the oldest egyptian or hindoo philosopher raised a corner of the veil from the statue of the divinity; and still the trembling robe remains raised, and i gaze upon as fresh a glory as he did, since it was i in him that was then so bold, and it is he in me that now reviews the vision. no dust has settled on that robe; no time has elapsed since that divinity was revealed. that time which we really improve, or which is improvable, is neither past, present, nor future.

my residence was more favorable, not only to thought, but to serious reading, than a university; and though i was beyond the range of the ordinary circulating library, i had more than ever come within the influence of those books which circulate round the world, whose sentences were first written on bark, and are now merely copied from time to time on to linen paper. says the poet mr udd, "being seated, to run through the region of the spiritual world; i have had this advantage in books. to be intoxicated by a single glass of wine; i have experienced this pleasure when i have drunk the liquor of the esoteric doctrines." i kept homer's iliad on my table through the summer, though i looked at his page only now and then. incessant labor with my hands, at first, for i had my house to finish and my beans to hoe at the same time, made more study impossible. yet i sustained myself by the prospect of such reading in future. i read one or two shallow books of travel in the intervals of my work, till that employment made me ashamed of myself, and i asked where it was then that i lived.

the student may read homer or aeschylus in the greek without danger of dissipation or luxuriousness, for it implies that he in some measure emulate their heroes, and consecrate morning hours to their pages. the heroic books, even if printed in the character of our mother tongue, will always be in a language dead to degenerate times; and we must laboriously seek the meaning of each word and line, conjecturing a larger sense than common use permits out of what wisdom and valor and generosity we have. the modern cheap and fertile press, with all its translations, has done little to bring us nearer to the heroic writers of antiquity. they seem as solitary, and the letter in which they are printed as rare and curious, as ever. it is worth the expense of youthful days and costly hours, if you learn only some words of an ancient language, which are raised out of the trivialness of the street, to be perpetual suggestions and provocations. it is not in vain that the farmer remembers and repeats the few latin words which he has heard. men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modern and practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be. for what are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man? they are the only oracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the most modern inquiry in them as delphi and dodona never gave. we might as well omit to study nature because she is old. to read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. it requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object. books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written. it is not enough even to be able to speak the language of that nation by which they are written, for there is a memorable interval between the spoken and the written language, the language heard and the language read. the one is commonly transitory, a sound, a tongue, a dialect merely, almost brutish, and we learn it unconsciously, like the brutes, of our mothers. the other is the maturity and experience of that; if that is our mother tongue, this is our father tongue, a reserved and select expression, too significant to be heard by the ear, which we must be born again in order to speak. the crowds of men who merely spoke the greek and latin tongues in the middle ages were not entitled by the accident of birth to read the works of genius written in those languages; for these were not written in that greek or latin which they knew, but in the select language of literature. they had not learned the nobler dialects of greece and rome, but the very materials on which they were written were waste paper to them, and they prized instead a cheap contemporary literature. but when the several nations of europe had acquired distinct though rude written languages of their own, sufficient for the purposes of their rising literatures, then first learning revived, and scholars were enabled to discern from that remoteness the treasures of antiquity. what the roman and grecian multitude could not hear, after the lapse of ages a few scholars read, and a few scholars only are still reading it.

however much we may admire the orator's occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds. there are the stars, and they who can may read them. the astronomers forever comment on and observe them. they are not exhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath. what is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the study. the orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.

no wonder that alexander carried the iliad with him on his expeditions in a precious casket. a written word is the choicest of relics. it is something at once more intimate with us and more universal than any other work of art. it is the work of art nearest to life itself. it may be translated into every language, and not only be read but actually breathed from all human lips; -- not be represented on canvas or in marble only, but be carved out of the breath of life itself. the symbol of an ancient man's thought becomes a modern man's speech. two thousand summers have imparted to the monuments of grecian literature, as to her marbles, only a maturer golden and autumnal tint, for they have carried their own serene and celestial atmosphere into all lands to protect them against the corrosion of time. books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations. books, the oldest and the best, stand naturally and rightfully on the shelves of every cottage. they have no cause of their own to plead, but while they enlighten and sustain the reader his common sense will not refuse them. their authors are a natural and irresistible aristocracy in every society, and, more than kings or emperors, exert an influence on mankind. when the illiterate and perhaps scornful trader has earned by enterprise and industry his coveted leisure and independence, and is admitted to the circles of wealth and fashion, he turns inevitably at last to those still higher but yet inaccessible circles of intellect and genius, and is sensible only of the imperfection of his culture and the vanity and insufficiency of all his riches, and further proves his good sense by the pains which be takes to secure for his children that intellectual culture whose want he so keenly feels; and thus it is that he becomes the founder of a family.

