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diff --git a/42773-8.txt b/42773-8.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bc7c532..0000000 --- a/42773-8.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7500 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Talks on the study of literature., by Arlo Bates - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: Talks on the study of literature. - -Author: Arlo Bates - -Release Date: May 23, 2013 [EBook #42773] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALKS ON THE STUDY OF LITERATURE. *** - - - - -Produced by Michael Seow, sp1nd and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - TALKS - ON - THE STUDY OF LITERATURE - - BY - - ARLO BATES - - [Illustration] - - BOSTON AND NEW YORK - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - The Riverside Press Cambridge - - - - - COPYRIGHT, 1897 - BY ARLO BATES - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED - - - - -This volume is made up from a course of lectures delivered under the -auspices of the Lowell Institute in the autumn of 1895. These have been -revised and to some extent rewritten, and the division into chapters -made; but there has been no essential change. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - I. What Literature Is 1 - - II. Literary Expression 23 - - III. The Study of Literature 33 - - IV. Why we Study Literature 45 - - V. False Methods 60 - - VI. Methods of Study 69 - - VII. The Language of Literature 88 - - VIII. The Intangible Language 111 - - IX. The Classics 123 - - X. The Value of the Classics 135 - - XI. The Greater Classics 142 - - XII. Contemporary Literature 154 - - XIII. New Books and Old 167 - - XIV. Fiction 184 - - XV. Fiction and Life 199 - - XVI. Poetry 219 - - XVII. The Texture of Poetry 227 - - XVIII. Poetry and Life 241 - - - - -TALKS ON THE STUDY OF LITERATURE - - - - -I - -WHAT LITERATURE IS - - -As all life proceeds from the egg, so all discussion must proceed from a -definition. Indeed, it is generally necessary to follow definition by -definition, fixing the meaning of the terms used in the original -explanation, and again explaining the words employed in this exposition. - -I once heard a learned but somewhat pedantic man begin to answer the -question of a child by saying that a lynx is a wild quadruped. He was -allowed to get no further, but was at once asked what a quadruped is. He -responded that it is a mammal with four feet. This of course provoked -the inquiry what a mammal is; and so on from one question to another, -until the original subject was entirely lost sight of, and the lynx -disappeared in a maze of verbal distinctions as completely as it might -have vanished in the tangles of the forest primeval. I feel that I am -not wholly safe from danger of repeating the experience of this -well-meaning pedant if I attempt to give a definition of literature. -The temptation is strong to content myself with saying: "Of course we -all know what literature is." The difficulty which I have had in the -endeavor to frame a satisfactory explanation of the term has convinced -me, however, that it is necessary to assume that few of us do know, and -has impressed upon me the need of trying to make clear what the word -means to me. If my statement seem insufficient for general application, -it will at least show the sense which I shall give to "literature" in -these talks. - -In its most extended signification literature of course might be taken -to include whatever is written or printed; but our concern is with that -portion only which is indicated by the name "polite literature," or by -the imported term "belles-lettres,"--both antiquated though respectable -phrases. In other words, I wish to confine my examination to those -written works which can properly be brought within the scope of -literature as one of the fine arts. - -Undoubtedly we all have a general idea of the limitations which are -implied by these various terms, and we are not without a more or less -vague notion of what is indicated by the word literature in its most -restricted and highest sense. The important point is whether our idea is -clear and well realized. We have no difficulty in saying that one book -belongs to art and that another does not; but we often find ourselves -perplexed when it comes to telling why. We should all agree that "The -Scarlet Letter" is literature and that the latest sensational novel is -not,--but are we sure what makes the difference? We know that -Shakespeare wrote poetry and Tupper doggerel, but it by no means follows -that we can always distinguish doggerel from poetry; and while it is not -perhaps of consequence whether we are able to inform others why we -respect the work of one or another, it is of much importance that we be -in a position to justify our tastes to ourselves. It is not hard to -discover whether we enjoy a book, and it is generally possible to tell -why we like it; but this is not the whole of the matter. It is necessary -that we be able to estimate the justice of our preferences. We must -remember that our liking or disliking is not only a test of the -book,--but is a test of us as well. There is no more accurate gauge of -the moral character of a man than the nature of the books which he -really cares for. He who would progress by the aid of literature must -have reliable standards by which to judge his literary feelings and -opinions; he must be able to say: "My antipathy to such a work is -justified by this or by that principle; my pleasure in that other is -fine because for these reasons the book itself is noble." - -It is hardly possible to arrive at any clear understanding of what is -meant by literature as an art, without some conception of what -constitutes art in general. Broadly speaking, art exists in consequence -of the universal human desire for sympathy. Man is forever endeavoring -to break down the wall which separates him from his fellows. Whether we -call it egotism or simply humanity, we all know the wish to make others -appreciate our feelings; to show them how we suffer, how we enjoy. We -batter our fellow-men with our opinions sufficiently often, but this is -as nothing to the insistence with which we pour out to them our -feelings. A friend is the most valued of earthly possessions largely -because he is willing to receive without appearance of impatience the -unending story of our mental sensations. We are all of us more or less -conscious of the constant impulse which urges us on to expression; of -the inner necessity which moves us to continual endeavors to make others -share our thoughts, our experiences, but most of all our emotions. It -seems to me that if we trace this instinctive desire back far enough, we -reach the beginnings of art. - -It may seem that the splendidly immeasurable achievements of poetry and -painting, of architecture, of music and sculpture, are far enough from -this primal impulse; but I believe that in it is to be found their germ. -Art began with the first embodiment of human feelings by permanent -means. Let us suppose, by way of illustration, some prehistoric man, -thrilled with awe and terror at sight of a mastodon, and scratching upon -a bone rude lines in the shape of the animal,--not only to give -information, not only to show what the beast was like, but also to -convey to his fellows his feelings when confronted with the monster. It -is as if he said: "See! I cannot put into words what I felt; but look! -the creature was like this. Think how you would feel if you came face to -face with it. Then you will know how I felt." Something of this sort may -the beginnings of art be conceived to have been. - -I do not mean, of course, that the prehistoric man who made such a -picture--and such a picture exists--analyzed his motives. He felt a -thing which he could not say in words; he instinctively turned to -pictorial representation,--and graphic art was born. - -The birth of poetry was probably not entirely dissimilar. Barbaric men, -exulting in the wild delight of victory, may seem unlikely sponsors for -the infant muse, and yet it is with them that song began. The savage joy -of the conquerors, too great for word, found vent at first in excited, -bounding leaps and uncouthly ferocious gestures, by repetition growing -into rhythm; then broke into inarticulate sounds which timed the -movements, until these in turn gave place to words, gradually moulded -into rude verse by the measures of the dance. The need of expressing the -feelings which swell inwardly, the desire of sharing with others, of -putting into tangible form, the emotions that thrill the soul is common -to all human beings; and it is from this that arises the thing which we -call art. - -The essence of art, then, is the expression of emotion; and it follows -that any book to be a work of art must embody sincere emotion. Not all -works which spring from genuine feeling succeed in embodying or -conveying it. The writer must be sufficiently master of technique to be -able to make words impart what he would express. The emotion phrased -must moreover be general and in some degree typical. Man is interested -and concerned in the emotions of men only in so far as these throw light -on the nature and possibilities of life. Art must therefore deal with -what is typical in the sense that it touches the possibilities of all -human nature. If it concerns itself with much that only the few can or -may experience objectively, it has to do with that only which all human -beings may be conceived of as sharing subjectively. Literature may be -broadly defined as the adequate expression of genuine and typical -emotion. The definition may seem clumsy, and hardly exact enough to be -allowed in theoretical æsthetics; but it seems to me sufficiently -accurate to serve our present purpose. Certainly the essentials of -literature are the adequate embodiment of sincere and general feeling. - -By sincerity here we mean that which is not conventional, which is not -theoretical, not artificial; that which springs from a desire honestly -to impart to others exactly the emotion that has been actually felt. By -the term "emotion" or "feeling" we mean those inner sensations of -pleasure, excitement, pain, or passion, which are distinguished from the -merely intellectual processes of the mind,--from thought, perception, -and reason. It is not necessary to trespass just now on the domain of -the psychologist by an endeavor to establish scientific distinctions. -We are all able to appreciate the difference between what we think and -what we feel, between those things which touch the intellect and those -which affect the emotional nature. We see a sentence written on paper, -and are intellectually aware of it; but unless it has for us some -especial message, unless it concerns us personally, we are not moved by -it. Most impressions which we receive touch our understanding without -arousing our feelings. This is all so evident that there is not likely -to arise in your minds any confusion in regard to the meaning of the -phrase "genuine emotion." - -Whatever be the origin of this emotion it must be essentially -impersonal, and it is generally so in form. There are comparatively few -works of art which are confessedly the record of simple, direct, -personal experience; and perhaps none of these stand in the front rank -of literature. Of course I am not speaking of literature which takes a -personal form, like any book written in the first person; but of those -that are avowedly a record of actual life. We must certainly include in -literature works like the "Reflections" of Marcus Aurelius, the -"Confessions" of Augustine, and--though the cry is far--Rousseau, and -the "Journal Intime" of Amiel, but there is no one of these which is to -be ranked high in the scale of the world's greatest books. Even in -poetry the same thing is true. However we may admire "In Memoriam" and -that much greater poem, Mrs. Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese," -we are little likely to regard them as standing supremely high among -the masterpieces. The "Sonnets" of Shakespeare which we suppose to be -personal are yet with supreme art made so impersonal that as far as the -reader is concerned the experiences which they record might be entirely -imaginary. It is in proportion as a poet is able to give this quality -which might be called generalization to his work that it becomes art. - -The reason of this is not far to seek. If the emotion is professedly -personal it appeals less strongly to mankind, and it is moreover likely -to interfere with its own effective embodiment. All emotion in -literature must be purely imaginative as far as its expression in words -is concerned. Of course poetical form may be so thoroughly mastered as -to become almost instinctive, but nevertheless acute personal feeling -must trammel utterance. It is not that the author does not live through -what he sets forth. It is that the artistic moment is not the moment of -experience, but that of imaginative remembrance. The "Sonnets from the -Portuguese" afford admirable examples of what I mean. It is well known -that these relate a most completely personal and individual story. Not -only the sentiments but the circumstances set forth were those of the -poet's intimate actual life. It was the passion of love and of -self-renunciation in her own heart which broke forth in the fine -sonnet:-- - - Go from me, yet I feel that I shall stand - Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore - Alone upon the threshold of the door - Of individual life shall I command - The uses of my soul; or lift my hand - Serenely in the sunshine as before - Without the sense of that which I forebore,-- - Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land - Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine - With pulses that beat double. What I do - And what I dream include thee, as the wine - Must taste of its own grapes: and when I sue - God for myself, He hears that name of thine, - And sees within my eyes the tears of two. - -There came to Mrs. Browning a poignant moment when she realized with a -thrill of anguish what it would mean to her to live out her life alone, -separated forever from the lover who had won her back from the very -grasp of death. It was not in the pang of that throe that she made of it -a sonnet; but afterward, while it was still felt, it is true, but felt -rather as a memory vividly reproduced by the imagination. In so far both -he who writes impersonally and he who writes personally are dealing with -that which at the instant exists in the imagination. In the latter, -however, there is still the remembrance of the actuality, the vibration -of the joy or sorrow of which that imagining is born. Human -self-consciousness intrudes itself whenever one is avowedly writing of -self; sometimes even vanity plays an important part. From these and -other causes it results that, whatever may be the exceptions, the -highest work is that which phrases the general and the impersonal with -no direct reference to self. Personal feeling lies behind all art, and -no work can be great which does not rest on a basis of experience, more -or less remotely; yet the greatest artist is he who embodies emotion, -not in terms of his own life, but in those which make it equally the -property of all mankind. It is feeling no longer egotistic, but broadly -human. If the simile do not seem too homely, we might say that the -difference is that between arithmetic and algebra. In the one case it is -the working out of a particular problem; in the other of an equation -which is universal. - -Mankind tests art by universal experience. If an author has really felt -what he has written, if what he sets down has been actual to him in -imagination, whether actual in experience or not, readers recognize -this, and receive his work, so that it lives. If he has affected a -feeling, if he has shammed emotion, the whole is sure to ring false, and -the world soon tires of his writings. Immediate popular judgment of a -book is pretty generally wrong; ultimate general estimate is invariably -correct. Humanity knows the truth of human feeling; and while it may be -fooled for a time, it comes to the truth at last, in act if not in -theory. The general public is guided by the wise few, and it does not -reason out the difference between the genuine and the imitation; but it -will in the end save the real, while the sham is forgotten through utter -neglect. - -Even where an author has seemingly persuaded himself that his pretended -emotions are real, he cannot permanently deceive the world. You may -remember the chapter in Aldrich's delightful "Story of a Bad Boy" which -relates how Tom Bailey, being crossed in love at the mature age of -fourteen, deliberately became a "blighted being;" how he neglected his -hair, avoided his playmates, made a point of having a poor appetite, and -went mooning about forsaken graveyards, endeavoring to fix his thoughts -upon death and self-destruction; how entirely the whole matter was a -humbug, and yet how sincere the boy was in supposing himself to be -unutterably melancholy. "It was a great comfort," he says, "to be so -perfectly miserable and yet not to suffer any. I used to look in the -glass and gloat over the amount and variety of mournful expression I -could throw into my features. If I caught myself smiling at anything, I -cut the smile short with a sigh. The oddest thing about all this is, I -never once suspected that I was not unhappy. No one ... was more -deceived than I." We have all of us had experiences of this kind, and I -fancy that there are few writers who cannot look back to a stage in -their career when they thought that it was a prime essential of -authorship to believe themselves to feel things which they did not feel -in the least. This sort of self-deception is characteristic of a whole -school of writers, of whom Byron was in his day a typical example. There -is no doubt that Byron, greatly gifted as he was, took his mooning -melancholy with monstrous seriousness when he began to write it, and the -public received it with equal gravity. Yet Byron's mysterious misery, -his immeasurable wickedness, his misanthropy too great for words, were -mere affectations,--stage tricks which appealed to the gallery. Nobody -is moved by them now. The fact that the poet himself thought that he -believed in them could not save them. Byron had other and nobler -qualities which make his best work endure, but it is in spite of his -Bad-Boy-ish pose as a "blighted being." The fact is that sooner or later -time tries all art by the tests of truth and common sense, and nothing -which is not genuine is able to endure this proving. - -To be literature a work must express sincere emotion; but how is feeling -which is genuine to be distinguished from that which is affected? All -that has been said must be regarded as simply theoretical and of very -little practical interest unless there be some criterion by which this -question may be settled. Manifestly we cannot so far enter into the -consciousness of the writer as to tell whether he does or does not feel -what he expresses; it can be only from outward signs that we judge -whether his imagination has first made real to him what he undertakes to -make real for others. - -Something may be judged by the amount of seriousness with which a thing -is written. The air of sincerity which is inevitable in the genuine is -most difficult to counterfeit. What a man really feels he writes with a -certain earnestness which may seem indefinite, but which is sufficiently -tangible in its effects upon the reader. More than by any other single -influence mankind has in all its history been more affected by the -contagion of belief; and it is not easy to exaggerate the -susceptibility of humanity to this force. Vague and elusive as this test -of the genuineness of emotion might seem, it is in reality capable of -much practical application. We have no trouble in deciding that the -conventional rhymes which fill the corners of the newspapers are not the -product of genuine inner stress. We are too well acquainted with these -time-draggled rhymes of "love" and "dove," of "darts" and "hearts," of -"woe" and "throe;" we have encountered too often these pretty, petty -fancies, these twilight musings and midnight moans, this mild melancholy -and maudlin sentimentality. We have only to read these trig little -bunches of verse, tied up, as it were, with sad-colored ribbons, to feel -their artificiality. On the other hand, it is impossible to read "Helen -of Kirconnel," or Browning's "Prospice," or Wordsworth's poems to Lucy, -without being sure that the poet meant that which he said in his song -with all the fervor of heart and imagination. A reader need not be very -critical to feel that the novels of the "Duchess" and her tribe are made -by a process as mechanical as that of making paper flowers; he will not -be able to advance far in literary judgment without coming to suspect -that fiction like the pleasant pot-boilers of William Black and W. Clark -Russell, if hand-made, is yet manufactured according to an arbitrary -pattern; but what reader can fail to feel that to Hawthorne "The Scarlet -Letter" was utterly true, that to Thackeray Colonel Newcome was a -creature warm with human blood and alive with a vigorous humanity? -Theoretically we may doubt our power to judge of the sincerity of an -author, but we do not find this so impossible practically. - -Critics sometimes say of a book that it is or is not "convincing." What -they mean is that the author has or has not been able to make what he -has written seem true to the imagination of the reader. The man who in -daily life attempts to act a part is pretty sure sooner or later to -betray himself to the observant eye. His real self will shape the -disguise under which he has hidden it; he may hold out the hands and say -the words of Esau, but the voice with which he speaks will perforce be -the voice of Jacob. It is so in literature, and especially in literature -which arouses the perceptions by an appeal to the imagination. The -writer must be in earnest himself or he cannot convince the reader. To -the man who invents a fiction, for instance, the story which he has -devised must in his imagination be profoundly true or it will not be -true to the audience which he addresses. To the novelist who is -"convincing," his characters are as real as the men he meets in his -walks or sits beside at table. It is for this reason that every novelist -with imagination is likely to find that the fictitious personages of his -story seem to act independently of the will of the author. They are so -real that they must follow out the laws of their character, although -that character exists only in imagination. For the author to feel this -verity in what he writes is of course not all that is needed to enable -him to convince his public; but it is certain that he is helpless -without it, and that he cannot make real to others what is not real to -himself. - -In emotion we express the difference between the genuine and the -counterfeit by the words "sentiment" and "sentimentality." Sentiment is -what a man really feels; sentimentality is what he persuades himself -that he feels. The Bad Boy as a "blighted being" is the type of -sentimentalists for all time. There is about the same relation between -sentimentality and sentiment that there is between a paper doll and the -lovely girl that it represents. There are fashions in emotions as there -are fashions in bonnets; and foolish mortals are as prone to follow one -as another. It is no more difficult for persons of a certain quality of -mind to persuade themselves that they thrill with what they conceive to -be the proper emotion than it is for a woman to convince herself of the -especial fitness to her face of the latest device in utterly unbecoming -headgear. Our grandmothers felt that proper maidenly sensibility -required them to be so deeply moved by tales of broken hearts and -unrequited affection that they must escape from the too poignant anguish -by fainting into the arms of the nearest man. Their grandchildren to-day -are neither more nor less sincere, neither less nor more sensible in -following to extremes other emotional modes which it might be invidious -to specify. Sentimentality will not cease while the power of -self-deception remains to human beings. - -With sentimentality genuine literature has no more to do than it has -with other human weaknesses and vices, which it may picture but must not -share. With sentiment it is concerned in every line. Of sentiment no -composition can have too much; of sentimentality it has more than enough -if there be but the trace shown in a single affectation of phrase, in -one unmeaning syllable or unnecessary accent. - -There are other tests of the genuineness of the emotion expressed in -literature which are more tangible than those just given; and being more -tangible they are more easily applied. I have said that sham sentiment -is sure to ring false. This is largely due to the fact that it is -inevitably inconsistent. Just as a man has no difficulty in acting out -his own character, whereas in any part that is assumed there are sure -sooner or later to be lapses and incongruities, so genuine emotion will -be consistent because it is real, while that which is feigned will -almost surely jar upon itself. The fictitious personage that the -novelist actually shapes in his imagination, that is more real to him -than if it stood by his side in solid flesh, must be consistent with -itself because it is in the mind of its creator a living entity. It may -not to the reader seem winning or even human, but it will be a unit in -its conception and its expression, a complete and consistent whole. The -poem which comes molten from the furnace of the imagination will be a -single thing, not a collection of verses more or less ingeniously -dovetailed together. The work which has been felt as a whole, which has -been grasped as a whole, which has as a whole been lived by that inner -self which is the only true producer of art, will be so consistent, so -unified, so closely knit, that the reader cannot conceive of it as being -built up of fortuitous parts, or as existing at all except in the -beautiful completeness which genius has given it. - -What I mean may perhaps be more clear to you if you take any of the -little tinkling rhymes which abound, and examine them critically. Even -some of more merit easily afford example. Take that pleasant rhyme so -popular in the youth of our fathers, "The Old Oaken Bucket," and see how -one stanza or another might be lost without being missed, how one -thought or another has obviously been put in for the rhyme or to fill -out the verse, and how the author seems throughout always to have been -obliged to consider what he might say next, putting his work together as -a joiner matches boards for a table-top. Contrast this with the absolute -unity of Wordsworth's "Daffodils," Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn," -Shelley's "Stanzas Written in Dejection," or any really great lyric. You -will perceive the difference better than any one can say it. It is true -that the quality of which we are speaking is sufficiently subtile to -make examples unsatisfactory and perhaps even dangerous; but it seems to -me that it is not too much to say that any careful and intelligent -reader will find little difficulty in feeling the unity of the -masterpieces of literature. - -This lack of consistency is most easily appreciated, perhaps, in the -drawing of character. Those modern writers who look upon literature as -having two functions, first, to advance extravagant theories, and -second,--and more important,--to advertise the author, are constantly -putting forward personages that are so inconsistent that it is -impossible not to see that they are mere embodied arguments or -sensationalism incarnate, and not in the least creatures of a strong and -wholesome imagination. When in "The Doll's House" Ibsen makes Nora Helma -an inconsequent, frivolous, childish puppet, destitute alike of moral -and of common sense, and then in the twinkling of an eye transforms her -into an indignant woman, full of moral purpose, furnished not only with -a complete set of advanced views but with an entire battery of modern -arguments with which to support them,--when, in a word, the author, for -the sake of his theory, works a visible miracle, we cease to believe in -his imaginative sincerity. We know that he is dogmatizing, not creating; -that this is artifice, not art. - -Another test of the genuineness of what is expressed in literature is -its truth to life. Here again we tread upon ground somewhat uncertain, -since truth is as elusive as a sunbeam, and to no two human beings the -same. Yet while the meaning of life is not the same to any two who walk -under the heavens, there are certain broad principles which all men -recognize. The eternal facts of life and of death, of love and of hate, -the instinct of self-preservation, the fear of pain, the respect for -courage, and the enthrallment of passion,--these are laws of humanity -so universal that we assume them to be known to all mankind. We cannot -believe that any mortal can find that true to his imagination which -ignores these unvarying conditions of human existence. He who writes -what is untrue to humanity cannot persuade us that he writes what is -true to himself. We are sure that those impossible heroes of Ouida, with -their superhuman accomplishments, those heroines of beauty -transcendently incompatible with their corrupt hearts, base lives, and -entire defiance of all sanitary laws, were no more real to their author -than they are to us. Conviction springs from the imagination, and -imagination is above all else the