C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.


  • Night after night,
  • He sat and bleared his eyes with books.
  • Longfellow.

    The scholar who cherishes the love of comfort is not fit to be deemed a scholar.


    There is unspeakable pleasure attending the life of a voluntary student.


  • Strange to the world, he wore a bashful look,
  • The fields his study, nature was his book.
  • Bloomfield.

    The world’s great men have not commonly been great scholars, nor its great scholars great men.

    O. W. Holmes.

  • Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows
  • Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
  • Dryden.

  • Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
  • Or surely you’ll grow double:
  • Up! up! my Friend, and clear our looks;
  • Why all this toil and trouble?
  • Wordsworth.

  • And then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
  • And shining morning face, creeping like snail
  • Unwillingly to school.
  • Shakespeare.

    Where should the scholar live? In solitude, or in society? in the green stillness of the country, where he can hear the heart of Nature beat, or in the dark, gray town where he can hear and feel the throbbing heart of man?


  • He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
  • Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading;
  • Lofty and sour to them that lov’d him not;
  • But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.
  • Shakespeare.

  • Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
  • A fitful tongue of leaping flame:
  • A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,
  • That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
  • A few swift years, and who can show
  • Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?
  • O. W. Holmes.

  • Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
  • And pause awhile from Learning to be wise;
  • There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail,
  • Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the gaol.
  • See nations, slowly wise and meanly just,
  • To buried merit raise the tardy bust.
  • Sam’l Johnson.

    The studious class are their own victims; they are thin and pale, their feet are cold, their heads are hot, the night is without sleep, the day a fear of interruption,—pallor, squalor, hunger, and egotism. If you come near them and see what conceits they entertain—they are abstractionists, and spend their days and nights in dreaming some dream; in expecting the homage of society to some precious scheme built on a truth, but destitute of proportion in its presentment, of justness in its application, and of all energy of will in the schemer to embody and vitalize it.