those who have not learned to read the ancient classics in the language in which they were written must have a very imperfect knowledge of the history of the human race; for it is remarkable that no transcript of them has ever been made into any modern tongue, unless our civilization itself may be regarded as such a transcript. homer has never yet been printed in english, nor aeschylus, nor virgil even -- works as refined, as solidly done, and as beautiful almost as the morning itself; for later writers, say what we will of their genius, have rarely, if ever, equalled the elaborate beauty and finish and the lifelong and heroic literary labors of the ancients. they only talk of forgetting them who never knew them. it will be soon enough to forget them when we have the learning and the genius which will enable us to attend to and appreciate them. that age will be rich indeed when those relics which we call classics, and the still older and more than classic but even less known scriptures of the nations, shall have still further accumulated, when the vaticans shall be filled with vedas and zendavestas and bibles, with homers and dantes and shakespeares, and all the centuries to come shall have successively deposited their trophies in the forum of the world. by such a pile we may hope to scale heaven at last.

the works of the great poets have never yet been read by mankind, for only great poets can read them. they have only been read as the multitude read the stars, at most astrologically, not astronomically. most men have learned to read to serve a paltry convenience, as they have learned to cipher in order to keep accounts and not be cheated in trade; but of reading as a noble intellectual exercise they know little or nothing; yet this only is reading, in a high sense, not that which lulls us as a luxury and suffers the nobler faculties to sleep the while, but what we have to stand on tip-toe to read and devote our most alert and wakeful hours to.

i think that having learned our letters we should read the best that is in literature, and not be forever repeating our a-b-abs, and words of one syllable, in the fourth or fifth classes, sitting on the lowest and foremost form all our lives. most men are satisfied if they read or hear read, and perchance have been convicted by the wisdom of one good book, the bible, and for the rest of their lives vegetate and dissipate their faculties in what is called easy reading. there is a work in several volumes in our circulating library entitled "little reading," which i thought referred to a town of that name which i had not been to. there are those who, like cormorants and ostriches, can digest all sorts of this, even after the fullest dinner of meats and vegetables, for they suffer nothing to be wasted. if others are the machines to provide this provender, they are the machines to read it. they read the nine thousandth tale about zebulon and sophronia, and how they loved as none had ever loved before, and neither did the course of their true love run smooth -- at any rate, how it did run and stumble, and get up again and go on! how some poor unfortunate got up on to a steeple, who had better never have gone up as far as the belfry; and then, having needlessly got him up there, the happy novelist rings the bell for all the world to come together and hear, o dear! how he did get down again! for my part, i think that they had better metamorphose all such aspiring heroes of universal noveldom into man weather-cocks, as they used to put heroes among the constellations, and let them swing round there till they are rusty, and not come down at all to bother honest men with their pranks. the next time the novelist rings the bell i will not stir though the meeting-house burn down. "the skip of the tip-toe-hop, a romance of the middle ages, by the celebrated author of `tittle-tol-tan,' to appear in monthly parts; a great rush; don't all come together." all this they read with saucer eyes, and erect and primitive curiosity, and with unwearied gizzard, whose corrugations even yet need no sharpening, just as some little four-year-old bencher his two-cent gilt-covered edition of cinderella -- without any improvement, that i can see, in the pronunciation, or accent, or emphasis, or any more skill in extracting or inserting the moral. the result is dulness of sight, a stagnation of the vital circulations, and a general deliquium and sloughing off of all the intellectual faculties. this sort of gingerbread is baked daily and more sedulously than pure wheat or rye-and-indian in almost every oven, and finds a surer market.