realizing faculty. It is idle to say -that a writer imagines every extravagant and impossible whimsy which -comes into his head. He imagines those things, and those things only, -which are real to his inner being; so that in judging literature the -question to be settled is: Does this thing which the author tells, this -emotion which he expresses, impress us as having been to him when he -wrote actual, true, and absolutely real? To unimaginative persons it -might seem that I am uttering nonsense. It is not possible for a man -without imagination to see how things which are invented by the mind -should by that same mind, in all sanity, be received as real. Yet that -is precisely what happens. No one, I believe, produces real or permanent -literature who is not capable of performing this miracle; who does not -feel to be true that which has no other being, no other place, no other -significance save that which it derives from the creative power of his -own inner sense, working upon the material furnished by his perception -of the world around him. This is the daily miracle of genius; but it is -a miracle shared to some extent by every mortal who has the faintest -glimmer of genuine imagination. - -To be convincing literature must express emotion which is genuine; to -commend itself to the best sense of mankind, and thus to take its place -in the front rank, it must deal with emotion which is wholesome and -normal. A work phrasing morbid emotion may be art, and it may be -lasting; but it is not the highest art, and it does not approve itself -to the best and sanest taste. Mankind looks to literature for the -expression of genuine, strong, healthy human emotion; emotion -passionate, tragic, painful, the exhilaration of joy or the frenzy of -grief, as it may be; but always the emotion which under the given -conditions would be felt by the healthy heart and soul, by the virile -man and the womanly woman. No amount of insane power flashing here and -there amid the foulness of Tolstoi's "Kreutzer Sonata," can reconcile -the world to the fact that the book embodies the broodings of a mind -morbid and diseased. Even to concede that the author of such a work had -genius could not avail to conceal the fact that his muse was smitten -from head to feet with the unspeakable corruption of leprosy. Morbid -literature may produce a profound sensation, but it is incapable of -creating a permanent impression. - -The principles of which we are speaking are strikingly illustrated in -the tales of Edgar Allan Poe. He was possessed of an imagination narrow, -but keen; uncertain and wayward, but alert and swift; individual and -original, though unhappily lacking any ethical stability. In his best -work he is sincere and convincing, so that stories like "The Cask of -Amontillado," "The Gold Bug," or "The Purloined Letter," are permanently -effective, each in its way and degree. Poe's masterpiece, "The Fall of -the House of Usher," is a study of morbid character, but it is saved by -the fact that this is viewed in its effect upon a healthy nature. The -reader looks at everything through the mind of the imaginary narrator, -so that the ultimate effect is that of an exhibition of the feelings of -a wholesome nature brought into contact with madness; although even so -the ordinary reader is still repelled by the abnormal elements of the -theme. There is in all the work of Poe a good deal that is fantastic and -not a little that is affected. He is rarely entirely sincere and sane. -He shared with Byron an instinctive fondness for the rôle of a "blighted -being," and a halo of inebriety too often encircles his head; yet at his -best he moves us by the mysterious and incommunicable power of genius. -Many of his tales, on the other hand, are mere mechanical tasks, and as -such neither convincing nor permanent. There is a great deal of Poe -which is not worth anybody's reading because he did not believe it, did -not imagine it as real, when he wrote it. Other stories of his -illustrate the futility of self-deception on the part of the author. -"Lygeia" Poe always announced as his masterpiece. He apparently -persuaded himself that he felt its turgid sentimentality, that he -thrilled at its elaborately theatrical setting, and he flattered himself -that he could cheat the world as he had cheated himself. Yet the reader -is not fooled. Every man of judgment realizes that, however the author -was able to deceive himself, "Lygeia" is rubbish, and sophomoric rubbish -at that. - -There has probably never before been a time which afforded so abundant -illustrations of morbid work as to-day. We shall have occasion later to -speak of Verlaine, Zola, Ibsen, and the rest, with their prurient prose -and putrescent poetry; and here it is enough to note that the diseased -and the morbid are by definition excluded from literature in the best -sense of the word. Good art is not only sincere; it is human, and -wholesome, and sound. - - - - -II - -LITERARY EXPRESSION - - -So much, then, for what literature must express; it is well now to -examine for a little the manner of expression. To feel genuine emotion -is not all that is required of a writer. Among artists cannot be -reckoned - - One born with poet's heart in sad eclipse - Because unmatched with poet's tongue; - Whose song impassioned struggles to his lips, - Yet dies, alas! unsung. - -He must be able to sing the song; to make the reader share the throbbing -of his heart. All men feel; the artist is he who can by the use of -conventions impart his feelings to the world. The musician uses -conventions of sound, the painter conventions of color, the sculptor -conventions of form, and the writer must employ the means most -artificial of all, the conventions of language. - -Here might be considered, if there were space, the whole subject of -artistic technique; but it is sufficient for our purposes to notice that -the test of technical excellence is the completeness with which the -means are adapted to the end sought. The crucial question in regard to -artistic workmanship is: "Does it faithfully and fully convey the -emotion which is the essence of the work?" A work of art must make -itself felt as well as intellectually understood; it must reach the -heart as well as the brain. If a picture, a statue, a piece of music, or -a poem provokes your admiration without touching your sensibilities, -there is something radically wrong with the work--or with you. - -First of all, then, expression must be adequate. If it is slovenly, -incomplete, unskillful, it fails to impart the emotion which is its -purpose. We have all sat down seething with excitement and endeavored to -get our feelings upon paper, only to discover that our command of -ourselves and of technical means was not sufficient to allow us to -phrase adequately that which yet we felt most sincerely. It is true that -style is in a sense a subordinate matter, but it is none the less an -essential one. It is manifestly of little consequence to the world what -one has to say if one cannot say it. We cannot be thrilled by the song -which the dumb would sing had he but voice. - -Yet it is necessary to remember that although expression must be -adequate, it must also be subordinate. It is a means and not an end, and -the least suspicion of its having been put first destroys our sense of -the reality of the feeling it embodies. If an actress in moments of -impassioned declamation is detected arranging her draperies, her art no -longer carries conviction. Nobody feeling the heart-swelling words of -Queen Katharine, for instance, could while speaking them be openly -concerned about the effective disposition of her petticoats. The reader -of too intricate and elaborate verse, such as the French forms of -triolet, rondeau, rondel, and so on, has an instinctive perception that -a poet whose attention was taken up with the involved and artfully -difficult versification could not have been experiencing any deep -passion, no matter how strongly the verse protests that he has. -Expression obviously artful instantly arouses suspicion that it has been -wrought for its own sake only. - -Technical excellence which displays the cleverness of the artist rather -than imparts the emotion which is its object, defeats its own end. A -book so elaborated that we feel that the author was absorbed in -perfection of expression rather than in what he had to express leaves us -cold and unmoved, if it does not tire us. The messenger has usurped the -attention which belonged to the message. It is not impossible that I -shall offend some of you when I say that Walter Pater's "Marius the -Epicurean" seems to me a typical example of this sort of book. The -author has expended his energies in exquisite excesses of language; he -has refined his style until it has become artfully inanimate. It is like -one of the beautiful glass flowers in the Harvard Museum. It is not a -living rose. It is no longer a message spoken to the heart of mankind; -it is a brilliant exercise in technique. - -Literature, then, is genuine emotion, adequately expressed. To be -genuine it must come from the imagination; and adequate expression is -that which in turn reaches the imagination. If it were not that the -phrase seems forbiddingly cumbersome, we might, indeed, define -literature as being such writings as are able to arouse emotion by an -appeal to the imagination. - -A sensational story, what the English call a "penny dreadful" or a -"shilling shocker" according to the cost of the bundle of cheap -excitement, may be an appeal to the emotions, but it aims to act upon -the senses or the nerves. Its endeavor is to work by the grossest and -most palpable means. It is an assault, so to say, upon the perceptions. -Books of this sort have nothing to do with imagination, either in reader -or writer. They would be ruled out by all the tests which we have given, -since they are not sincere, not convincing, not consistent, not true to -life. - -One step higher in the scale come romances of abounding fancy, of which -"She" may serve as an example. They are clever feats of intellectual -jugglery, and it is to the intellectual perceptions that they appeal. -Not, it is true, to the intellect in its loftiest moods, but the -understanding as distinguished from the feeling. No reader is really -moved by them. The ingenuity of the author amuses and absorbs the -attention. The dexterity and unexpectedness of the tale excite and -entertain. The pleasure experienced in reading these books is not far -removed from that experienced in seeing a clever contortionist. To read -them is like going to the circus,--a pleasant diversion, and one not -without a certain importance to this over-wrought generation. It is -amusement, although not of a high grade. - -Do not suppose, however, that I am saying that a story cannot have an -exciting plot and yet be literature. In the restricted sense in which -these lectures take the term, I should say that "The Adventures of -Captain Horn," an agreeable book which has been widely read of late, is -not literature; and yet "Treasure Island," upon which perhaps to some -extent the former was modeled, most certainly is literature. The -difference is that while Stockton in "Captain Horn" has worked with -clever ingenuity to entertain, Stevenson in "Treasure Island" so vividly -imagined what he wrote that he has made his characters human, informed -every page with genuine feeling, and produced a romance permanently -vital. The plot of those superb masterpieces of adventure, the -"D'Artagnan Romances," is as wild, perhaps as extravagant, as that of -the marrow-curdling tales which make the fortunes of sensational papers; -but to the excitement of adventure is added that unification, that -humanization, that perfection of imaginative realism which mark Dumas as -a genius. - -The difference of effect between books which are not literature and -those which are is that while these amuse, entertain, glance over the -surface of the mind, those touch the deepest springs of being. They -touch us æsthetically, it is true. The emotion aroused is impersonal, -and thus removed from the keen thrill which is born of actual -experiences; but it depends upon the same passions, the same -characteristics, the same humanity, that underlie the joys and sorrows -of real life. It is because we are capable of passion and of -disappointment that we are moved by the love and anguish of Romeo and -Juliet, of Francesca and Paolo. Our emotion is not identical with that -with which the heart throbs in personal love and grief; yet art which is -genuine awakes emotion thoroughly genuine. Books of sensationalism and -sentimentality may excite curiosity, or wonder, or amusement, or sham -feeling; but they must have at least some spark of sacred fire before -they can arouse in the intelligent reader this inner throb of real -feeling. - -The personal equation must be considered here. The same book must affect -different readers differently. From the sentimental maid who weeps in -the kitchen over "The Seventy Sorrows of Madelaine the Broken-hearted," -to her master in his library, touched by the grief of King Lear, is -indeed a far cry; and yet both may be deeply moved. It may be asked -whether we have arrived at a standard which will enable us to judge -between them. - -The matter is perhaps to be cleared up somewhat by a little common -sense. It is not hard to decide whether the kitchen-maid in question has -an imagination sufficiently well developed to bring her within the -legitimate grounds of inquiry; and the fiction which delights her -rudimentary understanding is easily ruled out. It is not so easy, -however, to dispose of this point entirely. There is always a -border-land concerning which doubts and disagreements must continue to -exist. In all matters connected with the feelings it is necessary to -recognize the fact that the practical is not likely to accord fully with -the theoretical. We define literature only to be brought face to face -with the difficulty which is universal in art, the difficulty of degree. -No book will answer, it may be, to a theoretical definition, no work -conform completely to required conditions. The composition which is a -masterpiece stands at one end of the list, and comes so near to the -ideal that there is no doubt of its place. At the other end there is the -rubbish, equally unquestioned in its worthlessness. The troublesome -thing is to decide where between comes the dividing line above which is -literature. We call a ring or a coin gold, knowing that it contains a -mixture of alloy. The goldsmith may have a standard, and refuse the name -gold to any mixture into which enters a given per cent of baser metal; -but in art this is impossible. Here each reader must decide for himself. -Whether works which lie near the line are to be considered literature is -a question to be decided individually. Each reader is justified in -making his own decision, provided only that he found it upon definite -principles. It is largely a question what is one's own responsiveness to -literature. There are those to whom Tolstoi's "War and Peace" is a work -of greatness, while others fail to find it anything but a chaotic and -unorganized note-book of a genius not self-responsible. "John Inglesant" -appeals to many persons of excellent taste as a novel of permanent -beauty, while to some it seems sentimental and artificial. Mr. Lowell -and others have regarded Sylvester Judd's "Margaret" as one of the -classics of American fiction; yet it has never appealed to the general -public, and an eminent literary man told me not long ago that he finds -it dull. To these and to all other varying opinions there is but one -thing to be said: Any man has a right to his judgment if it is founded -upon the logical application of definite principles. Any opinion which -is sincere and based upon standards must be treated with respect, -whether it is agreed with or not. - -It is difficult, on the other hand, to feel that there is any moral -excuse for prejudices which are the result of individual whims rather -than of deliberate judgment. An opinion should not be some burr caught -up by the garments unawares; but a fruit carefully selected as the best -on the tree. The fact is that the effort of forming an intelligent -judgment is more severe than most persons care to undertake unless -absolutely forced to it. It sometimes seems as if the whole tendency of -modern life were in the direction of cultivating mental dexterity until -the need of also learning mental concentration is in danger of being -overlooked. Men are trained to meet intellectual emergencies, but not to -endure continued intellectual strain. The difficulty which is to be -conquered by a sudden effort they are able to overcome, but when -deliberation and continuous mental achievement are required, the -weakness of their training is manifest. The men, and perhaps still more -the women, of to-day are ready to decide upon the merits of a book in -the twinkling of an eye; and it is to be acknowledged that these snap -judgments are reasonable far more often than could have been expected. -When it comes, however, to having a reason for the faith that is in -them, it is lamentable how many intelligent persons prove utterly -incapable of fairly and logically examining literature; and it must be -conceded that there should be some other test by which to decide whether -a book is to be included under the gracious name of literature than the -dogmatic assertion: "Well, I don't care what anybody says against it; I -like it!" - - * * * * * - -We have discussed the distinctions by which it may be decided what is to -be considered literature; and, did space warrant, we might go on to -examine the principles which determine the rank of work. They are of -course largely to be inferred from what has been said already. The merit -of literature will be chiefly dependent upon the closeness with which it -conforms to the rules which mark the nature of literature. The more -fully genuine its emotion, the more adequate its expression, the higher -the scale in which a book is to be placed. The more sane and healthful, -the more entirely in accord with the needs and springs of general human -life, the greater the work. Indeed, beyond this there is little to say -save that the nobility of intention, the ethical significance of the -emotion embodied, mark the worth and the rank of a composition. - -I have tried to define literature, and yet in the end my strongest -feeling is that of the inadequacy of my definition. He would be but a -lukewarm lover who was capable of framing a description which would -appear to him to embody fully the perfections of his mistress; and art -is a mistress so beautiful, so high, so noble, that no phrases can fitly -characterize her, no service can be wholly worthy of her. Life is full -of disappointment, and pain, and bitterness, and that sense of futility -in which all these evils are summed up; and yet even were there no other -alleviation, he who knows and truly loves literature finds here a -sufficient reason to be glad that he lives. Science may show man how to -live; art makes living worth his while. Existence to-day without -literature would be a failure and a despair; and if we cannot -satisfactorily define our art, we at least are aware how it enriches and -ennobles the life of every human being who comes within the sphere of -its wide and gracious influence. - - - - -III - -THE STUDY OF LITERATURE - - -When it is clearly understood what literature is, there may still remain -a good deal of vagueness in regard to the study of it. It is by no means -sufficient for intellectual development that one have a misty general -share in the conventional respect traditionally felt for such study. -There should be a clear and accurate comprehension why the study of -literature is worth the serious attention of earnest men and women. - -It might at first thought seem that of this question no discussion is -needed. It is generally assumed that the entire matter is sufficiently -obvious, and that this is all that there is to it. The obvious, however, -is often the last to be perceived; and such is the delusiveness of human -nature that to call a thing too plain to need demonstration is often but -a method of concealing inability to prove. Men are apt to fail to -perceive what lies nearest to them, while to cover their blindness and -ignorance they are ready to accept without reasoning almost any -assumption which comes well recommended. The demand for patent -medicines, wide-spread as it is, is insignificant in comparison to the -demand for ready-made opinions. Most men accept the general belief, and -do not trouble themselves to make it really theirs by examining the -grounds upon which it is based. We all agree that it is well to study -literature, it is probable; but it is to be feared that those of us who -can say exactly why it is well do not form a majority. - -The word "study," it may be remarked in passing, is not an entirely -happy one in this connection. It has, it is true, many delightful -associations, especially for those who have really learned how to study; -but it has, too, a certain doleful suggestiveness which calls up painful -memories of childhood. It is apt to bring to mind bitter hours when some -example in long division stood like an impassable wall between us and -all happiness; when complex fractions deprived life of all joy, or the -future was hopelessly blurred by being seen through a mist of tears and -irregular French verbs. The word "study" is therefore likely to seem to -indicate a mechanical process, full of weariness and vexation of spirit. -This is actually true of no study which is worthy of the name; and least -of all is it true in connection with art. The word as applied to -literature is not far from meaning intelligent enjoyment; it signifies -not only apprehension but comprehension; it denotes not so much -accumulation as assimilation; it is not so much acquirement as -appreciation. - -By the study of literature can be meant nothing pedantic, nothing -formal, nothing artificial. I should like to call the subject of these -talks "Experiencing Literature," if the verb could be received in the -same sense as in the old-fashioned phrase "experiencing religion." That -is what I mean. The study of literature is neither less nor more than -experiencing literature,--the taking it to heart and the getting to its -heart. - -To most persons to study literature means nothing more than to read. -There is, it is true, a vague general notion that it is the reading of -some particular class of books, not always over clearly defined. It is -not popularly supposed that the reading of an ordinary newspaper is part -of the study of literature; while on the other hand there are few -persons who can imagine that the perusal of Shakespeare, however casual, -can be anything else. Since literary art is in the form of written -works, reading is of course essential; but by study we mean something -more grave and more fruitful than the mere surface acquaintance with -books, no matter how high in the scale of excellence these may be. - -The study of literature, in the true signification of the phrase, is -that act by which the learner gets into the attitude of mind which -enables him to enter into that creative thought which is the soul of -every real book. It is easily possible, as every reader knows, to read -without getting below the surface; to take a certain amount of -intellectual account of that which we skim; to occupy with it the -attention, and yet not to be at all in the mood which is indispensable -for proper comprehension. It is this which makes it possible for the -young girl of the present day to read novels which her more -sophisticated brothers cannot look at without blushing to see them in -her hands--at least, we hope that it is this! We all have moments when -from mental weariness, indifference, indolence, or abstraction, we slide -over the pages as a skater goes over the ice, never for a moment having -so much as a glimpse of what is hidden beneath the surface. This is not -the thing about which we are talking. We mean by study the making our -own all that is contained in the books which we read; and not only all -that is said, but still more all that is suggested; all that is to be -learned, but above everything all that is to be felt. - -The object of the study of literature is always a means and not an end, -and yet in the development of the mind no means can fulfill its purpose -which is not an enjoyment. Goethe has said: "Woe to that culture which -points man always to an end, instead of making him happy by the way." No -study is of any high value which is not a delight in itself; and -equally, no study is of value which is pursued simply for itself. Every -teacher knows how futile is work in which the pupil is not -interested,--in other words, which is not a pleasure to him. The mind -finds delight in all genuine activity and acquirement; and the student -must take pleasure in his work or he is learning little. Some formal or -superficial knowledge he may of course accumulate. The learning of the -multiplication table is not to be set aside as useless because it is -seldom accompanied by thrills of passionate enjoyment. There must be -some drudgery in education; but at least what I have said certainly -holds good in all that relates to the deeper and higher development of -the mind. - -The study of literature, then, is both a duty and a delight; a pleasure -in itself and a help toward what is better. By it one approaches the -comprehension of those books which are to be ranked as works of art. By -it one endeavors to fit himself to enter into communication with the -great minds and the great imaginations of mankind. What we gain in this -may be broadly classified as pleasure, social culture, and a knowledge -of life. Any one of these terms might almost be made to include the -other two, but the division here is convenient in discussion. - -Pleasure in its more obvious meaning is the most superficial, although -the most evident, gain from art. In its simplest form this is mere -amusement and recreation. We read, we say, "to pass the time." There are -in life hours which need to be beguiled; times when we are unequal to -the fatigue or the worry of original thought, or when some present -reality is too painful to be faced. In these seasons we desire to be -delivered from self, and the self-forgetfulness and the entertainment -that we find in books are of unspeakable relief and value. This is of -course a truism; but it was never before so insistently true as it is -to-day. Life has become so busy, it is in a key so high, so nervously -exhaustive, that the need of amusement, of recreation which shall be a -relief from the severe nervous and mental strain, has become most -pressing. The advance of science and civilization has involved mankind -in a turmoil of multitudinous and absorbing interests from the pressure -of which there seems to us no escape except in self-oblivion; and the -most obvious use of reading is to minister to this end. - -At the risk of being tedious it is necessary to remark in passing that -herein lies a danger not to be passed over lightly. There is steadily -increasing the tendency to treat literature as if it had no other -function than to amuse. There is too much reading which is like -opium-eating or dram-drinking. It is one thing to amuse one's self to -live, and quite another to live to amuse one's self. It is universally -conceded, I believe, that the intellect is higher than the body; and I -cannot see why it does not follow that intellectual debauchery is more -vicious than physical. Certainly it is difficult to see why the man who -neglects his intellect while caring scrupulously for his body is on a -higher moral plane than the man who, though he neglect or drug his body, -does cultivate his mind. - -In an entirely legitimate fashion, however, books may be read simply for -amusement; and greatly is he to be pitied who is not able to lose -himself in the enchantments of books. A physical cripple is hardly so -sorrowful an object. Everybody knows the remark attributed to -Talleyrand, who is said to have answered a man who boasted that he had -never learned whist: "What a miserable old age you are preparing for -yourself." A hundredfold is it true that he who does not early cultivate -the habit of reading is neglecting to prepare a resource for the days -when he shall be past active life. While one is in the strength of youth -or manhood it is possible to fill the mind with interests of activity. -As long as one is engaged in affairs directly the need of the solace of -books is less evident and less pressing. It is difficult to think -without profound pity of the aged man or woman shut off from all -important participation in the work or the pleasure of the world, if the -vicarious enjoyment of human interests through literature be also -lacking. It is amazing how little this fact is realized or insisted -upon. There is no lack of advice to the young to provide for the -material comfort of their age, but it is to be doubted whether the -counsel to prepare for their intellectual comfort is not the more -important. Reading is the garden of joy to youth, but for age it is a -house of refuge. - - * * * * * - -The second object which one may have in reading is that of social -cultivation. It is hardly necessary to remark how large a part books -play in modern conversation, or how much one may add to one's -conversational resources by judicious reading. It is true that not a -little of the modern talk about books is of a quality to make the -genuine lover of literature mingle a smile with a sigh. It is the result -not of reading literature, so much as of reading about literature. It is -said that Boston culture is simply