break their bread, but
to beg it; nay, thrust themselves into all public houses, crowd into
passage boats, get into travelers' wagons, and omit no chance of
craving people's charity, and injuring common beggars by interloping
in their traffic of alms.

Some were spewing, some were praying. I remember one Englishman
there. What mountains of gold did he promise to our Lady of Walsingham
if he ever got safe ashore again! One made a vow to deposit a relic of
the Cross in this place; another to put a relic of it in that;--some
promised to turn monks; one vowed a pilgrimage, barefooted and
bareheaded, in a coat of mail, and begging his bread all the way, to
St. James of Compostella. I could not but laugh at one fellow there.
He vowed as loud as he could bellow to the St. Christopher in the
great church at Paris (that the saint might be sure to hear him) a wax
candle as big as the saint himself. Now, you must know that the Paris
St. Christopher is enormous, and rather a mountain than a statue. He
was so loud, and went over and over with it so often, that a friend of
his gave him a touch on the elbow: "Take care what you promise," said
he; "if you should sell yourself, you could not buy such a candle."
"Hold your tongue, you fool," says the other (softly, so that St.
Christopher might not hear). "Let me but set foot on land once more,
and St. Christopher has good luck if he get even a tallow candle from
me."

I had rather lose all Duns Scotus, and twenty more such as he, than
one Cicero or Plutarch. Not that I am wholly against them, either: but
from the reading of the one I find myself to become honester and
better; whereas I rise from the other extremely dull, indifferent to
virtue, but violently bent on cavil and contention.

Read first the best books. The important thing for you is not how much
you know, but the quality of what you know. Divide your day and give
to each part of it a special occupation. Never work at night. It
dulls the brain and hurts the health.

I would not change my freedom for the best bishopric in the world.

I am now fifty-one years old. I am not enamored of life, but it is
worth while to continue a little longer with such a prospect of a
golden age. All looks brighter now. I myself, insignificant I, have
contributed something. I have at least stirred the bile of those who
would not have the world grow wiser, and only fools now snarl at me.
One of them said in a sermon lately, in a lamentable vo