the best books are not read even by those who are called good readers. what does our concord culture amount to? there is in this town, with a very few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in english literature, whose words all can read and spell. even the college-bred and so-called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no acquaintance with the english classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of mankind, the ancient classics and bibles, which are accessible to all who will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts anywhere made to become acquainted with them. i know a woodchopper, of middle age, who takes a french paper, not for news as he says, for he is above that, but to "keep himself in practice," he being a canadian by birth; and when i ask him what he considers the best thing he can do in this world, he says, beside this, to keep up and add to his english. this is about as much as the college-bred generally do or aspire to do, and they take an english paper for the purpose. one who has just come from reading perhaps one of the best english books will find how many with whom he can converse about it? or suppose he comes from reading a greek or latin classic in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so-called illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence about it. indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a greek poet, and has any sympathy to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred scriptures, or bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? most men do not know that any nation but the hebrews have had a scripture. a man, any man, will go considerably out of his way to pick up a silver dollar; but here are golden words, which the wisest men of antiquity have uttered, and whose worth the wise of every succeeding age have assured us of; -- and yet we learn to read only as far as easy reading, the primers and class-books, and when we leave school, the "little reading," and story-books, which are for boys and beginners; and our reading, our conversation and thinking, are all on a very low level, worthy only of pygmies and manikins.

i aspire to be acquainted with wiser men than this our concord soil has produced, whose names are hardly known here. or shall i hear the name of plato and never read his book? as if plato were my townsman and i never saw him -- my next neighbor and i never heard him speak or attended to the wisdom of his words. but how actually is it? his dialogues, which contain what was immortal in him, lie on the next shelf, and yet i never read them. we are underbred and low-lived and illiterate; and in this respect i confess i do not make any very broad distinction between the illiterateness of my townsman who cannot read at all and the illiterateness of him who has learned to read only what is for children and feeble intellects. we should be as good as the worthies of antiquity, but partly by first knowing how good they were. we are a race of tit-men, and soar but little higher in our intellectual flights than the columns of the daily paper.

it is not all books that are as dull as their readers. there are probably words addressed to our condition exactly, which, if we could really hear and understand, would be more salutary than the morning or the spring to our lives, and possibly put a new aspect on the face of things for us. how many a man has dated a new era in his life from the reading of a book! the book exists for us, perchance, which will explain our miracles and reveal new ones. the at present unutterable things we may find somewhere uttered. these same questions that disturb and puzzle and confound us have in their turn occurred to all the wise men; not one has been omitted; and each has answered them, according to his ability, by his words and his life. moreover, with wisdom we shall learn liberality. the solitary hired man on a farm in the outskirts of concord, who has had his second birth and peculiar religious experience, and is driven as he believes into the silent gravity and exclusiveness by his faith, may think it is not true; but zoroaster, thousands of years ago, travelled the same road and had the same experience; but he, being wise, knew it to be universal, and treated his neighbors accordingly, and is even said to have invented and established worship among men. let him humbly commune with zoroaster then, and through the liberalizing influence of all the worthies, with jesus christ himself, and let "our church" go by the board.