diluted extract of "Littell's Living -Age;" and in the same spirit it might be asserted that much modern talk -about books is the extract of newspaper condensations of prefaces. The -tale is told of the thrifty paupers of a Scotch alms-house that the -aristocrats among them who had friends to give them tea would steep and -re-steep the precious herb, then dry the leaves, and sell them to the -next grade of inmates. These in turn, after use, dried the much-boiled -leaves once again, and sold them to the aged men to be ground up into a -sort of false snuff with which the poor creatures managed to cheat into -feeble semblance of joy their withered nostrils. I have in my time heard -not a little so-called literary conversation which seemed to me to have -gone to the last of these processes, and to be a very poor quality of -thrice-steeped tea-leaf snuff! Indeed, it must be admitted that in -general society book talk is often confined to chatter about books which -had better not have been read, and to the retailing of second-hand -opinions at that. The majority of mankind are as fond of getting their -ideas as they do their household wares, at a bargain counter. It is -perhaps better to do this than to go without ideas, but it is to be -borne in mind that on the bargain counter one is sure to find only cheap -or damaged wares. - -Real talk about books, however, the expression of genuine opinions about -real literature, is one of the most delightful of social pleasures. It -is at once an enjoyment and a stimulus. From it one gets mental poise, -clearness and readiness of ideas, and mental breadth. It is so important -an element in human intercourse that it is difficult to conceive of an -ideal friendship into which it does not enter. There have been happy -marriages between men and women lacking in cultivation, but no marriage -relation can be so harmonious that it may not be enriched by a community -of literary tastes. A wise old gentleman whom I once knew had what he -called an infallible receipt for happy marriages: "Mutual love, a sense -of humor, and a liking for the same books." Certainly with these a good -deal else might be overlooked. Personally I have much sympathy with the -man who is said to have claimed a divorce on the ground that his wife -did not like Shakespeare and would read Ouida. It is a serious trial to -find the person with whom one must live intimately incapable of -intellectual talk. - -He who goes into general society at all is expected to be able to keep -up at least the appearance of talking about literature with some degree -of intelligence. This is an age in which the opportunities for what may -be called cosmopolitan knowledge are so general that it has come to be -the tacit claim of any society worth the name that such knowledge shall -be possessed by all. I do not, of course, mean simply that acquaintance -with foreign affairs which is to be obtained from the newspapers, even -all wisdom as set forth in their vexingly voluminous Sunday editions. I -mean that it is necessary to have with the thought of other countries, -with their customs, and their habits of thought, that familiarity which -is by most to be gained only by general reading. The multiplication of -books and the modern habit of travel have made an acquaintance with the -temper of different peoples a social necessity almost absolute. - -To a great extent is it also true that modern society expects a -knowledge of social conditions and æsthetic affairs in the past. This is -not so much history, formally speaking, as it is the result of a certain -familiarity with the ways, the habits of thought, the manners of bygone -folk. Professor Barrett Wendell has an admirable phrase: "It is only in -books that one can travel in time." What in the present state of society -is expected from the accomplished man or woman is that he or she shall -have traveled in time. He shall have gone back into the past in the same -sense as far as temper of mind is concerned that one goes to Europe; -shall have observed from the point of view not of the dry historian -only, but from that of the student of humanity in the broadest sense. It -is the humanness of dwellers in distant lands or in other times which -most interests us; and it is with this that he who would shine in social -converse must become familiar. - -The position in which a man finds himself who in the company of educated -men displays ignorance of what is important in the past is illustrated -by a story told of Carlyle. At a dinner of the Royal Academy in London, -Thackeray and Carlyle were guests, and at the table the talk among the -artists around them turned upon Titian. "One fact about Titian," a -painter said, "is his glorious coloring." "And his glorious drawing is -another fact about Titian," put in a second. Then one added one thing -in praise and another another, until Carlyle interrupted them, to say -with egotistic emphasis and deliberation: "And here sit I, a man made in -the image of God, who knows nothing about Titian, and who cares nothing -about Titian;--and that's another fact about Titian." But Thackeray, who -was sipping his claret and listening, paused and bowed gravely to his -fellow-guest. "Pardon me," he said, "that is not a fact about Titian. It -is a fact--and a very lamentable fact--about Thomas Carlyle." Attempts -to carry off ignorance under the guise of indifference or superiority -are common, but in the end nobody worth deceiving is misled by them. - -It is somewhat trite to compare the companionship of good books to that -of intellectual persons, and yet the constant repetition of a truth does -not make it false. To know mankind and to know one's self are the great -shaping forces which mould character. It has too often been said to need -to be insisted upon at any great length that literature may largely -represent experience; but it may fitly be added that in reading one is -able to choose the experiences to which he will be exposed. In life we -are often surrounded by what is base and ignoble, but this need not -happen to us in the library unless by our deliberate choice. Emerson -aptly says:-- - - Go with mean people and you think life is mean. Then read Plutarch, - and the world is a proud place, peopled with men of positive quality, - with heroes and demigods standing around us, who will not let us - sleep. - -It so often happens that we are compelled in daily life to encounter and -to deal with mean people that our whole existence would be in great -danger of becoming hopelessly sordid and mean were it not for the -blessed company of great minds with whom we may hold closest communion -through what they have written. - -One more point in regard to the social influence of reading should be -mentioned. Social ease and aplomb can of course be gained in no way save -by actual experience; but apart from this there is nothing else so -effective as familiarity with the best books. Sympathetic comprehension -of literature is the experience of life taken vicariously. It is living -through the consciousness of others, and those, moreover, who are the -cleverest and most far-reaching minds of all time. The mere man of books -brought into contact with the real world is confused and helpless; but -when once the natural shyness and bewilderment have worn off, he is able -to recall and to use the knowledge which he has acquired in the study, -and rapidly adapts himself to any sphere that he may find himself in. I -do not mean that a man may read himself into social grace and ease; but -surely any given man is at a very tangible advantage in society for -having learned from books what society is. - - - - -IV - -WHY WE STUDY LITERATURE - - -In all that is said in the last chapter we have dealt only with the -outward and accidental, barely touching upon the really significant and -deeper meanings of our subject. The third object which I named, the -gaining a knowledge of life, transcends all others. - -The desire to fathom the meaning of life is the most constant and -universal of human longings. It is practically impossible to conceive of -consciousness separated from the wish to understand self and the -significance of existence. This atom selfhood, sphered about by the -infinite spaces of the universe, yearns to comprehend what and where it -is. It sends its thought to the farthest star that watches the night, -and thence speeds it down the unsounded void, to search unweariedly for -the answer of the baffling, insistent riddle of life. Whatever man does -or dreams, hopes or fears, loves or hates, suffers or enjoys, has behind -it the eternal doubt, the question which man asks of the universe with -passionate persistence,--the meaning of life. - -Most of all does man seek aid in solving this absorbing mystery. Nothing -else interests the human like the human. The slatternly women leaning -out of tenement-house windows and gossiping across squalid courts talk -of their neighbors. The wisest philosopher studies the acts and the -thoughts of men. In the long range between these extremes there is every -grade of intelligence and cultivation; and in each it is the doings, the -thoughts, most of all the feelings, of mankind which elicit the keenest -interest. The motto of the Latin playwright is in reality the motto of -the race: "Nothing human is indifferent to me." - -We are all intensely eager to know what are the possibilities of -humanity. We seek knowledge of them as an heir questions searchingly -concerning the extent of the inheritance which has fallen to him. -Literature is the inventory of the heritage of humanity. Life is but a -succession of emotions; and the earnest mind burns with desire to learn -what emotions are within its possibilities. The discoverer of an -unsuspected capability of receiving delight, the realization of an -unknown sensation, even of pain, increases by so much the extent of the -possessions of the human being to whom he imparts it. As explorers in a -new country tell one another of the springs upon which they have -chanced, of the fertile meadows one has found, of the sterile rocks or -the luscious jungle, so men tell one another of their fresh findings in -emotion. The knowledge of life--this is the passionate quest of the -whole race of men. - -All that most deeply concerns man, all that reaches most penetratingly -to the roots of being, is recorded, so far as humanity has been able to -give to it expression, in art. Of all art, literature is perhaps the -most universally intelligible; or, if not that, it is at least the most -positively intelligible. Our interest in life shows itself in a burning -curiosity to know what goes on in the minds of our friends; to discover -what others make out of existence, what they find in its possibilities, -its limitations, its sorrows, and its delights. In varying degrees, -according to individual temperament, we pass life in an endeavor to -discover and to share the feelings of other human beings. We explain our -feelings, our motives; we wonder whether they look to others as they do -to us; we speculate whether others have found a way to get from life -more than we get; and above all are we consciously or unconsciously -eager to learn whether any other has contrived means of finding in life -more vivid sensations, more vibrant emotions, more far-reaching feelings -than those which we experience. It is in this insatiable curiosity that -our deepest interest in literature lies. - -Books explain us to ourselves. They reveal to us capabilities in our -nature before unsuspected. They make intelligible the meaning and -significance of mental experiences. There are books the constant -rereading of which presents itself to an imaginative man as a sort of -moral duty, so great is the illumination which they throw upon the inner -being. I could name works which I personally cannot leave long neglected -without a feeling of conscious guilt. It is of books of this nature that -Emerson says that they - - Take rank in our life with parents and lovers and passionate - experiences, so medicinal, so stringent, so revolutionary, so - authoritative,--books which are the work and the proof of faculties so - comprehensive, so nearly equal to the world which they paint, that - though one shuts them with meaner ones, he feels the exclusion from - them to accuse his way of living.--_Books._ - -There are probably none of us who have lived in vital relations to -literature who cannot remember some book which has been an epoch in our -lives. The times and the places when and where we read them stand out in -memory as those of great mental crises. We recall the unforgettable -night in which we sat until the cold gray dawn looked in at the window -reading Lessing's "Nathan the Wise," the sunny slope where we -experienced Madame de Gasparin's "Near and Heavenly Horizons," the -winter twilight in the library when that most strenuous trumpet blast of -all modern ethical poetry, "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," first -rang in the ears of the inner self. We all have these memories. There -are books which must to us always be alive. They have spoken to us; we -have heard their very voices; we know them in our heart of hearts. - -That desire for sympathy which is universal is another strong incentive -to acquaintance with literature. The savage who is less miserable in -fear or in suffering if he find a fellow whose living presence saves him -from the awful sense of being alone is unconsciously moved by this -desire. The more fully the race is developed the more is this craving -for human companionship and human appreciation conscious. We know how -impossible it is ever completely to blend our consciousness for the -smallest instant with that of any other human being. The nearest -approach to this is the sharing with another some common feeling. There -are blissful moments when some other is absorbed in the same emotion as -that which we feel; when we seem to be one with the heart and the mind -of another creature because the same strong passion sways us both. These -are the mountain-tops of existence. These are the times which stand out -in our remembrance as those in which life has touched in seeming the -divine impossible. - -It is of the greatest rarity, however, that we find, even in our closest -friends, that comprehension and delicate sympathy for which we long. -Indeed, such is human egotism that it is all but impossible for any one -so far to abandon his own personality as to enter fully into the more -delicate and intangible feelings of his fellow. A friend is another -self, according to the proverb, but it is apt to be himself and not -yourself. To find sympathy which comes from a knowledge that our inmost -emotions are shared we turn to books. Especially is this true in -bereavement and in sorrow. The touch of a human hand, the wistful look -in the eye of the friend who longs to help, or the mere presence of some -beautiful and responsive spirit, is the best solace where comfort is -impossible; but even the tenderest human presence may jar, while in -books there is a consolation and a tenderness unhampered by the baffling -sense of a consciousness still outside of our own no matter how -strenuously it longs to be in perfect unity. I knew once a mother who -had lost her only child, and who used to sit for hours pressing to her -heart Plutarch's divinely tender letter to his wife on the death of his -own little one. It was almost as if she felt her baby again in her arms, -and the leather covers of the book were stained with tears consecrated -and saving. Who could count the number to whom "In Memoriam" has carried -comfort when living friends had no message? The critical defects of that -poem are not far to seek; but it would ill become us to forget how many -grief-laden hearts it has reached and touched. The book which lessens -the pain of humanity is in so far higher than criticism. - -Josiah Quincy used in his old age to relate how his mother, left a young -widow by the death of her husband within sight of the shores of America -when on his return from a mission to England, found comfort in the -soothing ministration of books:-- - - She cultivated the memory of my father, even in my earliest childhood, - by reading me passages from the poets, and obliging me to learn by - heart and repeat such as were best adapted to her own circumstances - and feelings. Among others the whole leave-taking of Hector and - Andromache, in the sixth book of Pope's Homer, was one of her favorite - lessons.... Her imagination, probably, found consolation in the - repetition of lines which brought to mind and seemed to typify her own - great bereavement. - - And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,-- - A widow I, a helpless orphan he? - - These lines, and the whole tenor of Andromache's address and - circumstances, she identified with her own sufferings, which seemed - relieved by the tears my repetition of them drew from her. - -This comforting power of literature is one which need not perhaps have -been enlarged upon so fully, but it is one which has to do with the most -intimate and poignant relations of life. - -It is largely in virtue of the sympathy which it is possible to feel for -books that from them we not only receive a knowledge of the capacities -of human emotion, but we are given actual emotional experience as well. -For literature has a twofold office. It not only shows the possibilities -of life, but it may make these possibilities realities. If art simply -showed us what might be without aiding us further, it would be but a -banquet of Tantalus. We must have the substance as well as the shadow. -We are born not only with a craving to know what emotions are the -birthright of man, but with an instinctive desire to enter into that -inheritance. We wish to be all that it is possible for men to be. The -small boy who burns to be a pirate or a policeman when he grows up, is -moved by the idea that to men of these somewhat analogous callings come -a richness of adventure and a fullness of sensation which are not to be -found in ordinary lives. The lad does not reason this out, of course; -but the instinctive desire for emotion speaks in him. We are born with -the craving to know to the full the emotions of the race. It is to few -of us in modern civilized life that circumstances permit a widely -extended experience in actual mental sensations. The commonplace -actualities of every-day life show plain and dull beside the almost -infinite possibilities of existence. The realization of the contrast -makes not a few mortals unhappy and dissatisfied; but those who are -wiser accept life as it is, and turn to art for the gratification of the -instinctive craving which is unsatisfied by outward reality. - -It may be that fate has condemned us to the most humdrum of existences. -We trade or we teach or are lawyers or housekeepers, doctors or nurses, -or the curse of the gods has fallen upon us and we are condemned to the -dreariness of a life of pleasure-seeking. We cannot of ourselves know -the delights of the free outlaw's life under "the greene shaw,"--the -chase of the deer, the twang of the bowstring, the song of the minstrel, -the relish of venison pasty and humming nut-brown ale, are not for us in -the flesh. If we go into the library, however, take down that volume -with the cover of worn brown leather, and give up the imagination to the -guidance of the author, all these things become possible to the inner -sense. We become aware of the reek of the woodland fire, the smell of -the venison roasting on spits of ash-wood, the chatter of deep manly -voices, the cheery sound of the bugle-horn afar, the misty green light -of the forest, the soft sinking feel of the moss upon which in -imagination we have flung ourselves down, while Will Scarlet teases -Friar Tuck yonder, and Allan-a-Dale touches light wandering chords on -his harp.--Ah, where are the four walls of the library, where is the -dull round of cares and trifles which involve us day by day? We are in -merry Sherwood with bold Robin Hood, and we know what there was felt and -lived. - -We cannot in outward experience know how a great and generous heart must -feel, broken by ingratitude and unfaith, deceived and tortured through -its noblest qualities, outraged in its highest love. The poet says to -us: "Come with me; and through the power of the imagination, talisman -more potent than the ring of Solomon, we will enter the heart of -Othello, and with him suffer this agony. We will endure the torture, -since behind it is the exquisite delight of appeasing that insatiable -thirst for a share in human emotions. Or would you taste the passion of -young and ardent hearts, their woe at parting, and their resolved -devotion which death itself cannot abate? We will be one with Romeo and -one with Juliet." Thus, if we will, we may go with him through the -entire range of mortal joys and sorrows. We live with a fullness of -living beside which, it may be, our ordinary existence is flat and pale. -We find the real life, the life of the imagination; and we recognize -that this is after all more vital than our concern over the price of -stocks, our petty bother about the invitation to the Hightops' ball on -the twenty-fourth, or the silly pang of brief jealousy which we -experienced when we heard that Jack Scribbler's sonnet was to appear in -the next number of the magazine which had just returned our own poem -"with thanks." The littlenesses of the daily round slip out of sight -before the nobility of the life possible in the imagination. - -It is not necessary to multiply examples of the pleasures possible -through the imagination. Every reader knows how varied and how -enchanting they are. To enter into them is in so far to fulfill the -possibilities of life. The knowledge which is obtained through books is -not the same, it is true, as that which comes from actual doing and -enduring. Perhaps if the imagination were sufficiently developed there -would be little difference. There have been men who have been hardly -able to distinguish between what they experienced in outward life and -what belonged solely to the inner existence. Coleridge and Wordsworth -and Keats made no great or sharply defined distinction between the -things which were true in fact and those that were true in imagination. -To Blake the events of life were those which he knew through -imagination, while what happened in ordinary, every-day existence he -regarded as the accidental and the non-essential. - -It will probably be thought, however, that those who live most -abundantly are not likely to feel the need of testing existence and -tasting emotions through the medium of letters. The pirate, when decks -are red and smoke of powder is in the air, is not likely to retire to -his cabin for a session of quiet and delightful reading; the lover may -peruse sentimental ballads or make them, but on the whole everything -else is subordinate to the romance he is living. It is when his -lady-love keeps him at a distance that he has time for verse; not when -she graciously allows him near. It is told of Darwin that his absorption -in science destroyed not only his love of Shakespeare but even his power -of enjoying music. The actual interests of life were so vivid that the -artistic sense was numbed. The imagination exhausted itself in exploring -the unknown world of scientific knowledge. It is to be noted that boys -who go deeply into college sports, especially if they are on the -"teams," are likely to become so absorbed in the sporting excitement -that literature appears to them flat and tame. The general rule is that -he who lives in stimulating and absorbing realities is thereby likely to -be inclined to care less for literature. - -It is to be remembered, however, that individual experience is apt to be -narrow, and that it may be positively trivial and still engross the -mind. That one is completely given up to affairs does not necessarily -prove these affairs to be noble. It is generally agreed, too, that the -mind is more elastic which is reached and developed by literature; and -that even the scientist is likely to do better work for having ennobled -his perceptions by contact with the thoughts of master spirits. Before -Darwin was able to advance so far in science as to have no room left for -art, he had trained his faculties by the best literature. At least it is -time enough to give up books when life has become so full of action as -to leave no room for them. This happens to few, and even those of whom -it is true cannot afford to do without literature as an agent in the -development and shaping of character. - -The good which we gain from the experiences of life we call insight. No -man or woman ever loved without thereby gaining insight into what life -really is. No man has stood smoke-stained and blood-spattered in the -midst of battle, caught away out of self in an ecstasy of daring, -without thereby learning hitherto undreamed-of possibilities in -existence. Indeed this is true of the smallest incident. Character is -the result of experience upon temperament, as ripple-marks are the -result of the coming together of sand and wave. In life, however, we are -generally more slow to learn the lessons from events than from books. -The author of genius has the art so to arrange and present his truths as -to impress them upon the reader. The impressions of events remain with -us, but it is not easy for ordinary mortals so to realize their meaning -and so to phrase it that it shall remain permanent and clear in the -mind. The mental vision is clouded, moreover, by the personal element. -We are seldom able to be perfectly frank with ourselves. Self is ever -the apologist for self. Knowledge without self-honesty is as a torch -without flame; yet of all the moral graces self-honesty is perhaps the -most difficult to acquire. In its acquirement is literature of the -highest value. A man can become acquainted with his spiritual face as -with his bodily countenance only by its reflection. Literature is the -mirror in which the soul learns to recognize its own lineaments. - -Above all these personal reasons which make literature worthy of the -serious attention of earnest men and women is the great fact that upon -the proper development and the proper understanding of it depend largely -the advancement and the wise ordering of civilization. Stevenson spoke -words of wisdom when he said:-- - - One thing you can never make Philistine natures understand; one thing, - which yet lies on the surface, remains as unseizable to their wits as - a high flight of metaphysics,--namely, that the business of life is - mainly carried on by the difficult art of literature, and according to - a man's proficiency in that art shall be the freedom and fullness of - his intercourse with other men. - -In a fine passage in a little-known pamphlet, James Hannay touches upon -the relation of literature to life and to the practical issues of -society:-- - - A notion is abroad that that only is "practical" which can be measured - or eaten. Show us its net result in marketable form, the people say, - and we will recognize it! But what if there be something prior to all - such "net results," something higher than it? For example, the writing - of an old Hebrew Prophet was by no manner of means "practical" in his - own times! The supply of figs to the Judean markets, the price of oil - in the synagogue-lamps, did not fluctuate with the breath of those - inspired songs! But in due time the prophet dies, stoned, perhaps, ... - and in the course of ages, his words do have a "practical" result by - acting on the minds of nations.... In England what has not happened - from the fact that the Bible was translated? We have seen the - Puritans--we know what we owe to them--what the world owes to them! A - dozen or two of earnest men two centuries ago were stirred to the - depths of their souls by the visions of earnest men many centuries - before that; do you not see that the circumstance has its practical - influence in the cotton-markets of America at this hour?