But the race of scholars is commonly badly brought up, and unless
they are bridled in by the rules of their elders they indulge in
infinite puerilities. They behave with petulance, and are puffed
up with presumption, judging of everything as if they were
certain, though they are altogether inexperienced.
You may happen to see some headstrong youth lazily lounging over
his studies, and when the winter's frost is sharp, his nose
running from the nipping cold drips down, nor does he think of
wiping it with his pocket-handkerchief until he has bedewed the
book before him with the ugly moisture. Would that he had before
him no book, but a cobbler's apron! His nails are stuffed with
fetid filth as black as jet, with which he marks any passage that
pleases him. He distributes a multitude of straws, which he
inserts to stick out in different places, so that the halm may
remind him of what his memory cannot retain. These straws,
because the book has no stomach to digest them, and no one takes
them out, first distend the book from its wonted closing, and at
length, being carelessly abandoned to oblivion, go to decay. He
does not fear to eat fruit or cheese over an open book, or
carelessly to carry a cup to and from his mouth; and because he
has no wallet at hand he drops into books the fragments that are
left. Continually chattering, he is never weary of disputing
with his companions, and while he alleges a crowd of senseless
arguments, he wets the book lying half open in his lap with
sputtering showers.
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