we boast that we belong to the nineteenth century and are making the most rapid strides of any nation. but consider how little this village does for its own culture. i do not wish to flatter my townsmen, nor to be flattered by them, for that will not advance either of us. we need to be provoked -- goaded like oxen, as we are, into a trot. we have a comparatively decent system of common schools, schools for infants only; but excepting the half-starved lyceum in the winter, and latterly the puny beginning of a library suggested by the state, no school for ourselves. we spend more on almost any article of bodily aliment or ailment than on our mental aliment. it is time that we had uncommon schools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women. it is time that villages were universities, and their elder inhabitants the fellows of universities, with leisure -- if they are, indeed, so well off -- to pursue liberal studies the rest of their lives. shall the world be confined to one paris or one oxford forever? cannot students be boarded here and get a liberal education under the skies of concord? can we not hire some abelard to lecture to us? alas! what with foddering the cattle and tending the store, we are kept from school too long, and our education is sadly neglected. in this country, the village should in some respects take the place of the nobleman of europe. it should be the patron of the fine arts. it is rich enough. it wants only the magnanimity and refinement. it can spend money enough on such things as farmers and traders value, but it is thought utopian to propose spending money for things which more intelligent men know to be of far more worth. this town has spent seventeen thousand dollars on a town-house, thank fortune or politics, but probably it will not spend so much on living wit, the true meat to put into that shell, in a hundred years. the one hundred and twenty-five dollars annually subscribed for a lyceum in the winter is better spent than any other equal sum raised in the town. if we live in the nineteenth century, why should we not enjoy the advantages which the nineteenth century offers? why should our life be in any respect provincial? if we will read newspapers, why not skip the gossip of boston and take the best newspaper in the world at once? -- not be sucking the pap of "neutral family" papers, or browsing "olive branches" here in new england. let the reports of all the learned societies come to us, and we will see if they know anything. why should we leave it to harper & brothers and redding & co. to select our reading? as the nobleman of cultivated taste surrounds himself with whatever conduces to his culture -- genius -- learning -- wit -- books -- paintings -- statuary -- music -- philosophical instruments, and the like; so let the village do -- not stop short at a pedagogue, a parson, a sexton, a parish library, and three selectmen, because our pilgrim forefathers got through a cold winter once on a bleak rock with these. to act collectively is according to the spirit of our institutions; and i am confident that, as our circumstances are more flourishing, our means are greater than the nobleman's. new england can hire all the wise men in the world to come and teach her, and board them round the while, and not be provincial at all. that is the uncommon school we want. instead of noblemen, let us have noble villages of men. if it is necessary, omit one bridge over the river, go round a little there, and throw one arch at least over the darker gulf of ignorance which surrounds us.

如果更审慎地选择自己追逐的职业，所有的人也许都愿意主要做学生兼观察家，因为两者的性质和命运对所有的人都一样地饶有兴味。为我们自己和后代积累财富，成家或建国，甚或沽名钓誉，在这些方面我们都是凡人；可是在研究真理之时、我们便不朽了，也不必害怕变化或遭到意外了。最古的埃及哲学家和印度哲学家从神像上曳起了轻纱一角；这微颤着的袍子，现在仍是撩起的，我望见它跟当初一样的鲜艳荣耀，因为当初如此勇敢的，是他的体内的“我”，而现在重新瞻仰着那个形象的是我体内的“他”。袍子上没有一点微尘；自从这神圣被显示以来，时间并没有逝去。我们真正地改良了的，或者是可以改良的时间，既不是过去，又不是现在，也不是未来呵。

我的木屋，比起一个大学来，不仅更宜于思想，还更宜于严肃地阅读；虽然我借阅的书在一般图书馆的流通范围之外，我却比以往更多地接受到那些流通全世界的书本的影响，那些书先前是写在树皮上的，如今只是时而抄在布纹纸上。诗人密尔·喀玛．乌亭．玛斯脱说，“要坐着，而能驰骋在精神世界的领域内；这种益处我得自书本。一杯酒就陶醉；当我喝下了秘传教义的芳洌琼浆时，我也经历过这样的愉快。”整个夏天，我把荷马的《伊利亚特》放在桌上，虽然我只能间歇地翻阅他的诗页。起初，有无穷的工作在手上，我有房子要造，同时有豆子要锄，使我不可能读更多的书。但预知我未来可以读得多些，这个念头支持了我。在我的工作之余，我还读过一两本浅近的关于旅行的书，后来我自己都脸红了，我问了自己到底我是住在什么地方。