--Quoted in - Espinasse's _Literary Recollections_. - -It is impossible to separate the influences of literature from the -growth of society and of civilization. It is because of the reaching of -the imagination into the unknown vast which incloses man that life is -what it is. The order that is given to butcher or baker or -candlestick-maker is modified by the fact that Homer and Dante and -Shakespeare sang; that the prophets and the poets and the men of -imagination of whatever time and race have made thought and feeling what -they are. "The world of imagination," Blake wrote, "is the world of -eternity." Whatever of permanent interest and value man has achieved he -has reached through this divine faculty, and it is only when man learns -to know and to enter the world of imagination that he comes into actual -contact with the vital and the fundamental in human life. Easily abused, -like all the best gifts of the gods, art remains the noblest and the -most enduring power at work in civilization; and literature is its most -direct embodiment. To it we go when we would leave behind the sordid, -the mean, and the belittling. When we would enter into our birthright, -when we remember that instead of being mere creatures of the dust we are -the heirs of the ages, then it is through books that we find and possess -the treasures of the race. - - - - -V - -FALSE METHODS - - -The most common intellectual difficulty is not that of the lack of -ideas, but that of vagueness of ideas. Most persons of moderately good -education have plenty of thoughts such as they are, but there is a -nebulous quality about these which renders them of little use in -reasoning. This makes it necessary to define what is meant by the Study -of Literature, as in the first place it was necessary to define -literature itself. Many have a formless impression that it is something -done with books, a sort of mysterious rite known only to the initiated, -and probably a good deal like the mysteries of secret societies,--more -of a theory than an actuality. Others, who are more confident of their -powers of accurate thinking, have decided that the phrase is merely a -high-sounding name for any reading which is not agreeable, but which is -recommended by text-books. Some take it to be getting over all the books -possible, good, bad, and indifferent; while still others suppose it to -be reading about books or their authors. There are plenty of ideas as to -what the study of literature is, but the very diversity of opinion -proves that at least a great many of these must be erroneous. - -In the first place the study of literature is not the mere reading of -books. Going on a sort of Cook's tour through literature, checking off -on lists what one has read, may be amusing to simple souls, but beyond -that it means little and effects little. As the question to be asked in -regard to a tourist is how intelligently and how observantly he has -traveled, so the first consideration in regard to a reader is how he -reads. - -The rage for swiftness which is so characteristic of this restless time -has been extended to fashions of reading. By some sort of a vicious -perversion, the old saw that he who runs may read seems to have been -transposed to "He who reads must run." In other words there is too often -an assumption that the intellectual distinction of an individual is to -be estimated by the rapidity with which he is able to hurry through the -volumes he handles. Intellectual assimilation takes time. The mind is -not to be enriched as a coal barge is loaded. Whatever is precious in a -cargo is taken carefully on board and carefully placed. Whatever is -delicate and fine must be received delicately, and its place in the mind -thoughtfully assigned. - -One effect of the modern habit of swift and careless reading is seen in -the impatience with which anything is regarded which is not to be taken -in at a glance. The modern reader is apt to insist that a book shall be -like a theatre-poster. He must be able to take it all in with a look as -he goes past it on a wheel, and if he cannot he declares that it is -obscure. W. M. Hunt said, with bitter wisdom: "As print grows cheap, -thinkers grow scarce." The enormous increase of books has bred a race of -readers who seem to feel that the object of reading is not to read but -to have read; not to enjoy and assimilate, but to have turned over the -greatest possible number of authors. This idea of the study of -literature is as if one selected as the highest social ideal the -afternoon tea, where the visitor is presented to numberless strangers -and has an opportunity of conversing rationally with nobody. - -A class of self-styled students of literature far more pernicious than -even the record-breaking readers is that of the gossip-mongers. These -are they who gratify an innate fondness of gossip and scandal under the -pretext of seeking culture, and who feed an impertinent curiosity in the -name of a noble pursuit. They read innumerable volumes filled with the -more or less spicy details of authors; they perhaps visit the spots -where the geniuses of the world lived and worked. They peruse eagerly -every scrap of private letters, journals, and other personal matter -which is available. For them are dragged to light all the imperfect -manuscripts which famous novelists have forgotten to burn. For them was -perpetrated the infamy of the publication of the correspondence of Keats -with Miss Brawne; to them Mrs. Stowe appealed in her foul book about -Byron, which should have been burned by the common hangman. It is they -who buy the newspaper descriptions of the back bedroom of the popular -novelist and the accounts of the misunderstanding between the poet and -his washerwoman. They scent scandal as swine scent truffles, and degrade -the noble name of literature by making it an excuse for their petty -vulgarity. - -The race is by no means a new one. Milton complained of it in the early -days of the church, when, he says:-- - - With less fervency was studied what St. Paul or St. John had written - than was listened to one that could say: "Here he taught, here he - stood, this was his stature, and thus he went habited," and, "O happy - this house that harbored him, and that cold stone whereon he rested, - this village where he wrought a miracle." - -Schopenhauer, too, has his indignant protest against this class:-- - - Petrarch's house in Arqua, Tasso's supposed prison in Ferrara, - Shakespeare's house in Stratford, Goethe's house in Weimar, with its - furniture, Kant's old hat, the autographs of great men,--these things - are gaped at with interest and awe by many who have never read their - works. - -All this is of course a matter of personal vanity. Small souls pride -themselves upon having these things, upon knowing intimate details of -the lives of prominent persons. They endeavor thus to attach themselves -to genius, as burrs cling to the mane of a lion. The imagination has -nothing to do with it; there is in it no love of literature. It is -vanity pure and simple, a common vulgar vanity which substitutes -self-advertisement and gossip-mongering for respect and appreciation. -Who can have tolerance for the man whose proudest boast is that he was -in a crowd presented to some poet whose books he never read; for the -woman who claims attention on the ground that she has from her -seamstress heard particulars of the domestic infelicities of a great -novelist; or for the gossip of either sex who takes pride in knowing -about famous folk trifles which are nobody's business but their own? - -A good many text-books encourage this folly, and there are not a few -writers who pass their useless days in grubbing in the dust-heaps of the -past to discover the unessential and unmeaning incidents in the lives of -bygone worthies. They put on airs of vast superiority over mortals who -scorn their ways and words; they have only pitying contempt for readers -who suppose that the works of an author are what the world should be -concerned with instead of his grocery bills and the dust on his library -table. Such meddlers have no more to do with literature than the spider -on the eaves of kings' houses has to do with affairs of state. - -It is not that all curiosity about famous men is unwholesome or -impertinent. The desire to know about those whose work has touched us is -natural and not necessarily objectionable. It is outside of the study of -literature, save in so far as it now and then--less often, I believe, -than is usually assumed--may help us to understand what an author has -written; yet within proper limits it is to be indulged in, just as we -all indulge now and then in harmless gossip concerning our fellows. It -is almost sure to be a hindrance rather than a help in the study of -literature if it goes much beyond the knowledge of those circumstances -in the life of an author which have directly affected what he has -written. There are few facts in literary history for which we have so -great reason to be devoutly thankful as that so little is known -concerning the life of the greatest of poets. We are able to read -Shakespeare with little or no interruption in the way of detail about -his private affairs, and for this every lover of Shakespeare's poetry -should be grateful. - -The study of literature, it must be recognized farther, is not the study -of the history of literature. The development of what are termed -"schools" of literature; the change in fashions of expression; the -modifications in verse-forms and the growth and decay of this or that -phase of popular taste in books, are all matters of interest in a way. -They are not of great value, as a rule, yet they will often help the -reader to a somewhat quicker appreciation of the force and intention of -literary forms. It is necessary to have at least a general idea of the -course of literary and intellectual growth through the centuries in -order to appreciate and comprehend literature,--the point to be kept in -mind being that this is a means and not in itself an end. It is -necessary, for instance, for the student to toil painfully across the -wastes of print produced in the eighteenth century, wherein there is -little really great save the works of Fielding; and where the reader -has to endure a host of tedious books in order properly to appreciate -the manly tenderness of Steele, the boyishly spontaneous realism of -Defoe, the kindly humanity of Goldsmith, and the frail, exquisite pipe -of Collins. The rest of the eighteenth century authors most of us read -chiefly as a part of the mechanics of education. We could hardly get on -intelligently without a knowledge of the polished primness of Addison, -genius of respectability; the vitriolic venom of Swift, genius of -malignity; the spiteful perfection of Pope, genius of artificiality; or -the interminable attitudinizing of Richardson, genius of sentimentality. -These authors we read quite as much as helps in understanding others as -for their own sake. We do not always have the courage to acknowledge it, -but these men do not often touch our emotions, even though the page be -that of Swift, so much the greatest of them. We examine the growth of -the romantic spirit through the unpoetic days between the death of -Dryden and the coming of Blake and Coleridge and Wordsworth; and from -such examination of the history of literature we are better enabled to -form standards for the actual estimate of literature itself. - -There is a wide and essential difference between really entering into -literature and reading what somebody else has been pleased to say of it, -no matter how wise and appreciative this may be. Of course the genuine -student has small sympathy with those demoralizing flippancies about -books which are just now so common in the guise of smart essays upon -authors or their works; those papers in which adroit literary hacks -write about books as the things with which they have meddled most. The -man who reads for himself and thinks for himself realizes that these -essayists are the gypsy-moths of literature, living upon it and at the -same time doing their best to destroy it; and that the reading of these -petty imitations of criticism is about as intellectual as sitting down -in the nursery to a game of "Authors." - -Even the reading of good and valuable papers is not the study of -literature in the best sense. There is much of profit in such admirable -essays as those, for instance, of Lowell, of John Morley, or of Leslie -Stephen. Excellent and often inspiring as these may be, however, it is -not to be forgotten that as criticisms their worth lies chiefly in the -incitement which they give to go to the fountain-head. The really fine -essay upon a masterpiece is at its best an eloquent presentment of the -delights and benefits which the essayist has received from the work of -genius; it shows the possibilities and the worth within the reach of -all. Criticisms are easily abused. We are misusing the most sympathetic -interpretation when we receive it dogmatically. In so far as they make -us see what is high and fine, they are of value; in so far as we depend -upon the perceptions of the critic instead of our own, they are likely -to be a hindrance. It is easier to think that we perceive than it is -really to see; but it is well to remember that a man may be plastered -from head to feet with the opinions of others, and yet have no more -genuine ideas of his own than has a bill-board because it is covered -with posters. Genuine emotion is born of genuine conviction. A reader is -really touched by a work of art only as he enters into it and -comprehends it sympathetically. Another may point the way, but he must -travel it for himself. Reading an imaginative work is like wooing a -maiden. Another may give the introduction, but for real acquaintance and -all effective love-making the suitor must depend upon himself if he -would be well sped. Critics may tell us what they admire, but the vital -question is what we in all truth and sincerity admire and appreciate -ourselves. - - - - -VI - -METHODS OF STUDY - - -We have spoken of what the study of literature is not, but negations do -not define. It is necessary to look at the affirmative side of the -matter. And first it is well to remark that what we are discussing is -the examination of literature,--literature, that is, in the sense to -which we have limited the term by definition: "The adequate expression -of genuine emotion." It is not intended to include trash, whether that -present itself as undisguised rubbish or whether it mask under -high-sounding names of Symbolism, Impressionism, Realism, or any other -affected nomenclature whatever. It has never been found necessary to -excuse the existence of the masterpieces of literature by a labored -literary theory or a catchpenny classification. It is generally safe to -suspect the book which must be defended by a formula and the writers who -insist that they are the founders of a school. There is but one school -of art--the imaginative. - -"But," it may be objected, "in an age when the books of the world are -numbered by millions, when it is impossible for any reader to examine -personally more than an insignificant portion even of those thrust upon -his notice, how is the learner to judge what are worthy of his -attention?" To this it is to be answered that there are works enough -universally approved to keep the readiest reader more than busy through -the span of the longest human life. We shall have occasion later to -speak of especial authors and of especial books. Here it is enough to -say that certainly at the start the student must be content to accept -the verdict of those who are capable of judging for him. Herein lies one -of the chief benefits to be derived from critics and essayists. As the -learner advances, he will find that as his taste and appreciation -advance with them will develop an instinct of choice. In the end he -should be able almost at a glance to judge rightly whether a book is -worthy of attention. In the meanwhile he need not go astray if he follow -the lead of trustworthy experts. - -In accepting the opinions of others it is of course proper to use some -caution, and above all things it is important to be guided by common -sense. The market is full of quack mental as well as of quack physical -nostrums. There is a large and enterprising body of publishers who seem -persuaded that they have reduced all literature to a practical -industrial basis by furnishing patent outsides for newspapers and patent -insides for aspiring minds. In these days one becomes intellectual by -prescription, and it is impossible to tell how soon will be advertised -the device of inoculation against illiteracy. Common sense and a sense -of humor save one from many dangers, and it is well to let both have -full play. - -I have spoken earlier in these talks of the pleasure of literary study. -One fundamental principle in the selection of books is that it is idle -to read what is not enjoyed. For special information one may read that -which is not attractive save as it serves the purpose of the moment; but -in all reading which is of permanent value for itself, enjoyment is a -prime essential. Reading which is not a pleasure is a barren mistake. -The first duty of the student toward literature and toward himself is -the same,--enjoyment. Either take pleasure in a work of art or let it -alone. - -It is idle to force the mind to attend to works which it does not find -pleasurable, and yet it is necessary to read books which are approved as -the masterpieces of literature. Here is a seeming contradiction; but it -must be remembered that it is possible to arouse the mind to interest. -The books which are really worth attention will surely attract and hold -if they are once properly approached and apprehended. If a mind is -indolent, if it is able to enjoy only the marshmallows and chocolate -caramels of literature, it is not to be fed solely on literary -sweetmeats. Whatever is read should be enjoyed, but it by no means -follows that whatever can be enjoyed should be read. It is possible to -cultivate the habit of enjoying what is good, what is vital, as it is -easy to sink into the stupid and slipshod way of caring for nothing -which calls for mental exertion. It requires training and purpose. The -love of the best in art is possessed as a gift of nature by only a few, -and the rest of us must labor for it. The full appreciation of the work -of a master-mind comes to no one without effort. The reward of the -student of literature is great, but his labor also is great. Literature -is not like an empty public square, which even a blind beggar may cross -almost unconsciously. It more resembles an enchanted castle beset with -spell-infested forests and ghoul-haunted mountains; a place into which -only that knight may enter who is willing to fight his way through -dangers and difficulties manifold; yet a place, too, of infinite riches -and joys beyond the imaginings of dull souls. - -It is a popular fallacy that art is to be appreciated without especial -education. Common feeling holds that the reader, like the poet, is born -and not made. It is generally assumed that one is endowed by nature with -an appreciation of art as one is born with a pug nose. The only element -of truth in this is the fact that all human powers are modified by the -personal equation. One is endowed at birth with perceptions fine and -keen, while another lacks them; but no matter what one's natural powers, -there must be cultivation. This cultivation costs care, labor, and -patience. It is, it is true, labor which is in itself delightful, and -one might easily do worse than to follow it for itself without thought -of other end; but it is still labor, and labor strenuous and long -enduring. - -It is first necessary, then, to make an endeavor to become interested in -whatever it has seemed worth while to read. The student should try -earnestly to discover wherein others have found it good. Every reader -is at liberty to like or to dislike even a masterpiece; but he is not in -a position even to have an opinion of it until he appreciates why it has -been admired. He must set himself to realize not what is bad in a book, -but what is good. The common theory that the critical faculties are best -developed by training the mind to detect shortcomings is as vicious as -it is false. Any carper can find the faults in a great work; it is only -the enlightened who can discover all its merits. It will seldom happen -that a sincere effort to appreciate a good book will leave the reader -uninterested. If it does, it is generally safe to conclude that the mind -is not ready for this particular work. There must be degrees of -development; and the same literature is not adapted to all stages. If -you cannot honestly enjoy a thing you are from one cause or another in -no condition to read it. Either the time is not ripe or it has no -message for your especial temperament. To force yourself to read what -does not please you is like forcing yourself to eat that for which you -have no appetite. There may be some nourishment in one case as in the -other, but there is far more likely to be indigestion. - -An essential condition of profitable reading is that it shall be -intelligent. The extent to which some persons can go on reading without -having any clear idea of what they read is stupefyingly amazing! You may -any day talk in society with persons who have gone through exhaustive -courses of reading, yet who from them have no more got real ideas than a -painted bee would get honey from a painted flower. Fortunately ordinary -mortals are not so bad as this; but is there one of us who is not -conscious of having tobogganed down many and many a page without pausing -thoroughly to seize and master a single thought by the way? - -It is well to make in the mind a sharp distinction between apprehending -and comprehending. The difference is that between sighting and bagging -your game. To run hastily along through a book, catching sight of the -meaning of the author, getting a general notion of what he would -convey,--casually apprehending his work,--is one thing; it is quite -another to enter fully into the thoughts and emotions embodied, to make -them yours by thorough appreciation,--in a word to comprehend. The -trouble which Gibbon says he took to get the most out of what he read -must strike ordinary readers with amazement:-- - - After glancing my eye over the design and order of a new book, I - suspended the perusal until I had finished the task of - self-examination; till I had resolved in a solitary walk all that I - knew or believed or had thought on the subject of the whole work or of - some particular chapter; I was then qualified to discern how much the - author added to my original stock; and if I was sometimes satisfied by - the agreement, I was sometimes armed by the opposition, of our ideas. - -It often happens that the average person does not read with sufficient -deliberation even to apprehend what is plainly said. If there be a -succession of particulars, for instance, it is only the exceptional -reader who takes the time to comprehend fully each in turn. Suppose the -passage to be the lines in the "Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of -Chamouni:"-- - - Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, - Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam. - -The ordinary student gets a general and probably a vague impression of -cataracts, dashing down from the glacier-heaped hills; and that is the -whole of it. A poet does not put in a succession of words like this -merely to fill out his line. Coleridge in writing undoubtedly realized -the torrent so fully in his imagination that it was as if he were -beholding it. "What strength!" was his first thought. "What speed," was -the next. "What fury; yet, too, what joy!" Then the ideas of that fury -and that joy made it seem to him as if the noise of the waters was the -voice in which these emotions were embodied, and as if the unceasing -thunder were a sentient cry; while the eternal foam was the visible sign -of the mighty passions of the "five wild torrents, fiercely glad." - -In the dirge in "Cymbeline," Shakespeare writes:-- - - Fear no more the frown o' the great, - Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; - Care no more to clothe and eat; - To thee the reed is as the oak; - The sceptre, learning, physic, must - All follow this, and come to dust. - -As you read, do you comprehend the exquisite propriety of the succession -of the ideas? Death has removed Fidele from the possibility of -misfortune; even the lords of the world can trouble no longer. Nay, -more; it has done away with all need of care for the sordid details of -every-day life, food and raiment. All that earth holds is now alike -indifferent to the dead; the pale, wind-shaken reed is neither more nor -less important than the steadfast and enduring oak. And to this, the -thought runs on, must come even the mighty, the sceptred ones of earth. -Not learning, which is mightier than temporal power, can save from this; -not physic itself, of which the mission is to fight with death, can in -the end escape the universal doom. - - All follow this, and come to dust. - -Hurried over as a catalogue, to take one example more, how dull is the -following from Marlowe's "Jew of Malta;" but how sumptuous it becomes -when the reader gloats over the name of each jewel as would do the Jew -who is speaking:-- - - The wealthy Moor, that in the eastern rocks - Without control can pick his riches up, - And in his house heap pearls like pebble-stones, - Receive them free, and sell them by the weight - Bags of fiery opals, sapphires, amethysts, - Jacinths, hard topaz, grass-green emeralds, - Beauteous rubies, sparkling diamonds, - And seld-seen costly stones of so great price - As one of them indifferently rated, - And of a carat of this quantity, - May serve, in peril of calamity, - To ransom great kings from captivity. - -I have not much sympathy with the trick of reading into an author all -sorts of far-fetched meanings of which he can never have dreamed; but, -as it is only by observing these niceties of language that a writer is -able to convey delicate shades of thought and feeling, so it is only by -appreciation of them that the reader is able to grasp completely the -intention which lies wrapped in the verbal form. - -To read intelligibly, it is often necessary to know something of the -conditions under which a thing was written. There are allusions to the -history of the time or to contemporary events which would be meaningless -to one ignorant of the world in which the author lived. To see any point -to the fiery and misplaced passage in "Lycidas" in which Milton -denounces the hireling priesthood and the ecclesiastic evils of his day, -one must understand something of theological politics. We are aided in -the comprehension of certain passages in the plays of Shakespeare by -familiarity with the conditions of the Elizabethan stage and of the -court intrigues. In so far it is sometimes an advantage to know the -personal history of a writer, and the political and social details of -his time. For the most part the portions which require elaborate -explanation are not of permanent interest or at least not of great -importance. The intelligent reader, however, will not wish to be tripped -up by passages which he cannot understand, and will therefore be likely -to inform himself at least sufficiently to clear up these. - -Any reader, moreover, must to some extent know the life and customs of -the people among whom a work is produced. To one who failed to -appreciate wherein the daily existence of the ancient Greeks differed -from that of moderns, Homer would hardly be intelligible. It would be -idle to read Dante under the impression that the Italy of his time was -that of to-day; or to undertake Chaucer without knowing, at least in a -general way, how his England was other than that of our own time. The -force of language at a given epoch, the allusions to contemporary -events, the habits of thought and custom must be understood by him who -would read comprehendingly. - -When all is said there will still remain much that must depend upon -individual experience. If one reads in Lowell:-- - - And there the fount rises; ... - No dew-drop is stiller - In its lupin-leaf setting - Than this water moss-bounded; - -one cannot have a clear and lively idea of what is meant who has not -actually seen a furry lupin-leaf, held up like a green, hairy hand, with -its dew-drop, round as a pearl. The context, of course, gives a general -impression of what the poet intended, but unless experience has given -the reader this bit of nature-lore, the color and vitality of the -passage are greatly lessened. One of the priceless advantages to be -gained from a habit of careful reading is the consciousness of the -significance of small things, and in consequence the habit of observing -them carefully. When we have read the bit just quoted, for instance, we -are sure to perceive the beauty of the lupin-leaf with its dew-pearl if -it come in our way. The attention becomes acute, and that which would -otherwise pass unregarded becomes a source of pleasure. The most sure -way to enrich life is to learn to appreciate trifles. - -There is a word of warning which should here be spoken to the -over-conscientious student. The desire of doing well may lead to -overdoing. The student, in his anxiety to accomplish his full duty by -separate words, often lets himself become absorbed in them. He drops -unconsciously from the study of literature into the study of philology. -There have been hundreds of painfully learned men who have employed the -whole of their misguided lives in encumbering noble books with -philological excrescences. I do not wish to speak disrespectfully of the -indefatigable clan characterized by Cowper as - - Philologists, who chase - A panting syllable through time and space; - Start it at home, and hunt it in the dark, - To Gaul, to Greece and into Noah's ark. - -These gentlemen are extremely useful in their way and place; but the -study of philology is not the study of literature. It is at best one of -its humble bond-slaves. A philologist may be minutely acquainted with -every twig in the family-tree of each obsolete word in the entire range -of Elizabethan literature, and yet be as darkly and as completely -ignorant of that glorious world of poetry as the stokers in an ocean -steamer are of the beauty of the sunset seen from the deck. It is often -necessary to know the derivation of a term, and perhaps something of -its history, in order to appreciate its force in a particular usage; but -to go through a book merely to pick out examples for philologic research -is like picking to pieces a mosaic to examine the separate bits of -glass. - -While, moreover, attention to the force and value of details is insisted -upon, it must never be forgotten that the whole is of more value than -any or all of its parts. The reader must strive to receive the effect of -a book not only bit by bit, and page by page, and chapter by chapter, -but as a book. There should be in the mind a complete and ample -conception of it as a unit. It is not enough to appreciate the best -passages individually. The work is not ours until it exists in the mind -as a beautiful whole, as single and unbroken as one of those Japanese -crystal globes which look like spheres of living water. He who knows the -worth and beauty of passages is like an explorer. He is neither a -conqueror nor a ruler of the territory he has seen