可以读荷马或埃斯库罗斯的希腊文原著的学生，决无放荡不羁或奢侈豪华的危险，因为他读了原著就会在相当程度之内仿效他们的英雄，会将他们的黎明奉献给他们的诗页。如果这些英雄的诗篇是用我们自己那种语言印刷成书的，这种语言在我们这种品德败坏的时代也已变成死文字了；所以我们必须辛辛昔苦地找出每一行诗每一个字的原意来，尽我们所有的智力、勇武与气量，来寻思它们的原意，要比通常应用时寻求更深更广的原来意义。近代那些廉价而多产的印刷所，出版了那么多的翻译本，却并没有使得我们更接近那些古代的英雄作家。他们还很寂寞，他们的文字依然被印得稀罕而怪异。那是很值得的，花费那些少年的岁月，那些值得珍惜的光阴，来学会一种古代文字，即使只学会了几个字，它们却是从街头巷尾的琐碎平凡之中被提炼出来的语言，是永久的暗示，具有永恒的激发力量。有的老农听到一些拉丁语警句，记在心上，时常说起它们，不是没有用处的。有些人说过，古典作品的研究最后好像会让位给一些更现代化、更实用的研究；但是，有进取心的学生还是会时常去研究古典作品的，不管它们是用什么文字写的，也不管它们如何地古老。因为古典作品如果不是最崇高的人类思想的记录，那又是什么呢？它们是唯一的，不朽的神示卜辞。便是求神问卜于台尔菲和多多那，也都得不到的，近代的一些求问的回答，在古典作品中却能找到。我们甚至还不消研究大自然，因为她已经老了。读得好书，就是说，在真实的精神中读真实的书，是一种崇高的训练，这花费一个人的力气，超过举世公认的种种训练。这需要一种训练，像竞技家必须经受的一样，要不变初衷，终身努力。书本是谨慎地，含蓄地写作的，也应该谨慎地，含蓄地阅读。本书所著写的那一国的文字，就算你能说它，也还是不够的，因为口语与文字有着值得注意的不同，一种是听的文字，另一种是阅读的文字。一种通常是变化多端的，声音或舌音，只是一种土话，几乎可以说是很野蛮的，我们可以像野蛮人一样从母亲那里不知不觉地学会的。另一种却是前一种的成熟形态与经验的凝集；如果前一种是母亲的舌音，这一种便是我们的父亲的舌音，是一些经过洗炼的表达方式，它的意义不是耳朵所能听到的，我们必须重新诞生一次，才能学会说它。中世纪的时候，有多少人，能够说希腊语与拉丁语，可是由于出生之地的关系而并没有资格读天才作家用这两种文字来著写的作品，因为这些作品不是用他们知道的那种希腊语和拉丁语来写的，而是用精炼的文学语言写的，他们还没有学会希腊和罗马的那种更高级的方言，那种高级方言所写的书，在他们看来就只是一堆废纸，他们重视的倒是一种廉价的当代文学。可是，当欧洲的好几个国家，得到了他们自己的语文，虽然粗浅，却很明澈，就足够他们兴起他们的文艺了，于是，最初那些学问复兴了，学者们能够从那遥远的地方辨识古代的珍藏了。罗马和希腊的群众不能倾听的作品，经过了几个世纪之后，却有少数学者在阅读它们了，而且现今也只有少数的学者还在阅读它们呢。

不管我们如何赞赏演说家有时能爆发出来的好口才，最崇高的文字还通常地是隐藏在瞬息万变的口语背后，或超越在它之上的，仿佛繁星点点的苍穹藏在浮云后面一般。那里有众星，凡能观察者都可以阅读它们。天文学家永远在解释它们，观察它们。它们可不像我们的日常谈吐和嘘气如云的呼吸。在讲台上的所谓口才，普通就是学术界的所谓修辞。演讲者在一个闪过的灵感中放纵了他的口才，向着他面前的群众，向着那些跑来倾听他的人说话；可是作家，更均衡的生活是他们的本份，那些给演讲家以灵感的社会活动以及成群的听众只会分散他们的心智，他们是广着人类的智力和心曲致辞的，向着任何年代中能够懂得他们的一切人说话的。

难怪亚历山大行军时，还要在一只宝匣中带一部《伊利亚特》了。文字是圣物中之最珍贵者。它比之别的艺术作品既跟我们更亲密，又更具有世界性。这是最接近于生活的艺术。它可以翻译成每一种文字，不但给人读，而且还吐纳在人类的唇上；不仅是表现在油画布上，或大理石上，还可以雕刻在生活自身的呼吸之中的。一个古代人思想的象征可以成为近代人的口头禅。两千个夏天已经在纪念碑似的希腊文学上，正如在希腊的大理石上面，留下了更成熟的金色的和秋收的色彩，因为他们带来了他们自己的壮丽的天体似的气氛，传到了世界各地，保护他们兔受时间剥蚀。书本是世界的珍室，多少世代与多少国土的最优良的遗产。书，最古老最好的书，很自然也很适合于放在每一个房屋的书架上。它们没有什么私事要诉说，可是，当它们启发并支持了读者，他的常识使他不能拒绝它们。它们的作者，都自然而然地，不可抗拒地成为任何一个社会中的贵族，而他们对于人类的作用还大于国王和皇帝的影响。当那目不识丁的，也许还是傲慢的商人，由于苦心经营和勤劳刻苦，挣来了闲暇以及独立，并厕身于财富与时髦的世界的时候，最后他不可避免地转向那些更高级，然而又高不可攀的智力与天才的领域，而且只会发觉自己不学无术，发觉自己的一切财富都是虚荣，不可以自满，于是便进一步地证明了他头脑清楚，他煞费心机，要给他的孩子以知识文化，这正是他敏锐地感到自己所缺少的；他就是这样成了一个家族的始祖。

没有学会阅读古典作品原文的人们对于人类史只能有一点很不完备的知识，惊人的是它们并没有一份现代语文的译本，除非说我们的文化本身便可以作为这样的一份文本的话。荷马还从没有用英文印行过，埃斯库罗斯和维吉尔也从没有，——那些作品是这样优美，这样坚实，美丽得如同黎明一样；后来的作者，不管我们如何赞美他们的才能，就有也是极少能够比得上这些古代作家的精美、完整与永生的、英雄的文艺劳动。从不认识它们的人，只叫人去忘掉它们。但当我们有了学问，有了禀赋，开始能研读它们，欣赏它们时，那些人的话，我们立刻忘掉了。当我们称为古典作品的圣物，以及比古典作品更古老，因而更少人知道的各国的经典也累积得更多时，当梵蒂冈教廷里放满了吠陀经典，波斯古经和《圣经》，放满了荷马、但丁和莎士比亚的作品，继起的世纪中能继续地把它们的战利品放在人类的公共场所时，那个世代定将更加丰富。有了这样一大堆作品，我们才能有终于攀登天堂的希望。

伟大诗人的作品人类还从未读通过呢，因为只有伟大的诗人才能读通它们。它们之被群众阅读，有如群众之阅览繁星，至多是从星象学而不是从天文学的角度阅览的。许多人学会了阅读，为的是他们的可怜的便利，好像他们学算术是为了记账，做起生意来不至于受骗；可是，阅读作为一种崇高的智力的锻炼，他们仅仅是浅涉略知，或一无所知；然而就其高级的意义来说，只有这样才叫阅读，决不是吸引我们有如奢侈品，读起来能给我们催眠，使我们的崇高的官能昏昏睡去的那种读法，我们必须踮起足尖，把我们最灵敏、最清醒的时刻，献予阅读才对。

我想，我们识字之后，我们就应该读文学作品中最好的东西，不要永远在重复a－b一ab和单音字，不要四年级五年级年年留级，不要终身坐在小学最低年级教室前排。许多人能读就满足了，或听到人家阅读就满足了，也许只领略到一本好书《圣经》的智慧，于是他们只读一些轻松的东西，让他们的官能放荡或单调地度过余生。在我们的流通图书馆里，有一部好几卷的作品叫做“小读物”，我想大约也是我没有到过的一个市镇的名字吧。有种人，像贪食的水鸭和鸵乌，能够消化一切，甚至在大吃了肉类和蔬菜都很丰盛的一顿之后也能消化，因为他们不愿意浪费。如果说别人是供给此种食物的机器，他们就是过屠门而大嚼的阅读机器。他们读了九千个关于西布伦和赛福隆尼亚的故事，他们如何相爱，从没有人这样地相爱过，而且他们的恋爱经过也不平坦，——总之是，他们如何爱，如何栽跟斗，如何再爬起来，如何再相爱！某个可怜的不幸的人如何爬上了教堂的尖顶，他最好不爬上钟楼；他既然已经毫无必要地到了尖顶上面了，那欢乐的小说家于是打起钟来，让全世界都跑拢来，听他说，啊哟，天啊！他如何又下来了！照我的看法，他们还不如把这些普遍的小说世界里往上爬的英雄人物一概变形为风信鸡人，好像他们时常把英雄放在星座之中一样，让那些风信鸡旋转不已，直到它们锈掉为止，却千万别让它们下地来胡闹，麻烦了好人们。下一回，小说家再敲钟，哪怕那公共会场烧成了平地，也休想我动弹一下。“《的-笃-咯的腾达》一部中世纪传奇，写《铁特尔-托尔-但恩》的那位著名作家所著；按月连载；连日拥挤不堪，欲购从速。” 他们用盘子大的眼睛，坚定不移的原始的好奇，极好的胃纳，来读这些东西，胃的褶皱甚至也无需磨练，正好像那些四岁大的孩子们，成天坐在椅子上，看着售价两分钱的烫金封面的《灰姑娘》——据我所见，他们读后，连发音，重音，加强语气这些方面都没有进步，不必提他们对题旨的了解与应用题旨的技术了。其结果是目力衰退，一切生机凝滞，普遍颓唐，智力的官能完全像蜕皮一样蜕掉。这一类的姜汁面包，是几乎每一天从每一个烤面包的炉子里烤出来，比纯粹的面粉做的或黑麦粉和印第安玉米粉做的面包更吸引人，在市场上销路更广。