until it is his in -its entirety. - -I believe that to comparatively few readers does it occur to make -deliberate and conscious effort to realize works as wholes. The -impression which a book leaves in the thought is of course in some sense -a result of what the book is as a unit; but this is seldom sharply clear -and vivid. The greatest works naturally give the most complete -impression, and the power of producing an effect as a whole is one of -the tests of art. The writer of genius is able so to choose what is -significant, and so to arrange his material that the appreciative -reader cannot fail to receive some one grand and dominating impression. -It is hardly possible, for instance, for any intelligent person to fail -to feel the cumulative passion of "King Lear." The calamities which come -upon the old man connect themselves in the mind of the reader so closely -with one central idea that it is rather difficult to escape from the -dominant idea than difficult to find it. In "Hamlet," on the other hand, -it is by no means easy to gain any complete and adequate grasp of the -play as a unit without careful and intimate study. It is, moreover, not -sure that one has gained a full conception of a work as a whole because -one has an impression even so strong as that which must come to any -receptive reader of "King Lear" or "Othello." To be profoundly touched -by the story is possible without so fully holding the tragedy -comprehendingly in the mind that its poignant meaning kindles the whole -imagination. We have not assimilated that from which we have received -merely fragmentary impressions. The appreciative reading of a really -great book is a profound emotional experience. Individual portions and -notable passages are at best but as incidents of which the real -significance is to be perceived only in the light of the whole. - -The power of grasping a work of art as a unit is one which should be -deliberately cultivated. It is hardly likely to come unsought, even to -the most imaginative. It must rest, in the first place, upon a reading -of books as a whole. Whatever in any serious sense is worth reading -once is worth rereading indefinitely. It is idle to hope to grasp a -thing as a whole until one has become familiar with its parts. When once -the details are clear in the mind, it is possible to read with a -distinct and deliberate sense of the share that each passage bears in -the entire purpose. It is necessary, and I may add that it is -enchanting, to reread until the detached points gather themselves -together in the inner consciousness as molecules in a solution gather -themselves into a crystal. The delight of being able to realize what an -author had in mind as a whole is like that of the traveler who at last, -after long days of baffling mists which allowed but broken glimpses here -and there, sees before him the whole of some noble mountain, stripped -clean of clouds, standing sublime between earth and heaven. - -Whatever effect a book has must depend largely upon the sympathy between -the reader and the author. To read sympathetically is as fundamental a -condition of good reading as is to read intelligently. It is well known -how impossible it is to talk with a person who is unresponsive, who will -not yield his own mood, and who does not share another's point of view. -On the other hand, we have all tried to listen to speakers with whom it -was not in our power to find ourselves in accord, and the result was -merely unprofitable weariness. For the time being the reader must give -himself up to the mood of the writer; he must follow his guidance, and -receive not only his words but his suggestions with fullest acquiescence -of perception, whatever be the differences of judgment. What Hawthorne -has said of painting is equally applicable to literature:-- - - A picture, however admirable the painter's art, and wonderful his - power, requires of the spectator a surrender of himself, in due - proportion with the miracle which has been wrought. Let the canvas - glow as it may, you must look with the eye of faith, or its highest - excellence escapes you. There is always the necessity of helping out - the painter's art with your own resources of sensibility and - imagination. Not that these qualities shall really add anything to - what the master has effected; but they must be put so entirely under - his control and work along with him to such an extent that, in a - different mood, when you are cold and critical instead of sympathetic, - you will be apt to fancy that the loftier merits of the picture were - of your own dreaming, not of his creating. Like all revelations of the - better life, the adequate perception of a great work demands a gifted - simplicity of vision.--_Marble Faun_, xxxvii. - -Often it is difficult to find any meaning in what is written unless the -reader has entered into the spirit in which it was composed. I seriously -doubt, for instance, whether the ordinary person, coming upon the -following catch of satyrs, by Ben Jonson, is able to find it much above -the level of the melodies of Mother Goose:-- - - "Buz," quoth the blue fly, - "Hum," quoth the bee; - Buz and hum they cry, - And so do we. - In his ear, in his nose, - Thus, do you see? - He ate the dormouse; - Else it was he. - -If you are not able to make much out of this, listen to what Leigh Hunt -says of it:-- - - It is impossible that anything could better express than this, either - the wild and practical joking of the satyrs, or the action of the - thing described, or the quaintness and fitness of the images, or the - melody and even harmony, the intercourse, of the musical words, one - with another. None but a boon companion, with a very musical ear, - could have written it.--_A Jar of Honey._ - -If the reader has the key to the mood in which this catch is written, if -he has given himself up to the sportive spirit in which "rare old Ben" -conceived it, it is possible to find in it the merit which Hunt points -out; but without thus giving ourselves up to the leadership of the poet -it is hardly possible to make of it anything at all. The example is of -course somewhat extreme, but the principle is universal. - -It is always well in a first reading to give one's self up to the sweep -of the work; to go forward without bothering over slight errors or small -details. Notes are not for the first or the second perusal so much as -for the third and so on to the hundredth. Dr. Johnson is right when he -says:-- - - Notes are often necessary, but they are necessary evils. Let him that - is yet unacquainted with the powers of Shakespeare, and who desires to - feel the highest pleasures that the drama can give, read every play - from the first scene to the last, with utter negligence of all his - commentators. When his fancy is once on the wing, let it not stoop to - correction or explanation. - -One of the great obstacles to the enjoyment of any art is the too -conscientious desire to enjoy. We are constantly hindered by the -conventional responsibility to experience over each classic the proper -emotion. The student is often so occupied in painful struggles to feel -that which he has been told to feel that he remains utterly cold and -unmoved. It is like going to some historic locality of noble suggestion, -where an officious guide moves the visitor from one precious spot to -another, saying in effect: "Here such an event happened. Now thrill. -Sixpence a thrill, please." For myself, being of a somewhat contumacious -character, I have never been able to thrill to order, even if a shilling -instead of sixpence were the price of the luxury; and in the same way I -am unable to follow out a prescribed set of emotions at the command of a -text-book on literature. Perhaps my temperament has made me unjustly -skeptical, but I have never been able to have much faith in the -genuineness of feelings carried on at the ordering of an emotional -programme. The student should let himself go. On the first reading, at -least, let what will happen so you are swept along in full enjoyment. It -is better to read with delight and misunderstand, than to plod forward -in wise stupidity, understanding all and comprehending nothing; gaining -the letter and failing utterly to achieve the spirit. The letter may be -attended to at any time; make sure first of the spirit. I do not mean -that one is to read carelessly; but I do mean that one is to read -enthusiastically, joyously, and, if it be possible, even passionately. - -The best test of the completeness with which one has entered into the -heart of a book is just this keenness of enjoyment. Fully to share the -mood of the author is to share something of the delight of creation. It -is as if in the mind of the reader this work of beauty and of immortal -significance was springing into being. This enjoyment, moreover, -increases with familiarity. If you find that you do not care to take up -again a masterpiece because you have read it once, you may pretty safely -conclude that you have never truly read it at all. You have been over -it, it may be, and gratified some superficial curiosity; but you have -never got to its heart. Does one claim to be won to the heart of a -friend and yet to be willing never to see that friend more? - -One may, of course, outgrow even a masterpiece. There are authors who -are genuine so far as they go, who may be enjoyed at one stage of -growth, yet who as the student advances become insufficient and -unattractive. The man who does not outgrow is not growing. One does not -healthily tire of a real book, however, until he has become greater than -that book. The interest which becomes weary of a masterpiece is more -than half curiosity, and at best is no more than intellectual. It is not -imaginative. Margaret Fuller confessed that she tired of everything she -read, even of Shakespeare. She thereby unconsciously discovered the -quality of mind which prevented her from being a great woman instead of -merely a brilliant one. She fed her intellect upon literature; but she -failed because literature does not reach to its highest function unless -its appeal to the intellect is the means of touching and arousing the -imagination; because the end of all art is not the mind but the -emotions. - -It may seem that enough has already been required to make reading the -most serious of undertakings; yet there is still one requirement more -which is of the utmost importance. He is unworthy to share the delights -of great work who is not able to respect it; he has no right to meddle -with the best of literature who is not prepared to approach it with some -reverence. In the greatest books the master minds of the race have -graciously bidden their fellows into their high company. The honor -should be treated according to its worth. Irreverence is the deformity -of a diseased mind. The man who cannot revere what is noble is innately -degraded. When writers of genius have given us their best thoughts, -their deepest imaginings, their noblest emotions, it is for us to -receive them with bared heads. He is greatly to be pitied who, in -reading high imaginative work, has never been conscious of a sense of -being in a fine and noble presence, of having been admitted into a place -which should not be profaned. Only that soul is great which can -appreciate greatness. Remember that there is no surer measure of what -you are than the extent to which you are able to rise to the heights of -supreme books; the extent to which you are able to comprehend, to -delight in, and to revere, the masterpieces of literature. - - - - -VII - -THE LANGUAGE OF LITERATURE - - -Whatever intelligence man imparts to man, at least all beyond the -crudest rudimentary beginnings, must be conveyed by conventions. There -must have been an agreement, tacit or explicit, that a certain sign -shall stand for a certain idea; and when that idea is to be expressed, -this sign must be used. In order that the meaning of any communication -may be understood, it is essential that the means of expression be -appreciated by hearer as well as by speaker. We have agreed that in -English a given sound shall represent a given idea; and to one who knows -this tongue the specified sound, either spoken or suggested by letters, -calls that idea up. To one unacquainted with English, the sound is -meaningless, because he is not a party to the agreement which has fixed -for it a conventional significance; or it may awake in his thought an -idea entirely different, because he belongs to a nation where tacit -agreement has fixed upon another meaning. The word "dot," for instance, -has by English-speaking folk been appropriated to the notion of a -trifling point or mark; while those who speak French, writing and -pronouncing the word in the same way, take it to indicate a dowry. In -order to communicate with any man, it is necessary to know what is the -set of conventions with which he is accustomed to convey and to receive -ideas. - -The principle holds also in art. There is a conventional language in -sound or color or form as there is in words. It is broader as a rule, -because oftener founded upon general human characteristics, because more -directly and obviously borrowed from nature, and because not so warped -and distorted by those concessions to utility which have modified the -common tongues of men. Indeed, it might at first thought seem that the -language of art is universal, but a little reflection will show that -this is not the case. The sculpture of the Aztecs, for instance, is in -an art language utterly different from that of the sculpture of the -Greeks. If you recall the elaborately intricate uncouthness of the gods -of old Yucatan, you will easily appreciate that the artists who shaped -these did not employ the same artistic conventions as did the sculptors -who breathed life into the Venus of Melos, or who embodied divine -serenity and beauty in the Elgin marbles. To the Greeks those twisted -and thick-lipped Aztec deities, clutching one another by their crests of -plumes, or grasping rudely at one another's arms, would have conveyed no -sentiment of beauty or of reverence; while it is equally to be supposed -that the Aztec would have remained hardly moved before the wonders of -Greek sculpture. The Hellenic art conventions, it is true, were more -directly founded upon nature, and therefore more readily understood; -but even this would not have overcome the fact that one nation had one -art language and the other another. Those of you who were at the -Columbian Exposition will remember how the music in the Midway Plaisance -illustrated this same point. The weird strain of one or another savage -or barbaric folk came to the ear with a strangeness which showed how -ignorant we are of the language of the music of these dwellers in far -lands. To us it was bizarre or moving, but we could form little idea how -it struck the hearers to whom it was native and familiar. It was even -all but impossible to know whether a given strain was felt by the savage -performers to be grave or gay. Of all the varieties of sound which there -surprised the ear, that evolved by the Chinese appeared most harsh and -unmelodious. The almond-eyed Celestial seemed to delight in a -concatenation of crash and caterwauling, mingled in one infernal -cacophony at which the nerves tingled and the hair stood on end. Yet it -is on record that when in the early days of European intercourse with -China, the French missionary Amiot played airs by Rossini and Boieldieu -to a Chinese mandarin of intelligence and of cultivation according to -eastern standards, the Oriental shook his head disapprovingly. He -politely expressed his thanks for the entertainment, but when pressed to -give an opinion of the music he was forced to reply: "It is sadly devoid -of meaning and expression, while Chinese music penetrates the soul." -After we have smiled at the absurdity, from our point of view, of the -penetration of the soul by Chinese music, we reflect that after all our -music is probably as absurd to them as theirs to us. We perhaps recall -the fact that even the cultivated Japanese, with their sensitive feeling -for art, and their readiness to adopt occidental customs, complain of -the effect of dividing music into regular bars, and making it, as they -say, "chip-chop, chip-chop, chip-chop." The fact is that every -civilization makes its art language as it makes its word language; and -he who would understand the message must understand the conventions by -which it is expressed. - -We are apt to forget this fact of the conventionality of all language. -We become so accustomed both to the speech of ordinary intercourse and -to that of familiar art, that we inevitably come to regard them as -natural and almost universal. No language, however, is natural, unless -it be fair to apply that word to the most primitive signs of savages. It -is an arbitrary thing, and as such it must be learned. We acquire the -ordinary tongue of our race almost unconsciously, and while we are too -young to reason about it. We gain the language of art later and more -deliberately, although of course we may owe much to our early -surroundings in this as in every other respect. The point to be kept in -mind is that we do learn it; that it is not the gift of nature. This is -of course true of all art; but here our concern is only with the fact -that literature has as truly its own peculiar language as music or -painting or sculpture,--its language, that is, distinct from the -language of ordinary daily or common speech. - -The conventions which serve efficiently to convey ordinary ideas and -matter-of-fact statements, are not sufficient for the expression of -emotions. The man who has to tell the price of pigs and potatoes, the -amount of coal consumed in a locomotive engine, or the effect of -political complications upon the stock-market, is able to serve himself -sufficiently well with ordinary language. The novelist who has to tell -of the bewitchingly willful worldliness of Beatrix Esmond, of the -fateful and tragic experiences of Donatello and Miriam, the splendidly -real impossibilities of the career of D'Artagnan and his three friends, -the passion of Richard Feverel for Lucy, of Kmita for Olenka, of Marius -for Cosette; the dramatist who endeavors to make his readers share the -emotions of Lear and Cordelia, of Caliban and Desdemona, of Viola and -Juliet; the poet who would picture the emotions of Pompilia, of Lancelot -and Guinevere, of Porphyrio and Madeline, of Prometheus and Asia,--all -these require an especial language. - -The conveying from mind to mind of emotion is a delicate task. It is not -difficult to make a man understand the price of oysters, but endeavor to -share with a fellow-being the secrets of a moment of transcendent -feeling, and you have an undertaking so complex, and so all but -impossible, that if you can perfectly succeed in it you may justly call -yourself the first writer of your age. This is the making of the -intangible tangible; the highest creative act of the imagination. The -cleverness and the skill of man have been exhausted in devising means to -impart to readers the thought and feeling, the passion and emotion, -which sway the hearts of mankind. It is not necessary here to go into -those devices which belong especially to the domain of rhetoric,--the -mechanics of style. They are designated in the old-fashioned text-books -by tongue-twisting Greek names which most of us have learned, and which -all of us have forgotten. It is not with them that I am here concerned. -They are meant to affect the reader unconsciously. It is with those -matters which appeal to the conscious understanding that we have now to -do; the conventions which are the language of literature as Latin was -the language of Cæsar or Greek the tongue of Pericles. - -I have spoken already of the necessity of understanding what is said in -literature; this is, however, by no means the whole of the matter. It is -of even greater importance to be clearly aware of what is implied. We -test the imaginative quality of what is written by its power of -suggestion. The writer who has imagination will have so much to say that -he is forced to make a phrase call up a whole train of thought, a word -bring vividly to the mind of the reader a picture or a history. This is -what critics mean when they speak of the marvelous condensation of -Shakespeare; and in either prose or verse the criterion of imaginative -writing is whether it is suggestive. Imagination is the realizing -faculty. It is the power of receiving as true the ideal. It is the -accepting as actual that which is conjured up by the inner vision; the -making vital, palpitant, and present that which is known to be -materially but a dream. That which is written when the poet sees the -unseen palpably before his inner eye is so filled with the vitality and -actuality of his vision that it fills the mind of the reader as a tenth -wave floods and overflows a hollow in the rocks of the shore. When Keats -says of the song of the nightingale that it is - - The same that oft-times hath - Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam - Of perilous seas in faery lands forlorn, - -all the romance and witchery of faery-lore are in this single phrase. -The reader feels the glow of delight, the fascination of old tales which -have pleased mankind from the childhood of the race. Into two lines the -poet has condensed the fragrance of a thousand flowers of folk-lore. - -In the best literature what is said directly is often of less importance -than what is meant but not said. In dealing with imaginative writers, it -is necessary to keep always in mind the fact that the literal meaning is -but a part, and often not the greater part. The implied, the indirect, -is apt to be that for the sake of which the work is written. - -In its earlier stages all language is largely made up of comparisons. -The fact that every tongue is full of fossil similes has been constantly -commented upon, and this fact serves to illustrate how greatly the force -of a word may be diminished if its original meaning is lost sight of. -If, in ordinary conversation, to take a common illustration, some -old-fashioned body now speak of a clergyman as a "pastor," it is to be -feared that the word connotes little, unless it be a suspicion of rustic -seediness in apparel, a certain provincial narrowness, and perhaps a -conventional piety. When the word was still in its prime, it carried -with it the force of its derivation; it spoke eloquently of one who -ministered spiritual food to his followers, as a shepherd ministers to -his flock. A pastor may now be as good as a pastor was then, but the -title has ceased to do him justice. The freshness and force of words get -worn off in time, as does by much use the sharpness of outline of a -coin. We need constantly to guard against this tendency of language. We -speak commonly enough in casual conversation of "a sardonic smile," but -the idea conveyed is no more than that of a forced and heartless grin. -As far back as the days of Homer, some imaginative man compared the -artificial and sinister smile of a cynic to the distortions and -convulsions produced by a poisonous herb in Sardinia; and from its very -persistence we may fancy how forcible and striking was the comparison in -its freshness. Of course, modern writers do not necessarily keep in mind -the derivation of every word and phrase which they employ; but they do -at least use terms with so much care for propriety and exactness that it -is impossible to seize the whole of their meaning, unless we appreciate -the niceties of their language. Ruskin says rightly:-- - - You must get yourself into the habit of looking intensely at words, - and assuring yourself of their meaning, syllable by syllable, letter - by letter.... You might read all the books in the British Museum (if - you could live long enough), and remain an utterly "illiterate," - uneducated person; but if you read ten pages of a good book, letter by - letter,--that is to say, with real accuracy,--you are forevermore in - some measure an educated person.--_Of Kings' Treasuries._ - -Unless our attention has been especially called to the fact, there are -few of us who at all realize how carelessly it is possible to read. We -begin in the nursery to let words pass without attaching to them any -idea which is really clear. We nourish our infant imaginations upon -Mother Goose, and are content to go all our days in ignorance even of -the meaning of a good many of the words so fondly familiar in pinafore -days. We are all acquainted with the true and thrilling tale how - - Thomas T. Tattamus took two tees - To tie two tups up to two tall trees; - -but how many of us know what either a "tee" or a "tup" is? We have all -been stirred in our susceptible youth by the rhyme wherein is recounted -the exciting adventure of the four and twenty tailors who set forth to -slay a snail, but who retreated in precipitate confusion when - - She put out her horns like a little Kyloe cow; - -but it is to be feared that the proportion of us is not large who have -taken the trouble to ascertain what is a Kyloe cow. Or take the -well-worn ditty:-- - - Cross-patch, - Draw the latch, - Sit by the fire and spin. - -Have you ever stopped to reflect that "draw the latch" means to pull in -the latch-string, and that in the days of homely general hospitality to -which this contrivance belonged the image presented by the verse was -that of a misanthropic hag, shutting herself off from her neighbors and -sulking viciously by her fire behind a door rudely insulting the caller -with the empty hole of the latch-string? - -Perhaps this seems trifling; and it may easily be insisted that these -rhymes become familiar to us while we are still too young to think of -the exact meaning of anything. The question then is whether we do better -when we are older. We are accustomed, very likely, to hear in common -speech the phrase "pay through the nose." Do you know what that means, -or that it goes back to the days of the Druids? When you hear the phrase -"where the shoe pinches" do you recall Plutarch's story? Does the -anecdote of St. Ambrose come to mind when the saying is "At Rome do as -the Romans do"? It happens every few years that the newspapers are full -of more or less excited talk about a "gerrymander." Does the word bring -before the inner eye that uncouth monster wherewith the caricaturist of -his day vexed the soul of Governor Gerry? I have tried to select -examples which are not remote from the talk of every day. It seems to me -that these illustrate well enough how apt we are to accept words and -phrases as we accept a silver dollar, with very little idea of the -intrinsic worth of what we are getting. This may be made to do well -enough in practical buying and selling, but it is eminently -unsatisfactory in matters intellectual or æsthetic. In the study of -literature approximations are apt to be pretty nearly worthless. - -The most obvious characteristic in literary language is that of -allusion. Constantly does the reader of imaginative works encounter -allusions to the Bible, to mythology, to history, to folk-lore, and to -literature itself. To comprehend an author it is needful to realize -fully what he had in mind when using these. They are the symbols of -thoughts and feelings which are not to be expressed in ordinary ways. -When we are familiar with the matter alluded to we see by the sudden and -vivid light which is cast over the page by the comparison or the -suggestion how expressive and comprehensive this form of language may -be. To the reader who is ignorant the allusion is of course a -stumbling-block and a rock of offense. It is like a sentence in an -unknown tongue, which not only conceals its meaning but gives one an -irritated sense of being shut out of the author's counsels. - -It is probable that in English literature the allusions to the Bible are -more numerous than any other. We shall have occasion later to speak of -the place and influence of the King James version upon the literature of -our tongue, and here we have to do only with those cases in which a -scriptural reference is made part of the special language of an author. -Again and again it happens that a writer takes advantage of the -associations which cluster about a phrase or an incident of the Bible, -and by a simple touch brings up in the mind of the understanding reader -all the sentiments connected with the original. - -With many of the more common of these phrases it is impossible for any -one who associates with educated persons not to be familiar. They have -become part and parcel of the common speech of the time. We speak of the -"widow's mite," of a "Judas' kiss," of "the flesh-pots of Egypt," of "a -still, small voice," of a "Jehu," a "perfect Babel," a "Nimrod," of -"bread upon the waters," and of a "Delilah." The phrases have to a -considerable extent acquired their own meaning, so that even one who is -not familiar with the Scriptures is not likely to have difficulty in -getting from them a general idea. To the reader who is acquainted with -the force and origin of these terms, however, they have a vigor and -significance which for others they must lack. The name Jehu brings up to -him not merely a driver on a New England stage-coach, but the figure of -the newly crowned usurper rushing down to the slaughter of King Joram, -his master, when the watchman upon the wall looked out and said: "The -driving is like the driving of Jehu, the son of Nimshi; for he driveth -furiously." The phrase "bread upon the waters" affords a good -illustration here. Perhaps most readers are likely to know the origin of -the quotation, and probably the promise which concludes it. The number -is smaller who realize the figure to be that of the oriental farmer -casting abroad the seed-rice over flooded fields, sowing for the harvest -which he shall find "after many days." The phrase "a still, small voice" -has become dulled by common use,--one might almost say profane, since -the quotation is of a quality which should render it too dignified and -noble for careless employment. It speaks to the reader who knows its -origin of that magnificently impressive scene on Horeb when Elijah stood -on the mount before the Lord:-- - - And behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the - mountain, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord - was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord - was not in the earthquake: and after the earthquake a fire; but the - Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still, small voice. And - it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his - mantle, and went out and stood in the entering in of the cave. And - behold, there came a voice unto him, and said: "What doest thou here, - Elijah?"