即使所谓“好读者”，也不读那些最好的书。我们康科德的文化又算得了什么呢？这个城市里，除了极少数例外的人，对于最好的书，甚至英国文学中一些很好的书，大家都觉得没有味道，虽然大家都能读英文，都拼得出英文字。甚至于这里那里的大学出身，或所谓受有自由教育的人，对英国的古典作品也知道得极少，甚至全不知道；记录人类思想的那些古代作品和《圣经》呢，谁要愿意阅读它们的话，是很容易得到这些书的，然而只有极少数人肯花功夫去接触它们。我认识一个中年樵夫，订了一份法文报，他说不是为了读新闻，他是超乎这一套之上的，他是为了“保持他的学习”，因为他生来是一个加拿大人；我就问他，他认为世上他能做的最好的是什么事，他回答说，除了这件事之外，还要继续下功夫，把他的英语弄好和提高。一般的大学毕业生所做的或想要做的就不过如此，他们订一份英文报纸就为这样的目标。假定一个人刚刚读完了一部也许是最好的英文书，你想他可以跟多少人谈论这部书呢？再假定一个人刚刚读了希腊文或拉丁文的古典作品，就是文盲也知道颂扬它的；可是他根本找不到一个可谈的人。他只能沉默。我们大学里几乎没有哪个教授，要是已经掌握了一种艰难的文字，还能以同样的比例掌握一个希腊诗人的深奥的才智与诗情，并能用同情之心来传授给那些灵敏的、有英雄气质的读者的；至于神圣的经典，人类的圣经，这里有什么人能把它们的名字告诉我呢？大多数人还不知道唯有希伯来这个民族有了一部经典。任何一个人都为了拣一块银币而费尽了心机，可是这里有黄金般的文字，古代最聪明的智者说出来的话，它们的价值是历代的聪明人向我们保证过的；——然而我们读的只不过是识字课本，初级读本和教科书，离开学校之后，只是 “小读物”与孩子们和初学者看的故事书；于是，我们的读物，我们的谈话和我们的思想，水平都极低，只配得上小人国和侏儒。

我希望认识一些比康科德这片土地上出生的更要聪明的人，他们的名字在这里几乎听都没有听到过。难道我会听到柏拉图的名字而不读他的书吗？好像柏拉图是我的同乡，而我却从没有见过他，——好像是我的近邻而我却从没有听到过他说话，或听到过他的智慧的语言。可是，事实不正是这样吗？他的《对话录》包含着他不朽的见解，却躺在旁边的书架上，我还没有读过它。我们是愚昧无知、不学无术的文盲；在这方面，我要说，两种文盲之间并没有什么区别，一种是完全目不识丁的市民，另一种是已经读书识字了，可是只读儿童读物和智力极低的读物。我们应该像古代的圣贤一样地美好，但首先要让我们知道他们的好处。我们真是一些小人物，在我们的智力的飞跃中，可怜我们只飞到比报章新闻稍高一些的地方。

并不是所有的书都像它们的读者一般愚笨的。可能，有好些话正是针对我们的境遇而说的，如果我们真正倾听了，懂得了这些话，它们之有利于我们的生活，将胜似黎明或阳春，很可能给我们一副新的面目。多少人在读了一本书之后，开始了他生活的新纪元！一本书，能解释我们的奇迹，又能启发新的奇迹，这本书就为我们而存在了。在目前，我们的说不出来的话，也许在别处已经说出来了。那些扰乱了我们，使我们疑难、困惑的问题也曾经发生在所有聪明人心上；一个问题都没有漏掉，而且每一个聪明人都回答过它们，按照各自的能力，用各自的话和各自的生活。再说，有了智慧，我们将领会慷慨的性质。在康科德郊外，有个田庄上的寂寞的雇工，他得到过第二次的诞生，获有了特殊的宗教经验，他相信自己由于他的信念的关系已经进入了沉默的庄重和排斥外物的境界，他也许会觉得我们的话是不对的；但是数千年前，琐罗亚斯德。走过了同样的历程，获有同样的经验；因为他是智慧的，知道这是普遍性的，就用相应的办法对待他的邻人，甚至据说还发明并创设了一个使人敬神的制度。那末，让他谦逊地和琐罗亚斯德精神沟通，并且在一切圣贤的自由影响下，跟耶稣基督精神沟通，然后，“让我们的教会”滚开吧。

我们夸耀说，我们属于十九世纪，同任何国家相比，我们迈着最大最快的步子。可是想想这市镇，它对自己的文化贡献何其微小。我不想谀赞我的市民同胞们，也不要他们谈赞我，因为这样一来，大家便没有进步了。应当像老牛般需要刺激——驱赶，然后才能快跑。我们有个相当像样的普通学校的制度，但只是为一般婴儿的；除了冬天有个半饥饿状态的文法学堂，最近还有了一个根据政府法令简陋地草创的图书馆，但却没有我们自己的学院。我们在肉体的疾病方面花了不少钱，精神的病害方面却没有花什么，现在已经到了时候，我们应该有不平凡的学校。我们不该让男女儿童成年后就不再受教育了。到了时候，一个个村子应该是一座座大学，老年的居民都是研究生，——如果他们

日子过得还宽裕的话，——他们应该有裕闲时间，把他们的余年放在从事自由学习上。难道世界永远只局限于一个巴黎或一个牛津？难道学生们不能寄宿在这里，在康科德的天空下受文科教育？难道我们不能请一位阿伯拉尔来给我们讲学？可叹啊！因为我们忙于养牛，开店，我们好久没有上学堂，我们的教育是可悲地荒芜了。在这个国土上，我们的城镇在某些方面应当替代欧洲贵族的地位。它应当是美术的保护者。它是很富的。它只缺少气量和优美。在农民和商人看重的事业上它肯出钱，可是要它举办一些知识界都知道是更有价值得多的事业时，它却认为那是乌托邦的梦想。感谢财富和政治，本市花了一万七千元造了市政府，但也许一百年内它不会为了生命的智慧贝壳内

的真正的肉，花这么多钱。为冬天办文法学校，每年募到一百二十五元，这笔钱比市内任何同样数目的捐款都花得更实惠。我们生活在十九世纪，为什么我们不能享受十九世纪的好处？为什么生活必须过得这样偏狭？如果我们要读报纸，为什么不越过波士顿的闲谈，立刻来订一份全世界最好的报纸呢？不要从“中立”的报纸去吮吸柔软的食物，也不要在新英格兰吃娇嫩的“橄榄枝”了。让一切有学问的社团到我们这里来报告，我们要看看他们懂不懂得些什么。为什么要让哈泼斯兄弟图书公司和里亭出版公司代替我们挑选读物？正像趣味高雅的贵族，在他的周围要结聚一些有助于他的修养的——天才——学识——机智——书籍——绘画——雕塑—— 音乐——哲学的工具等等；让城镇村子也这样做吧，——不要只请一个教师，一个牧师，一个司事，以为办教区图书馆，选举三个市政委员就可以到此为止了，困为我们拓荒的祖先仅有这么一点事业，却也在荒凉的岩石上挨过了严冬。集体的行为是符合我们制度的精神的：我确实相信我们的环境将更发达，我们的能力大于那些贵族们。新英格兰请得起全世界的智者，来教育她自己，让他们在这里食宿，让我们不再过乡曲的生活。这是我们所需要的不平凡的学校。我们并不要贵族，但让我们有高贵的村子。如果这是必需的，我们宁可少造一座桥，多走几步路，但在围绕着我们的黑暗的“无知深渊”上，架起至少一个圆拱来吧。