--_1 Kings_ xix. 11-13. - -It is not necessary to dwell upon this class of allusions. The reader -who expects to get from them their full force must know the original; -and while in ordinary speech these phrases are used carelessly and with -little regard for their full significance, they are in the work of -imaginative writers to be taken for all that they can and should convey. - -There are other Biblical allusions which are less common and less -obvious. When in the "Ode on the Nativity," Milton speaks of - - ----that twice batter'd god of Palestine, - -the verse means much to the reader who recalls the double fall of the -fish-tailed god Dagon before the captured ark of Israel, but to others -it is likely to mean nothing whatever. To be ignorant of the tale of -Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego is to miss completely the force of -Hazlitt's remark that certain artists are so absorbed in their own -productions that "they walked through collections of the finest works -like the Children in the Fiery Furnace, untouched, unapproached." Not to -know the declaration of St. Paul of what he had suffered for his -faith[1] is to lose the point of Tennyson's verse - - Not in vain, - Like Paul with beasts, I fought with death. - -Prose and poetry are alike full of scriptural phraseology. In short, for -the understanding of the language of allusion in English literature a -knowledge of the English Bible is neither more nor less than essential. - -[Footnote 1: If after the manner of men I have fought with beasts at -Ephesus, what advantageth it me, if the dead rise not?--_1 Cor._ xv. -32.] - -Another class of allusions frequent in literature is the mythological. -Here also we find phrases which have passed so completely into every-day -currency that we hear and use them almost without reflecting upon their -origin. "Scylla and Charybdis," "dark as Erebus," "hydra-headed," and -"Pandora's box," are familiar examples. We speak of "a herculean task" -without in the least calling to mind the labors of Hercules, and employ -the phrase "the thread of life" without seeming to see the three grisly -Fates, spinning in the chill gray dusk of their cave. We have gone so -far as to condense a whole legend into a single word, and then to ignore -the story. We say "lethean," "mercurial," "aurora," and "bacchanalian," -without recalling their real significance. It is obvious how a -perception of the original meaning of these terms must impart vividness -to their use or to their understanding. There are innumerable instances, -more particular, in which it is essential to know the force of a -reference to old myths, lest the finer meaning of the author be -altogether missed. In "The Wind-Harp" Lowell wrote:-- - - I treasure in secret some long, fine hair - Of tenderest brown.... - I twisted this magic in gossamer strings - Over a wind-harp's Delphian hollow. - -In the phrase "a wind-harp's Delphian hollow" the poet has suggested all -the mysterious and fateful utterances of the abyss from which the -Delphic priestess sucked up prophecies, and he has prepared the -comprehending reader for the oracular murmur which swells from the -instrument upon which have been stretched chords twisted from the hair -of the dead loved one. To miss this suggestion is to lose a vital part -of the poem. When Keats writes of "valley-lilies whiter still than -Leda's love," unless there come instantly to the mind the image of the -snowy swan whose form Jove took to win Leda, the phrase means nothing. -The woeful cry in "Antony and Cleopatra," - - The shirt of Nessus is upon me; teach me, - Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage, - -is full of keen-edged horror when one recalls the garment poisoned with -his own blood by which the centaur avenged himself on Hercules. In a -flash it brings up the picture of the demigod tearing his flesh in more -than mortal agony, and calling to Philoctetes to light the funeral pyre -that he might be consumed alive. It is not needful to multiply examples -since they so frequently present themselves to the reader. The only -point to be made is that here we have another well defined division of -literary language. - -Allusion to history is another characteristic form of the language of -literature. References to classic story are perhaps more common than -those to general or modern, but both are plentiful. Sometimes the form -is that of a familiar phrase, as "a Cadmean victory," "a Procrustean -bed," "a crusade," "a Waterloo," and so on. Phrases like these are -easily understood, although it is hardly possible to get their full -effect without a knowledge of their origin. What, however, would this -passage in Gray's "Elegy" convey to one unfamiliar with English -history?-- - - Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast - The little tyrant of his fields withstood; - Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; - Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. - -It is necessary to know about the majestic figure of ivory and gold -which the Athenian sculptor wrought, or one misses the meaning of -Emerson's couplet,-- - - Not from a vain or shallow thought - His awful Jove young Phidias brought. - -Shakespeare abounds in examples of this use of allusions to history to -produce a clear or vivid impression of some emotion or thought. - - I will make a Star-chamber matter of it. - - _Merry Wives_, i. 1. - - Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. - - _Merchant of Venice_, i. 1. - - Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, - So dull, so dead in look, so woe-begone, - Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, - And would have told him half his Troy was burnt. - - _2 Henry IV._, i. 1. - -The reader must know something of the Star-chamber, of the gravity and -wisdom of Nestor, of the circumstances of the tragic destruction of -Troy, or these passages can have little meaning for him. - -Sometimes references of this class are less evident, as where Byron -speaks of - - The starry Galileo with his woes; - -or where Poe finely compresses the whole splendid story of antiquity -into a couple of lines:-- - - To the glory that was Greece - And the grandeur that was Rome. - -If we have in mind the varied and inspiring story of Greece and Rome, -these lines unroll before us like a matchless panorama. We linger over -them to let the imagination realize the full richness of their -suggestion. The heart beats more quickly, and we find ourselves -murmuring over and over to ourselves with a kindling sense of warmth and -glow:-- - - To the glory that was Greece - And the grandeur that was Rome. - -Poe affords an excellent example of this device of historical allusion -carried to its extreme. In "The Fall of the House of Usher," there is a -stanza which reads:-- - - Wanderers in that happy valley - Through two luminous windows saw - Spirits moving musically - To a lute's well-tunèd law, - Round about a throne, where sitting - (Porphyrogene!) - In state his glory well-befitting, - The ruler of the realm was seen. - -If the reader chance to know that in the great palace of Constantine the -Great at Constantinople there was a building of red porphyry, which by -special decree was made sacred to motherhood, and that here the princes -of the blood were born, being in recognition called "porphyrogene," -there will come to him the vision which Poe desired to evoke. The word -will suggest the regal splendors of the Byzantine court at a time when -the whole world babbled of its glories, and will give to the verse a -richness of atmosphere which could hardly be produced by any piling up -of specific details. The reader who is not in possession of this -information can only stumble over the word as I did in my youth, with an -aggrieved feeling of being shut out from the inner mysteries of the -poem. I spoke of this as an extreme instance of the use of this form of -literary language, because the knowledge needed to render it -intelligible is more unusual and special than that generally appealed to -by writers. It is one of those bold strokes which are tremendously -effective when they succeed, but which are likely to fail with the -ordinary reader. - -After historic allusion comes that to folk-lore, which used to be a good -deal appealed to by imaginative writers. Some knowledge of old beliefs -is often essential to the comprehension of earlier authors. Suckling, -for instance, says very charmingly:-- - - But oh, she dances such a way! - No sun upon an Easter day - Is half so fine a sight! - -The reference, of course, is to the superstition that the sun on Easter -morning danced for joy at the coming of the day when the Lord arose. To -get the force of the passage, it is necessary to put one's self into the -mood of those who believed this pretty legend. In the same way it is -only to one who is acquainted with the myth of the lubber fiend, the -spirit who did the work of the farm at night for the wage of a bowl of -cream set for him beside the kitchen fire, that there is meaning in the -lines in "L'Allegro:"-- - - Tells how the grudging goblin sweat - To earn his cream-bowl duly set, - When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, - His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn - That ten day-laborers could not end; - And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, - Basks at the fire his hairy strength; - And crop-full out of doors he flings, - Ere the first cock his matin rings. - -There is much of this folk-lore language in Shakespeare, and in our own -time Browning has perhaps more of it than any other prominent author. -It may be remarked in passing, that Browning, who loved odd books and -read a good many strange old works which are not within general reach, -is more difficult in this matter of allusion than any other -contemporary. References of this class are generally a trouble to the -ordinary reader, and especially are young students likely to be unable -to understand them readily. - -The last class of allusions, and one which in books written to-day is -especially common, is that which calls up passages or characters in -literature itself. We speak of a "quixotic deed;" we allude to a thing -as to be taken "in a Pickwickian sense;" we have become so accustomed to -hearing a married man spoken of as a "Benedick," that we often forget -the brisk and gallant bachelor of "Much Ado about Nothing," and how he -was transformed into "Benedick the married man" almost without his own -consent. When an author who weighs his words employs allusions of this -sort, it is needful to know the originals well if we hope to get the -real intent of what is written. In "Il Penseroso," Milton says:-- - - Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy - In sceptered pall come sweeping by, - Presenting Thebes or Pelops' line, - Or the tale of Troy divine. - -There should pass before the mind of the reader all the fateful story of -the ill-starred house of Labdacus: the horrible history of OEdipus, -involved in the meshes of destiny; the deadly strife of his sons, and -the sublime self-sacrifice of Antigone; all the involved and passionate -tragedies of the descendants of Pelops: Agamemnon, the slaughter of -Iphigenia, the vengeance of Clytemnestra, the waiting of Electra, the -matricide of Orestes and the descent of the Furies upon him; and after -this should come to mind the oft-told tale of Troy in all its fullness. -Milton was not one to use words inadvertently or without a clear sense -of all that they implied. He desired to suggest all the rich and tragic -histories which I have hinted at, to move the reader, and to show how -stirring and how pregnant is tragedy when dealing with high themes. In -two lines he evokes all that is most potent in Grecian poetry. Or again, -when Wordsworth speaks of - - The gentle Lady married to the Moor, - And heavenly Una with her milk-white lamb, - -it is not enough to glance at a foot-note and discover that the allusion -is to Desdemona, and to the first canto of Spenser's "Faerie Queene." -The reader is expected to be so familiar with the poems referred to that -the spirit of one and then of the other comes up to him in all its -beauty. An allusion of this sort should be like a breath of perfume -which suddenly calls up some dear and thrilling memory. - -Enough has been said to show that the language of literature is a -complicated and in some respects a difficult one. Literature in its -highest and best sense is of an importance and of a value so great as to -justify the assumption that no difficulties of language are too great if -needed for the full expression of the message which genius bears to -mankind. In other words, the writer who can give to his fellows works -which are genuinely imaginative is justified in employing any -conventions which will really aid in expression. It is the part of his -readers to acquaint themselves with the means which he finds it best to -employ; and to be grateful for the gift of the master, whatever the -trouble it costs to appreciate and to enter into its spirit. If we are -wise, if we have a proper sense of values, we shall find it worth our -while to familiarize ourselves with scriptural phrases, with mythology, -history, folk-lore, or whatever will aid us in seizing the innermost -significance of masterpieces. - -It is important, moreover, to know literary language before the moment -comes for using it. Information grubbed from foot-notes at the instant -of need may be better than continued ignorance, but it is impossible to -thrill and tingle over a passage in the middle of which allusions must -be looked up in the comments of the editor. It is like feeling one's way -through a poem in a foreign tongue when one must use a lexicon for every -second word. The feelings cannot carry the reader away if they must bear -not only the intangible imagination but a solidly material dictionary. -As has been said in a former page, notes should not be allowed to -interrupt a first reading. It is often a wise plan to study them -beforehand, so as to have their aid at once. It is certainly idle to -expect a vivid first impression if one stops continually to look up -obscure points; one cannot soar to the stars with foot-notes as a -flying-machine. - -One danger must here be noted. The student may so fill his mind with -concern about the language that he cannot give himself up to the author. -The language is for the work, and not the work for the language. The -teacher who does not instruct the student in the meaning and value of -allusion fails of his mission; but the teacher who makes this the limit, -and fails to impress upon the learner the fact that all this is a means -to an end, commits a crime. I had rather intrust a youth to an -instructor ill-informed in the things of which we have been speaking, -and filled with a genuine love and reverence for beauty as far as he -could apprehend it, than to a preceptor completely equipped with -erudition, and filled with Philistine satisfaction over this knowledge -for its own sake. No amount of learning can compensate for a lack of -enthusiasm. The object of reading literature is not only to understand -it, but to experience it; not only to apprehend it with the intellect, -but to comprehend it with the emotions. To understand it is necessary -and highly important; but this is not the best thing. When the gods send -us gifts, let us not be content with examining the caskets. - - - - -VIII - -THE INTANGIBLE LANGUAGE - - -We have spoken of the tangible language of literature; we have now to do -with that which is intangible. Open and direct allusion is neither the -more important nor the more common form of suggestion. He who has -trained himself to recognize references to things historical, -mythological, and so on, has not necessarily become fully familiar with -literary language. Phrase by phrase, and word by word, literature is a -succession of symbols. The aim of the imaginative writer is constantly -to excite the reader to an act of creation. He only is a poet who can -arouse in the mind a creative imagination. Indeed, one is tempted to -indulge here in an impossible paradox, and to say that he only is a poet -who can for the time being make his reader a poet also. The object of -that which is expressed is to arouse the intellect and the emotions to -search for that which is not expressed. The language of allusion is -directed to this end, but literature has also its means far more subtile -and far more effective. - -Suggestion is still the essence of this, but it is suggestion conveyed -more delicately and impalpably. Sometimes it is so elusive as almost to -seem accidental or even fanciful. The choice of a single word gives to -a sentence a character which without it would be entirely wanting; a -simple epithet modifies an entire passage. In Lincoln's "Gettysburg -Address," for instance, after the so concise and forceful statement of -all that has brought the assembly together, the speaker declares "that -we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain." The -adverb is the last of which an ordinary mind might have thought in this -connection, and yet once spoken, it is the one inevitable and supreme -word. It lifts the mind at once into an atmosphere elevated and noble. -By this single word Lincoln seems to say: "With the dead at our feet, -and the future for which they died before us, lifted by the -consciousness of all that their death meant, of all that hangs upon the -fidelity with which we carry forward the ideals for which they laid down -life itself, we '_highly_ resolve that their death shall not have been -in vain.'" The phrase is one of the most superb in American literature. -It is in itself a trumpet-blast clear and strong. Or take Shakespeare's -epithet when he speaks of "death's dateless night." To the appreciative -reader this is a word to catch the breath, and to touch one with the -horror of that dull darkness where time has ceased; where for the -sleeper there is neither end nor beginning, no point distinguished from -another; night from which all that makes life has been utterly swept -away. "Death's dateless night"! - -It is told of Keats that in reading Spenser he shouted aloud in delight -over the phrase "sea-shouldering whales." The imagination is taken -captive by the vigor and vividness of the image of the great monsters -shouldering their mighty way through opposing waves as a giant might -push his path through a press of armed men, forging onward by sheer -force and bulk. The single word says more than pages of ordinary, -matter-of-fact description. The reader who cannot appreciate why Keats -cried out over this can hardly be said to have begun truly to understand -the effect of the epithet in imaginative writing. - -Hazlitt cites the lines of Milton:-- - - Him followed Rimmon, whose delightful seat - Was fair Damascus, on the fertile banks - Of Abbana and Pharphar, lucid streams; - -and comments: "The word lucid here gives to the idea all the sparkling -effect of the most perfect landscape," In each of the following passages -from Shakespeare the single italicized word is in itself sufficient to -give distinction:-- - - Enjoy the _honey-heavy_ dew of slumber. - - _Julius Cæsar_, ii. 1. - - When love begins to sicken and decay - It useth an _enforcèd_ ceremony. - - _Ib._, iv. 2. - - After life's _fitful_ fever he sleeps well. - - _Macbeth_, iii. 2. - -It would lead too far to enter upon the suggestiveness which is the -result of skillful use of technical means; but I cannot resist the -temptation to call attention to the great effect which may result from a -wise repetition of a single word, even if that word be in itself -commonplace. I know of nothing else in all literature where so -tremendous an effect is produced by simple means as by the use of this -device is given in the familiar lines:-- - - To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, - Creeps in this petty pace from day to day - To the last syllable of recorded time. - - _Macbeth_, v. - -The suggestion of heart-sick realization of the following of one day of -anguish after another seems to sum up in a moment all the woe of years -until it is almost more than can be borne. - -In many passages appreciation is all but impossible unless the language -of suggestion is comprehended. To a dullard there is little or nothing -in the line of Chaucer:-- - - Up roos the sonne, and up roos Emelye. - -It is constantly as important to read what is not written as what is set -down. Lowell remarks of Chaucer: "Sometimes he describes amply by the -merest hint, as where the Friar, before setting himself softly down, -drives away the cat. We know without need of more words that he has -chosen the snuggest corner." The richest passages in literature are -precisely those which mean so much that to the careless or the obtuse -reader they seem to mean nothing. - -The great principle of the need of complete comprehension of which we -have spoken before meets us here and everywhere. It is necessary to read -with a mind so receptive as almost to be creative: creative, that is, in -the sense of being able to evoke before the imagination of the reader -those things which have been present to the inner vision of the writer. -The comprehension of literary language is above all else the power of -translating suggestion into imaginative reality. - -When we read, for instance:-- - - Like waiting nymphs the trees present their fruit; - -the line means nothing to us unless we are able with the eye of the mind -to see the sentient trees holding out their branches like living arms, -tendering their fruits. When Dekker says of patience:-- - - 'Tis the perpetual prisoner's liberty, - His walks and orchards; - -we do not hold the poet's meaning unless there has come to us a lively -sense of how the wretch condemned to life-long captivity may by patience -find in the midst of his durance the same buoyant joy which swells in -the heart of one who goes with the free step of a master along his own -walks and through his richly fruited orchards. - -Almost any page of Shakespeare might be given bodily here in -illustration. Take, for instance, the talk of Lorenzo and Jessica as in -the moonlit garden at Belmont they await the return of Portia. - - _Lor._ The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, - When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, - And they did make no noise,--in such a night - Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, - And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents, - Where Cressid lay that night. - _Jes._ In such a night - Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, - And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, - And ran dismayed away. - _Lor._ In such a night - Stood Dido with a willow in her hand - Upon the wild sea-banks, and waved her love - To come again to Carthage. - _Jes._ In such a night - Medea gathered the enchanted herbs - That did renew old Æson. - -The question is how this is read. Do we go over the enchanting scene -mechanically and at speed, as if it were the account of a political -disturbance on the borders of Beloochistan? Do we take in the ideas with -crude apprehension, satisfied that we are doing our duty to ourselves -and to literature because the book which we are thus abusing is -Shakespeare? That is one way not to read. Again, we may, with laborious -pedantry, discover that all the stories alluded to in this passage are -from Chaucer's "Legends of Good Women;" that for a single particular -Shakespeare has apparently gone to Gower, but that most of the details -he has invented himself. We may look up the accounts of the legendary -personages mentioned, compare parallel passages in which they are named, -and hunt for the earliest reference to the willow as a sign of woe. -There is nothing necessarily vicious in all this. It is a sort of busy -idleness which is somewhat demoralizing to the mind, but it is not -criminal. It has, it is true, no especial relation to the genuine and -proper enjoyment of the poetry. That is a different affair! The reader -should luxuriate through the exquisite verse, letting the imagination -create fully every image, every emotion. The sense should be steeped in -the beauty of that garden, softly distinct in the golden splendors of -the moon; there should come again the feeling which has stolen over us -on some June night, so lovely that it seemed impossible but that dreams -should come true, and in sheer delight of the time we have involuntarily -sighed, "In such a night as this!"--as if all that is bewitching and -romantic might happen when earth and heaven were attuned to harmony so -complete. We should take in the full mood of the lines:-- - - When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, - And they did make no noise. - -The image of the amorous wind, subduing its riotous glee lest it be -overheard, and stealing as it were on tiptoe to kiss the trees, warm and -willing in the sweet-scented dusk, makes in the mind the very atmosphere -of the sensuous, luscious, moonlit garden at Belmont. We are ready to -give our fancy over to the mood of the lovers, and with them to call up -the potent images of folk immortal in the old tales:-- - - In such a night - Troilus, methinks, mounted the Trojan walls, - And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents, - Where Cressid lay that night. - -If we share the imaginings of the poet, we shall seem to see before us -the sheen of the weather-stained Grecian tents, silvered by the -moonlight there below the wall where we stand,--we shall seem to stretch -unavailing arms toward that far corner of the camp where Cressid must be -sleeping,--we shall feel a sigh swell our bosom, and our throat -contract. - - In such a night - Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew, - And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, - And ran dismayed away. - -The realizing reader moves with timorous eagerness to meet Pyramus, -feeling under foot the dew-wet grass and on the cheek the soft night -wind, and suddenly, with that awful chill of fright which is like an -actual grasp upon the heart, to see the shadow of the lion silhouetted -on the turf. He sees with the double vision of the imagination the -shrinking, terror-smitten Thisbe, arrested by the shadow at her feet, -while also he seems to look through her eyes at the beast which has -called up her gaze from the shade to the reality. He trembles with her -in a brief-long instant, and then flees in dismay. - -Now all this is almost sure to seem to you to be rather closely allied -to that pest of teachers of composition which is known as "fine -writing." I realize that my comment obscures the text with what is -likely to seem a mist of sentimentality. There are two reasons why this -should be so,--two, I mean, besides the obvious necessity of failure -when we attempt to translate Shakespeare into our own language. In the -first place, the feelings involved belong to the elevated, poetic mood, -and not at all to dry lecturing. In the second place, and what is of -more importance, these emotions can be fairly and effectively conveyed -only by suggestion. It is not by specifying love, passion, hate, fear, -suspense, and the like, that an author brings them keenly to the mind; -but by arousing the reader's imagination to create them. It follows that -in insisting upon the necessity of understanding what is connoted as -well as what is denoted in what one reads, I am but calling attention to -the fact that this is the only way in which the most significant message -of a writer may be understood at all. The best of literature must be -received by suggestion or missed altogether. - -Often ideas which are essential to the appreciation of even the simplest -import of a work are conveyed purely by inference. Doubtless most of you -are familiar with Rossetti's poem, "Sister Helen." A slighted maiden is -by witchcraft doing to death her faithless lover, melting his waxen -image before the fire, while he in agony afar wastes away under the eyes -of his newly wedded bride as the wax wastes by the flame. Her brother -from the gallery outside her tower window calls to her as one after -another the relatives of the dying man come to implore her mercy. The -first is announced in these words:-- - - Oh, it's Keith of Eastholm rides so fast, ... - For I know the white mane on the blast. - -There follows the plea of the rider, and again the brother speaks:-- - - Here's Keith of Westholm riding fast, ... - For I know the white plume on the blast. - -When the second suppliant has vainly prayed pity, and the third appears, -the boy calls to his sister:-- - - Oh, it's Keith of Keith now that rides fast, ... - For I know the white hair on the blast. - -We see first a rider who is not of importance enough to overpower in the -mind of the boy the effect of his horse, and we feel instinctively that -some younger member of the house has been sent on this errand. Then -comes the second brother, and the boy is impressed by the knightly -plume, by the trappings of the rider rather than by his personality. An -older and more important member of the family has been dispatched as the -need has grown greater. It is not, however, until the old man comes, -with white locks floating on the wind, that the person of the messenger -seizes the attention; it is evident that the head of the house of Keith -has come, and that a desperate climax is at hand. - -When one considers the care with which writers arrange details like -this, of how much depends upon the reader's comprehending them, one -knows not whether to be the more angry or the more pitiful in thinking -of the careless fashion in which literature is so commonly skimmed over. - -It is essential, then, to read carefully and intelligently; and it is no -less essential to read imaginatively and sympathetically. Of course the -intelligent comprehension of which I am speaking cannot be reached -without the use of the imagination. No author can fulfill for you the -office of your own mind. In order to accompany an author who soars it is -necessary to have wings of one's own. Pegasus is a sure guide through -the trackless regions of the sky, but he drags none up after him. The -majority of readers are apt unconsciously to assume that a work of -imaginative literature is a sort of captive balloon in which any -excursionist who is in search of a novel sensation may be wafted -heavenward for the payment of a small fee. They sit down to some famous -book prepared to be raised far above earth, and they are not only -astonished but inclined to be indignant that nothing happens. They feel -that they have been defrauded, and that like the prophet Jonah they do -well to be angry. The reputation of the masterpiece they regard as a -sort of advertisement from which the book cannot fall away without -manifest dishonesty on the part of somebody. They are there; they are -ready to be thrilled; the reputation of the work guarantees the -thrilling; and yet they are unmoved. Straightway they pronounce the -reputation of that book a snare and a delusion. They do not in the least -appreciate the fact that they have not even learned the language in -which the author has written. Literature shows us what we may create for -ourselves; it suggests and inspires; it awakens us to the possibilities -of life; but the actual act of creation must every mind do for itself. -The hearing ear and the responsive imagination are as necessary as the -inspired voice to utter high things. You are able appreciatively to read -imaginative works when you are able, as William Blake has said:-- - - To see the world in a grain of sand, - And a heaven in a wild flower; - Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, - And eternity in an hour. - -The language of literature is in reality a tongue as foreign to -every-day speech as is the tongue of the folk of another land. It is -necessary to learn it as one learns a foreign idiom; and to appreciate -the fact that even when it is acquired what we read does not accomplish -for us the possibilities of emotion, but only points out the way in -which we may rise to them for ourselves. - - - - -IX - -THE CLASSICS - - -The real nature of a classic is perhaps to the general mind even more -vague than that of literature. As long as the term is confined to Greek -and Roman authors, it is of course simple enough; but the moment the -word is given its general and legitimate application the ordinary reader -is apt to become somewhat uncertain of its precise meaning. It is not -strange, human nature being what it is, that the natural instinct of -most men is to take refuge in the idea that a classic is of so little -moment that it really does not matter much what it is. - -While I was writing these talks, a friend said to me: "I know what I -would do if I were to speak about literature. I would tell my audience -squarely that all this talk about the superiority of the classics is -either superstition or mere affectation. I would give them the straight -tip that nobody nowadays really enjoys Homer and Chaucer and Spenser and -all those old duffers, and that nobody need expect to." I disregarded -the slang, and endeavored to treat this remark with absolute sincerity. -It brought up vividly the question which has occurred to most of us how -far the often expressed admiration of the classics is genuine. It is -impossible not to see that there is a great deal of talk which is purely -conventional. We know well enough that the ordinary reader does not take -Chaucer or Spenser from the shelf from year's end to year's end. It is -idle to deny that the latest novel has a thousand times better chance of -being read than any classic, and since there is always a latest novel -the classics are under a perpetual disadvantage. How far, then, was my -friend right? We live in an age when we dare to question anything; when -doubt examines everything. We claim to test things on their merits; and -if the reverence with which old authors have been regarded is a mere -tradition and a fetish, it is as well that its falsity be known. - -Is it true that the majority of readers find the works of the great -writers of the past dull and unattractive? I must confess that it is -true. It is one of those facts of which we seldom speak in polite -society, as we seldom speak of the fact that so large a portion of -mankind yield to the temptations of life. It is more of an affront, -indeed, to intimate that a man is unfamiliar with Shakespeare than to -accuse him of having foully done to death his grandmother. Whatever be -the facts, we have tacitly agreed to assume that every intelligent man -is of course acquainted with certain books. We all recognize that we -live in a society in which familiarity with these works is put forward -as an essential condition of intellectual, and indeed almost of social -and moral, respectability. One would hesitate to ask to dinner a man -who confessed to a complete ignorance of "The Canterbury Tales;" and if -one's sister married a person so hardened as to own to being -unacquainted with "Hamlet," one would take a good deal of pains to -prevent the disgraceful fact from becoming public. We have come to -accept a knowledge of the classics as a measure of cultivation; and yet -at the same time, by an absurd contradiction, we allow that knowledge to -be assumed, and we accept for the real the sham while we are assured of -its falsity. In other words, we tacitly agree that cultivation shall be -tested by a certain criterion, and then allow men unrebuked to offer in -its stead the flimsiest pretext. We piously pretend that we all read the -masterpieces of literature while as a rule we do not; and the plain fact -is that few of us dare rebuke our neighbors lest we bring to light our -own shortcomings. - -Such a state of things is sufficiently curious to be worth examination; -and there would also seem to be some advisability of amendment. If it is -not to be supposed that we can alter public sentiment, we may at least -free ourselves from the thralldom of superstition. If this admiration of -the classics which men profess with their lips, yet so commonly deny by -their acts, is a relic of old-time prejudice, if it be but a mouldy -inheritance from days when learning was invested with a sort of -supernatural dignity, it is surely time that it was cast aside. We -should at least know whether in this matter it is rational to hold by -common theory or by common practice. - -In the first place it is necessary to supply that definition of a -classic which is so generally wanting. In their heart of hearts, -concealed like a secret crime, many persons hide an obstinate conviction -that a classic is any book which everybody should have read, yet which -nobody wishes to read. The idea is not unallied to the notion that -goodness is whatever we do not wish to do; and one is as sensible as the -other. It has already been said that the object of the study of -literature is to enjoy and to experience literature; to live in it and -to thrill with its emotions. It follows that the popular idea just -mentioned is neither more nor less sensible than the theory that it is -better to have lived than to live, to have loved than to love. Whatever -else may be said, it is manifest that this popular definition of a -classic as a book not to read but to have read is an absurd -contradiction of terms. - -Equally common is the error that a classic is a book which is merely -old. One constantly hears the word applied to any work, copies of which -have come down to us from a former generation, with a tendency to assume -that merit is in direct proportion to antiquity. To disabuse the mind -from this error nothing is needed but to examine intelligently the -catalogue of any great library. Therein are to be found lists of -numerous authors whose productions have accidentally escaped submergence -in the stream of time, and are now preserved as simple and innocuous -diet for book-worms insectivorous or human. These writings are not -classics, although there is a tribe of busy idlers who devote their -best energies to keeping before the public works which have not -sufficient vitality to live of themselves,--editors who perform, in a -word, the functions of hospital nurses to literary senilities which -should be left in decent quiet to die from simple inanition. Mere age no -more makes a classic of a poor book than it makes a saint of a sinner. - -A classic is more than a book which has been preserved. It must have -been approved. It is a work which has received the suffrages of -generations. Out of the innumerable books, of the making of which there -was no end even so long ago as the days of Solomon, some few have been -by the general voice of the world chosen as worthy of preservation. -There are certain writings which, amid all the multitudinous -distractions of practical life, amid all the changes of custom, belief, -and taste, have continuously pleased and moved mankind,--and to these we -give the name Classics. - -A book has two sorts of interest; that which is temporary, and that -which is permanent. The former depends upon its relation to the time in -which it is produced. In these days of magazines there is a good deal of -talk about articles which are what is called timely. This means that -they fall in with some popular interest of the moment. When a war breaks -out in the Soudan, an account of recent explorations or travels in that -region is timely, because it appeals to readers who just then are eager -to increase their information concerning the scene of the disturbance. -When there is general discussion of any ethical or emotional topic, the -novel or the poem making that topic its theme finds instant response. -Often a book of no literary merit whatever speeds forward to notoriety -because it is attached, like a barnacle on the side of a ship, to some -leading issue of the day. At a time when there is wide discussion of -social reforms, for instance, a man might write a rubbishy romance -picturing an unhuman and impossible socialism, and find the fiction -spring into notoriety from its connection with the theme of popular talk -and thought. Books which are really notable, too, may owe their -immediate celebrity to connection with some vital topic of the day. -Their hold upon later attention will depend upon their lasting merit. - -The permanent interest and value of a book are precisely those qualities -which have been specified as making it literature. As time goes on all -temporary importance fails. Nothing becomes more quickly obsolete than -the thing which is merely timely. It may retain interest as a curious -historic document. It will always have some value as showing what was -read by large numbers at a given period; but nobody will cherish the -merely timely book as literature, although in its prime it may have had -the widest vogue, and may have conferred upon its author a delicious -immortality lasting sometimes half his lifetime. Permanent interest -gives a book permanent value, and this depends upon appeal to the -permanent characteristics and emotions of humanity. - -While the temporary excitement over a book continues, no matter how -evanescent the qualities upon which this excitement depends, the reader -finds it difficult to realize that the work is not genuine and vital. It -is not easy to distinguish the permanent from the momentary interest. -With the passage of time extraneous attractions fade, and the work is -left to depend upon its essential value. The classics are writings -which, when all factitious interests that might have been lent to them -by circumstances are stripped away, are found still to be of worth and -importance. They are the wheat left in the threshing-floor of time, when -has been blown away the chaff of sensational scribblings, noisily -notorious productions, and temporary works of what sort soever. It is of -course not impossible that a work may have both kinds of merit; and it -is by no means safe to conclude that a book is not of enduring worth -simply because it has appealed to instant interests and won immediate -popularity. "Don Quixote," on the one hand, and "Pilgrim's Progress," on -the other, may serve as examples of works which were timely in the best -sense, and which yet are permanent literature. The important point is -that in the classics we have works which, whether they did or did not -receive instant recognition, have by age been stripped of the -accidental, and are found worthy in virtue of the essential that -remains. They are books which have been proved by time, and have endured -the test. - -The decision what is and what is not literature may be said to rest -with the general voice of the intellectual world. Vague as the phrase -may sound, it really represents the shaping power of the thought of the -race. It is true that here as in all other matters of belief the general -voice is likely to be a confirmation and a repetition of the voice of -the few; but whether at the outset indorsed by the few or not, a book -cannot be said to be fairly entitled to the name "classic" until it has -received this general sanction. Although this sanction, moreover, be as -intangible as the wind in a sail, yet like the wind it is decisive and -effective. - -The leaders of thought, moreover, have not only praised these books and -had their judgment indorsed by the general voice, but they have by them -formed their own minds. They are unanimous in their testimony to the -value of the classics in the development of the perceptions, -intellectual and emotional. So universally true is this that to repeat -it seems the reiteration of a truism. The fact of which we have already -spoken, the fact that those who in theory profess to respect the -classics, do yet in practice neglect them utterly, makes it necessary to -examine the grounds upon which this truism rests. If the classics are -the books which the general voice of the best intelligence of the race -has declared to be permanently valuable, if the highest minds have -universally claimed to have been nourished and developed by them, why is -it that we so often neglect and practically ignore them? - -In the first place there are the obstacles of language. There are the -so to say technical difficulties of literary diction and form which have -been somewhat considered in the preceding talks. There are the greater -difficulties of dealing with conceptions which belong to a different -mental world. To a savage, the intellectual and emotional experiences of -a civilized man would be incomprehensible, no matter in how clear speech -they were expressed. To the unimaginative man the life of the world of -imagination is pretty nearly as unintelligible as to the bushman of -Australian wilds would be the subtly refined distinctions of that now -extinct monster, the London æsthete. The men who wrote the classics -wrote earnestly and with profound conviction that which they profoundly -felt; it is needful to attain to their elevation in point of view before -what they have written can be comprehended. This is a feat by no means -easy for the ordinary reader. To one accustomed only to facile and -commonplace thoughts and emotions it is by no means a light undertaking -to rise to the level of the masters. Readers to whom the rhymes of the -"poet's corner" in the newspapers, for instance, are thrillingly sweet, -are hardly to be expected to be equal to the emotional stress of -Shelley's "Prometheus Unbound;" it is not to be supposed that those who -find "Over the Hills to the Poor-House" soul-satisfying will respond -readily to the poignant pathos of the parting of Hector and Andromache. -The admirers of "Curfew must not ring to-night" and the jig-saw school -of verse in general are mentally incapable of taking the attitude of -genuinely imaginative work. The greatest author can do but so much for -his reader. He may suggest, but each mind must for itself be the -creator. The classics are those works in which the geniuses of the world -have most effectively suggested genuine and vital emotions; but every -reader must feel those emotions for himself. Not even the music of the -spheres could touch the ear of a deaf man, and for the blind the beauty -of Grecian Helen would be no more than ugliness. As Mrs. Browning puts -it:-- - - What angel but would seem - To sensual eyes, ghost-dim? - -The sluggish mind is incapable of comprehending, the torpid imagination -incapable of realizing; and the struggle to attain to comprehension and -to feeling is too great an exertion for the mentally indolent. - -It is no less true, that to the mind unused to high emotions the vivid -life of imaginative literature is disconcerting. The ordinary reader is -as abashed in the presence of these deep and vibrant feelings which he -does not understand, and cannot share, as would be an English -washerwoman to whom a duchess paid a ceremonious afternoon call. The -feeling of inadequacy, of being confronted with an occasion to the -requirements of which one is utterly unequal, is baffling and unpleasant -to the last degree. In this difficulty of comprehending, and in this -inability to feel equal to the demands of the best literature, lies the -most obvious explanation of the common neglect of the classics. - -It is also true that genuine literature demands for its proper -appreciation a mood which is fundamentally grave. Even beneath the -humorous runs this vein of serious feeling. It is not possible to read -Cervantes or Montaigne or Charles Lamb sympathetically without having -behind laughter or smiles a certain inner solemnity. Hidden under the -coarse and roaring fun of Rabelais lurk profound observations upon life, -which no earnest man can think of lightly. The jests and "excellent -fooling" of Shakespeare's clowns and drolls serve to emphasize the deep -thought or sentiment which is the real import of the poet's work. -Genuine feeling must always be serious, because it takes hold upon the -realities of human existence. - -It is not that one reading the classics must be sad. Indeed, there is -nowhere else fun so keen, humor so exquisite, or sprightliness so -enchanting. It is only that human existence is a solemn thing if viewed -with a realization of its actualities and its possibilities; and that -the great aim of real literature is the presentation of life in its -essentials. It is not possible to be vividly conscious of the mystery in -the midst of which we live and not be touched with something of awe. -From this solemnity the feeble soul shrinks as a silly child shrinks -from the dark. The most profound feeling of which many persons are -capable is the instinctive desire not to feel deeply. To such readers -real literature means nothing, or it means too much. It fails to move -them, or it wearies them by forcing them to feel. - -Yet another reason for the neglect of the classics is the irresistible -attractiveness which belongs always to novelty, which makes a reader -choose whatever is new rather than anything which has been robbed of -this quality by time. Every mind which is at all responsive is sensitive -to this fascination of that which has just been written. What is new -borrows importance from the infinite possibilities of the unknown. The -secret of life, the great key to all the baffling mysteries of human -existence, is still just beyond the bound of human endeavor, and there -is always a tingling sense that whatever is fresh may have touched the -longed-for solution to the riddle of existence. This zeal for the new -makes the old to be left neglected; and while we are eagerly welcoming -novelties which in the end too often prove to be of little or no value, -the classics, of tried and approved worth, stand in forlorn -dust-gathering on the higher shelves of the library. - -A. Conan Doyle is reported as saying in a speech before a literary -society:-- - - It might be no bad thing for a man now and again to make a literary - retreat, as pious men make a spiritual one; to forswear absolutely for - a month in the year all ephemeral literature, and to bring an - untarnished mind to the reading of the classics.--_London Academy_, - December 5, 1896. - -The suggestion is so good that if it does not seem practical, it is so -much the worse for the age. - - - - -X - -THE VALUE OF THE CLASSICS - - -It is sufficiently evident that the natural inclinations of the ordinary -man are not toward imaginative literature, and that unless there were -strong and tangible reasons why it is worth while to cultivate an -appreciation and a fondness for them, the classics would be so little -read that they might as well be sent to the junk-shop at once, save for -the occasional mortal whom the gods from his birth have endowed with the -precious gift of understanding high speech. These reasons, moreover, -must apply especially to the classics as distinguished from books in -general. Briefly stated, some of them are as follows:-- - -The need of a knowledge of the classics for the understanding of -literary language has already been spoken of at some length. This is, of -course, a minor and comparatively extraneous consideration, but it is -one not to be left wholly out. It is not difficult, however, to get a -superficial familiarity with famous writings by means of literary -dictionaries and extract books; and with this a good many persons are -apparently abundantly content. The process bears the same relation to -the actual study of the originals that looking at foreign photographic -views does to traveling abroad. It is undoubtedly better than nothing, -although it is by no means the real thing. It gives one an intellectual -understanding of classic and literary allusions, but not an emotional -one. Fully to appreciate and enjoy the allusions with which literature -is filled, it is essential to have gained knowledge directly from the -originals. - -One reason why references to the classics are so frequent in literary -language, is that in these writings are found thought and emotional -expression in their youth, so to say. Even more important than learning -the force of these allusions is the coming in contact with this fresh -inspiration and utterance. That into which a man steps full grown can -never be to him the same as that in which he has grown up. We cannot -have with the thing which we have known only in its complete form the -same intimate connection as with that which we have watched from its -very beginnings. To that with which we have grown we are united by a -thousand delicate and intangible fibres, fine as cobweb and strong as -steel. The student who attempts to form himself solely upon the -literature of to-day misses entirely the childhood, the youth, the -growth of literary art. He comes full grown, and generally -sophisticated, to that which is itself full grown and sophisticated. It -is not possible for him to become himself a child, but he may go back -toward the childhood of emotional expression and as it were advance step -by step with the race. He may feel each fresh emotional discovery as if -it were as new to him as it was in truth new for the author who -centuries ago expressed it so well that the record has become immortal. - -I do not know whether what I mean is fully clear, and it is of course -difficult to give examples where the matter is so subtle. It is certain, -however, that any reader of early literature must be conscious how in -the simplicity and naïveté of the best old authors we find things which -are now hackneyed and all but commonplace said with a freshness and -conviction which makes them for the first time real to us. Many emotions -have been so long recognized and expressed in literature that there -seems hardly to be a conceivable phase in which they have not been -shown, and hardly a conceivable phrase in which they have not been -embodied. It appears impossible to express them now with the freshness -and sincerity which belonged to them when they were first imprisoned in -words. So true is this that were it not that the personal impress of -genius and the experience of the imaginative writer always give -vitality, literature would cease from the face of the earth, and become -a lost art. - -It is the persuasion and vividness of first discovery which impart to -the folk-song its charm and force. The early ballads often put to shame -the poetry of later days. The unsophisticated singers of these lays had -never been told that it was proper for them to have any especial -emotions; they had never heard talk about this feeling or that, and art -did not consciously exist for them as other than the spontaneous and -sincere expression of what really moved them. That which they felt too -strongly to repress, they said without any self-consciousness. Their -artistic forms were so simple as to impose no hindrance to the -instinctive desire for revealing to others what swelled in their very -hearts. The result is that impressiveness and that convincingness which -can come from nothing but perfect sincerity. Innumerable poets have put -into verse the sentiments of the familiar folk-song, "Waly, waly;" yet -it is not easy to find in all the list the same thing said with a -certain childlike directness which goes to the heart that one finds in -passages like this:-- - - O waly, waly, but love be bonny - A little time while it is new; - But when 'tis auld, it waxeth cauld, - And fades awa' like morning dew! - -What later singer is there who has surpassed in pathos that makes the -heart ache the exquisite beauty of "Fair Helen"? - - I would I were where Helen lies; - Night and day on me she cries; - Oh, that I were where Helen lies - On fair Kirconnell Lea!... - - I would I were where Helen lies; - Night and day on me she cries; - And I am weary of the skies, - Since my love died for me. - -The directness and simplicity which are the charm of folk-song and -ballad are far more likely to be found in early literature than in that -which is produced under conditions which foster self-consciousness. They -belong, it is true, to the work of all really great writers. No man can -produce genuinely great art without being completely possessed by the -emotions which he expresses; so that for the time being he is not wholly -removed from the mood of the primitive singers. Singleness of purpose -and simplicity of expression, however, are the birthright of those -writers who have been pioneers in literature. It is chiefly in their -work that we may hope to experience the delight of finding emotions in -the freshness of their first youth, of gaining something of that -realization of perception which is fully only his who first of mortal -men discovers and proclaims some new possibility of human existence. - -Another quality of much importance in primitive writings and the early -classics is complete freedom from sentimentality. As certain parasites -do not attack young trees, so sentimentality is a fungus which never -appears upon a literature until it is well grown. It is not until a -people is sufficiently cultivated to appreciate the expression of -emotions in art that it is capable of imitating them or of simulating -that which it has learned to regard as a desirable or noble feeling. As -cultivation advances, there is sure to be at length a time when those -who have more vanity than sentiment begin to affect that which it has -come to be considered a mark of high cultivation to feel. We all know -this vice of affectation too well, and I mention it only to remark that -from this literature in its early stages is far more apt to be free than -it is in its later and more consciously developed phases. - -The blight which follows sentimentality is morbidity; and one of the -most important characteristics of the genuine classics is their -wholesome sanity. By sanity I mean freedom from the morbid and the -diseased; and the quality is one especially to be prized in these days -of morbid tendencies and diseased eccentricities. There is much in many -of the classics which is sufficiently coarse when measured by later and -more refined standards; but even this is free from the gangrene which -has developed in over-ripe civilizations. Rabelais chose the dung-hill -as his pulpit; in Shakespeare and Chaucer and Homer and in the Bible -there are many things which no clean-minded man would now think of -saying; but there is in none of these any of that insane pruriency which -is the chief claim to distinction of several notorious contemporary -authors. Neither is there in classic writers the puling, sentimental, -sickly way of looking at life as something all awry. The reader who sits -down to the Greek poets, to Dante, to Chaucer, to Molière, to -Shakespeare, to Cervantes, to Montaigne, to Milton, knows at least that -he is entering an atmosphere wholesome, bracing, and manly, free alike -from sentimentality and from all morbid and insane taint. - -Besides a knowledge of literary language, we must from the classics gain -our standards of literary judgment. This follows from what has been said -of temporary and permanent interest in books. Only in the classics do we -find literature reduced to its essentials. The accidental associations -which cluster about any contemporary work, the fleeting value which -this or that may have from accidental conditions, the obscurity into -which prejudice of a particular time may throw real merit, all help to -make it impossible to learn from contemporary work what is really and -essentially bad or good. It is from works which may be looked at -dispassionately, writings from which the accidental has been stripped by -time, that we must inform ourselves what shall be the standard of merit. -It is only from the classics that we may learn to discriminate the -essential from the incidental, the permanent from the temporary; and -thus gain a criterion by which to try the innumerable books poured upon -us by the inexhaustible press of to-day. - -Nor do we gain only standards of literature from the classics, but -standards of life as well. In a certain sense standards of literature -and of life may be said to be one, since our estimate of the truth and -the value of a work of art and our judgment of the meaning and value of -existence can hardly be separated. The highest object for which we study -any literature being to develop character and to gain a knowledge of the -conditions of being, it follows that it is for these reasons in especial -that we turn to the classics. These works are the verdicts upon life -which have been most generally approved by the wisest men who have -lived; and they have been tested not by the experiences of one -generation only, but by those of succeeding centuries. For wise, -wholesome, and comprehensive living there is no better aid than a -familiar, intimate, sympathetic knowledge of the classics. - - - - -XI - -THE GREATER CLASSICS - - -There are, then, clear and grave reasons why the classics are worthy of -the most intelligent and careful attention. The evidence supports -cultivated theory rather than popular practice. We are surely right in -the most exacting estimate of the place that they should hold in our -lives; and in so far as we neglect them, in so far we are justly -condemned by the general if vague opinion of society at large. They are -the works to which apply with especial force whatever reasons there are -which give value to literature; they are the means most efficient and -most readily at hand for the enriching and the ennobling of life. - -It is impossible here to specify to any great extent what individual -books among the classics are of most importance. This has been done over -and over, and it is within the scope of these talks to do little more -than to consider the general relation to life of the study of -literature. Some, however, are of so much prominence that it is -impossible to pass them in silence. There are certain works which -inevitably come to the mind as soon as one speaks of the classics at -all; and of these perhaps the most prominent are the Bible, Homer, -Dante, Chaucer, and Shakespeare. The Greek tragedians, Boccaccio, -Molière, Cervantes, Montaigne, Spenser, Milton, Ariosto, Petrarch, -Tasso, and the glorious company of other writers, such as the -Elizabethan dramatists and the few really great Latin authors, it seems -almost inexcusable not to discuss individually, yet they must be passed -over here. The simple lists of these men and their works give to the -mind of the genuine book-lover a glow as if he had drunk of generous -wine. No man eager to get the most from life will pass them by; but in -these talks there is not space to consider them particularly. - -Although it is only with its literary values that we have at present any -concern, it is somewhat difficult to speak of the Bible from a merely -literary point of view. Those who regard the Bible as an inspired oracle -are apt to forget that it has too a literary worth, distinct from its -religious function, and they are inclined to feel somewhat shocked at -any discussion which even for the moment leaves its ethical character -out of account. On the other hand, those who look upon the Scriptures as -the instrument of a theology of which they do not approve are apt in -their hostility to be blind to the literary importance and excellence of -the work. There is, too, a third class, perhaps to-day, and especially -among the rising generation, the most numerous of all, who simply -neglect the Bible as dull and unattractive, and made doubly so by the -iteration of appeals that it be read as a religious guide. Undoubtedly -this feeling has been fostered by the injudicious zeal of many of the -friends of the book, who have forced the Scriptures forward until they -have awakened that impulse of resistance which is the instinctive -self-preservation of individuality. In all these classes for different -reasons praise of the Bible is likely to awaken a feeling of opposition; -yet the fact remains that from a purely literary point of view the Bible -is the most important prose work in the language. - -The rational attitude of the student toward the Scriptures is that which -separates entirely the religious from the literary consideration. I wish -to speak on the same footing to those who do and those who do not regard -the Bible as a sacred book, with those who do and those who do not -receive its religious teachings. Let for the moment these points be -waived entirely, and there remains the splendid literary worth of this -great classic; there remains the fact that it has shaped faith and -fortune for the whole of Europe and America for centuries; and -especially that the English version has been the most powerful of all -intellectual and imaginative forces in moulding the thought and the -literature of all English-speaking peoples. One may regard the -theological effects of the Scriptures as altogether admirable, or one -may feel that some of them have been narrowing and unfortunate; one may -reject or accept the book as a religious authority; but at least one -must recognize that it is not possible to enter upon the intellectual -and emotional heritage of the race without being acquainted with the -King James Bible. - -"Intense study of the Bible," Coleridge has said most justly, "will keep -any writer from being vulgar in point of style." He might almost have -added that appreciative study of this book will protect any reader from -vulgarity in literature and life alike. The early sacred writings of any -people have in them the dignity of sincere conviction and imaginative -emotion. The races to which these books have been divine have revered -them as the word of the Deity, but it is the supreme emotion which -thrills through them that has touched their readers and made possible -and real the claim of inspiration. Every responsive reader must vibrate -with the human feeling of which they are full. We are little likely to -have anything but curiosity concerning the dogmas of the ancient Hindoo -or Persian religion, yet it is impossible to read the ecstatic hymns of -the Vedas or the exalted pages of the Zend-Avesta without being -profoundly moved by the humanity which cries out in them. Of the Bible -this is especially true for us, because the book is so closely connected -with the life and development of our branch of the human family. - -If it were asked which of the classics a man absolutely must know to -attain to a knowledge of literature even respectable, the answer -undoubtedly would be: "The Bible and Shakespeare." He must be -familiar--familiar in the sense in which we use that word in the phrase, -"mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted"--with the greatest plays -of Shakespeare, and with the finer portions of the Scriptures. I do not -of course mean all of the Bible. Nobody, no matter how devout, can be -expected to find imaginative stimulus in strings of genealogies such as -that which begins the Book of Chronicles, or in the minute details of -the Jewish ceremonial law. I mean the simple directness of Genesis and -Exodus; the straightforward sincerity of Judges and Joshua; the -sweetness and beauty of Ruth and Esther; the passionately idealized -sensuousness of Canticles; the shrewdly pathetic wisdom of Ecclesiastes; -the splendidly imaginative ecstasies of Isaiah; the uplift of the -Psalms; the tender virility of the Gospels; the spiritual dithyrambics -of the Apocalypse. No reader less dull than a clod can remain unreverent -and unthrilled in the presence of that magnificent poem which one -hesitates to say is surpassed by either Homer or Dante, the Book of Job. -The student of literature may be of any religion or of no religion, but -he must realize, and realize by intimate acquaintance, that, taken as a -whole, the Bible is the most virile, the most idiomatic, the most -imaginative prose work in the language. - -The appearance of literary editions of portions of the Bible for general -reading is an encouraging sign that there is to-day a reaction from the -neglect into which the book has fallen. Unfortunately, these editions -follow for the most part the text of the Revised Version, which may be -excellent from a theological point of view, but which from a literary -one stands in much the same relation to the King James version as the -paraphrases of Dryden stand to the original text of Chaucer. The -literary student is concerned with the book which has been in the hands -and hearts of writers and thinkers of preceding generations; with the -words which have tinctured the prose masterpieces and given color to the -poetry of our tongue. To attempt to alter the text now is for the -genuine literary student not unlike modernizing Shakespeare. - -The Bible is a library in itself, so great is its variety; and it is -practically indispensable as a companion in literary study. To neglect -it is one of the most grave errors possible to the student. It has, it -is true, its serious and obvious defects, and from a literary point of -view the New Testament is infinitely less interesting than the Old; but -taken all in all, it is a great and an enchanting book, permanent in its -worth and permanent in its interest. - -To go on to talk of Homer is at once to bring up the much-vexed question -of reading translations. It seems to me rather idle in these days to -take time to discuss this. Whatever decision be arrived at, the fact -remains that the general reader will not read the classics in the -original. However great the loss, he must take them in the English -version, or let them alone. Even the most accomplished graduates of the -best colleges are not always capable of appreciating in Greek the -literary flavor of the works which they can translate pretty accurately. -There is no longer time in these busy and over-crowded days for the -student so to saturate himself with a dead language that it shall be as -familiar to him as his own tongue. The multiplicity of present -impressions renders it all but impossible to get completely into the -atmosphere of a civilization bygone. A few of the men trained in foreign -schools in the most scholarly fashion have probably arrived at the power -of feeling sensitively the literary quality of the classics in the -original; but for the ordinary student, this is entirely out of the -question. It is sad, but it is an inevitable human limitation. Emerson, -as is well known, boldly commended the practice of reading translations. -His sterling sense probably desired the consistency of having theory -agree with practice where there is not the slightest hope of making -practice agree with theory. Whether we like it or do not like it, the -truth is that most persons will take the Greek and Latin authors in -translation or not at all. - -And certainly they must be read in some tongue. No genuine student of -literature will neglect Homer or the Greek tragedians. The old Greeks -were by no means always estimable creatures. They not infrequently did -those things which they ought not to have done, and left undone those -things which they ought to have done; but the prayer-book did not then -exist, so that in spite of all there was plenty of health in them. They -were not models in morals, while they were entirely unacquainted with -many modern refinements; but they were eminently human. They were sane -and wholesome beings, manly and womanly; so that a reader is in far -better company with the heroes of Homer in their vices than he is with -the morbid creations of much modern fiction in their moments of the most -conscious and painfully elaborated virtue. Herein, it seems to me, lies -the greatest value of Greek literature. Before he can be anything else -thoroughly and soundly, a man must be healthily human. Hot-house virtue -is on the whole about as dangerous a disease as open-air vice; and it is -far more difficult to cure. Unless a man or a woman be genuine, he or -she is nothing, and the mere appearance of good or evil is not of -profound consequence. To be sane and human, to think genuine thoughts, -and to do genuine deeds, is the beginning of all real virtue; and -nothing is more conducive to the development of genuineness than the -company of those who are sound and real. If we are with whole-souled -folk, we cannot pose, even to ourselves; and it seems to me that the -reader who, with full and buoyant imagination, puts himself into the -company of the Greeks of Homer or Æschylus or Euripides or Sophocles -cannot be content, for the time being at least, to be anything but a -simply genuine human creature himself. - -Of course I do not mean that the reader reasons this out. Consciously to -think that we will be genuine is dangerously near a pose in itself. It -is that he finds himself in a company so thoroughly manly, so real and -virile, that he instinctively will take long breaths, and without -thinking of it lay aside the conventional pose which self is so apt to -impose upon self. We do not, while reading, lose in the least the power -of judging between right and wrong. We realize that Ulysses, delightful -old rascal though he is, is an unconscionable trickster. We are no more -likely to play fast and loose with domestic ties because the Grecian -heroes, and even the Greek gods, left their morals at home for their -wives to keep bright while they went abroad to take their pleasure. -Manners and standards in those days were not altogether the same that -they are now; but right is right in Homer, and wrong is wrong, as it is -in the work of every really great poet since the world began. The whole -of Greek poetry, like Greek sculpture, has an enchanting and wholesome -open-air quality; and even when it is nude it is not naked. We miss much -of the beauty by losing the wonderful form, and no translation ever -approached the original, but we get always the mood of sanity and -reality. - -The mood of Dante seems sometimes more difficult for the modern reader -than that of the Greeks. The high spiritual severity, the passionate -austerity of the Florentine, are certainly far removed from the busy, -practical temper of to-day. Far away as they are in time, the Greeks -were after all men of tangible deeds, of practical affairs; they knew -the taste of ginger hot i' the mouth, and took hold upon life with a -zest thoroughly to be appreciated in this materialistic age. Dante, on -the other hand, has the burning solemnity of the prophets of the Old -Testament, so that the point of view of the "Divine Comedy" is not far -removed from that of Isaiah. Of all the greatest classics the "Divine -Comedy" is probably the least read to-day, at any rate in this country. -The translations of it are for the most part hopelessly unsatisfactory, -the impossibility of setting poetry over from the honeyed Italian into a -language of a genius so different as the English being painfully obvious -even to those little critical. There is a great deal that is obscure, -and yet more which cannot be understood without a good deal of special -historical information; so that it is impossible to read Dante for the -first time without that frequent reference to the notes which is so -unfortunate and undesirable in a first reading. It is practically -necessary to go over the notes with care once or twice before attempting -the poem. Get the information first, and then plunge into the poetry. It -is a plunge into a sea whereof the brine is bitter, the waters -piercingly cold, and where not infrequently the waves roll high; but it -is a plunge invigorating and life-giving. The man who has once read -Dante with sympathy and delight can never again be wholly common and -unclean, no matter into what woful faults and follies he may thereafter -fall. - -To come nearer home, readers are somewhat foolishly apt to feel that it -is about as difficult to read Chaucer as it is to read Homer or Dante. -As a matter of fact any intelligent and educated person should be able -to master the theories of the pronunciation of Chaucerian English in a -couple of mornings, and to read him with ease and pleasure in a week or -two at most. It is a pity that there is not a good complete edition of -Chaucer pointed and accented, so that the reader might not be troubled -with any consciousness of effort; but after all, the difficulty lies -more in the idea than in the fact. When one has mastered the language of -the thirteenth century, in company how enchanting does he find himself! -The sweetness, the wholesomeness, the kindliness, the sincerity, the -humor, and the humanity of Chaucer can hardly be over-praised. - -Of Shakespeare,--"our myriad-minded Shakespeare,"--it seems almost -needless to speak. Concerning his poetry one may be silent because the -theme is so wide, and because writers so many and so able have already -discoursed upon the subject so eloquently. To attempt to-day to explain -why men should read Shakespeare is like entering into an argument to -prove that men should delight in the sunshine or to explain that the sea -is beautiful and wonderful. If readers to-day neglect this supreme -classic it is not from ignorance of its importance. It may be from a -want of realization of the pleasure and inspiration which the poet -affords. Those who have not tested it may doubt as one heart-whole -doubts the joys of love, and in either case only experience can make -wise. - -Dryden's words may suffice here and stand for all the quotations which -might be made:-- - - To begin with Shakespeare. He was the man who of all modern and - perhaps ancient poets had the largest and most comprehensive soul. All - the images of nature were still present to him, and he drew them not - laboriously, but luckily: when he describes anything you more than see - it, you feel it. - - The man who does not read and delight in this poet is scarcely to be - considered intellectually alive at all, as far as there is any - connection between the mind and literature; and the highest - intellectual crime of which an English-speaking man is capable is to - leave his Shakespeare to gather dust upon his shelves unread. - -In all this I do not wish to be understood as holding that we are always -to read the classics, or that we are to read nothing else. To live up to -the requirements of the society of Apollo continuously would be too -fatiguing even for the Muses. We cannot be always in a state of -exaltation; but we cannot in any high sense live at all without becoming -familiar with what exalted living is. The study of the classics calls -for conscious and often for strong endeavor. We do not put ourselves -thoroughly into the mood of other times and of remote conditions without -effort. Indeed, it requires effort to lift our less buoyant imaginations -to the level of any great work. The sympathetic reading of any supremely -imaginative author is like climbing a mountain,--it is not to be -accomplished without strain, but it rewards one with the breath of an -upper air and a breadth of view impossible in the valley. For him who -prefers the outlook of the earth-worm to that of the eagle the classics -have no message and no meaning. For him who is not content with any view -save the widest, these are the mountain peaks which lift to the highest -and noblest sight. - - - - -XII - -CONTEMPORARY LITERATURE - - -We speak of the classics, of ancient literature, and of contemporary -literature, but in reality all literature is one. We divide it into -sections for convenience of study, but it is a notable error to forget -that it is consecutive from the dawn of civilization to the present. It -is true that in applying the term to works of our own time it is both -customary and necessary to employ the word with a meaning wider than -that which it has elsewhere. It is often difficult to distinguish in -contemporary productions that which is of genuine and lasting merit from -that which is simply meretricious and momentary, and still harder to -force others to recognize such distinction when made. It is therefore -inevitable that the name literature should have a broader signification -than when applied to work which has been tested and approved by time. - -There are few things more perplexing than the attempt to choose from the -all but innumerable books of our own day those which are to be -considered as genuine. If we are able to keep vividly in mind what -qualities make a thing literature, it is possible to have some not -inadequate idea of what contemporary writings most completely fulfill -the given conditions. We are able to speak with assurance of the work -of a Tennyson or a Browning; and to feel that we have witnessed the -birth of classics of the future. Beside these, however, stand the -enormous multitude of books which are widely read, much talked about, -and voluminously advertised; books which we cannot openly dispraise -without the risk of being sneered at as captious or condemned as -conceited. There are the poems which publishers inform the public in -column-long advertisements, bristling with the testimonials of men and -women who make writing their business, are the finest productions since -Shakespeare; there are the novels which prove themselves to be works of -genius by selling by the hundreds of thousands of copies and very likely -being given to the purchasers of six bars of some patent soap; there are -the thin and persecuted looking volumes of "prose poems" or rhyming -prose which are looked upon by small bands of devoted followers as the -morsel of leaven which is to leaven the whole lump; there are, in short, -all those perplexing writings which have merit of some kind and in some -degree, yet to decide the genuine and lasting merit of which might tax -the wisdom and the patience of a Solomon of Solomons. - -I have already spoken of the effect which temporary qualities are sure -to have in determining the success of an author. The history of books is -full of instances of works which have in their brief day filled the -reading world with noisy admiration, but which have in the end been -found destitute of enduring merit. While transient fame is at its -height, while enthusiastically injudicious admirers are praising and -judiciously enthusiastic publishers are reëchoing their plaudits, it is -a well-trained mind that is able to form a sound and rational judgment, -and to distinguish between the ephemeral and the abiding. The only hope -lies in a careful and discriminating application of standards deduced -from the classics. He who desires to judge the books of to-day must -depend upon comparison with the books of yesterday. He must be able to -feel toward the literature of the past as if it were of the present, and -toward that of the present as if it were of the past. - -It is not to the popular verdict upon a work that one can look for aid -in deciding upon real merit. In time the general public accepts the -verdict of the few, but at first it is the noisy opinion of the many, -voluble and undiscriminating, which is heard. The general public is -always affected more by the accidental than by the permanent qualities -of a work, and it is more often imposed upon by shams than touched by -real feeling. It is easy to recognize conventional signs for sentiment, -and it is not difficult for the ordinary reader to persuade himself that -he experiences emotions which are explicitly set forth for him. Popular -taste and popular power of appreciation are not inaccurately represented -by those eminently successful journals which in one column give the -fashions and receipts for cake and in the next detailed directions for -experiencing all the sensations of culture. Sentimentality is always -more instantly and more widely effective than sentiment. Sentimentality -finds a ready response from the fact that it only calls upon us to seem, -while sentiment demands that for the time being at least we shall be. - -It is necessary here to say that I do not wish to be misunderstood. I do -not mean in the least to speak with scorn or contempt of the lack of -power justly to discriminate and to appreciate which comes from either -natural disability or lack of opportunities of cultivation. Narrowness -of comprehension and appreciation is a misfortune, but it is not -necessarily a fault. I mean only to point out that it is a thing to be -outgrown if possible. Of the pathos of lives which are denied their -desire in this I am too keenly aware to speak of such otherwise than -tenderly. For the young women who put their sentiments up in curl-papers -and the young men who wax the mustaches of their minds I have no -patience whatever; but for those who are seeking that which seems to -them the best, even though they blunder and mistakenly fall prostrate -before Dagon, the great god of the Philistines, it is impossible not to -feel sympathy and even admiration. In what I have been saying of the -fallibility of popular opinion I have not meant to cast scorn on any -sincerity, no matter where it is to be found; but merely to point out -that the general voice of the public, even when sincere, is greatly to -be distrusted. - -Whatever contemporary literature may be, however mistaken may be the -popular verdict, and however difficult it may be for the most careful -criticism to determine what is of lasting and what of merely ephemeral -merit, the fact remains that it is the voice of our own time, and as -such cannot be disregarded. To devote attention exclusively to the -classics is to get out of sympathy with the thought of our own -generation. It is idle to expend energy in learning how to live if one -does not go on to live. The true use of literature is not to make -dreamers; it is not to make the hold upon actual existence less firm. In -the classics one learns what life is, but one lives in his own time. It -follows that no man can make his intellectual life full and round who -does not keep intelligently in touch with what is thought and what is -written by the men who are alive and working under the same conditions. - -Contemporary literature is the expression of the convictions of the time -in which it is written. The race having advanced so far, this is the -conclusion to which thinkers have come in regard to the meaning of life. -Contemporary literature is like news from the front in war-time. It is -sometimes cheering, sometimes depressing, often enough inaccurate, but -continually exciting. It is the word which comes to us of the progress -of the eternal combat against the unknown forces of darkness which -compass humanity around. There are many men who make a good deal of -parade of never reading books of their own time. They are sometimes men -of no inconsiderable powers of intellect and of much cultivation; but it -is hardly possible to regard them as of greater contemporary interest -than are the mummies of the Pharaohs. They may be excellent in their day -and generation, but they have deliberately chosen that their generation -shall be one that is gone and their day a day that is ended. They may be -interesting relics, but relics they are. It is often wise to wait a time -for the subsiding of the frenzy of applause which greets a book that is -clever or merely startling. It is not the lover of literature who reads -all the new books because they are new, any more than it is he who -neglects the old because they are old; but if we are alive and in -sympathy with our kind, we cannot but be eager to know what the -intellectual world is thinking, what are the fresh theories of life, -born of added experience, what are the emotions of our own generation. -We cannot, in a word, be in tune with our time without being interested -in contemporary literature. - -It is here that the intellectual character of a man is most severely -tested. Here he is tried as by fire, and if there be in him anything of -sham or any flaw in his cultivation it is inevitably manifest. It is -easy to know what to read in the classics; they are all explicitly -labeled by the critics of succeeding generations. When it comes to -contemporary work a reader is forced largely to depend upon himself. -Here he must judge by his individual standards; and here he both must -and will follow his own inclinations. It is not always possible for a -man accurately to appraise his mental advancement by the classics he -reads, because his choice may there be influenced by conventional -rather than by personal valuation; but if he will compare with the -established classics the books which he genuinely likes and admires -among the writings of his own time, he may come at an estimate of his -mental state as fair as a man is ever likely to form of himself. - -It is, then, easy to see that there is a good deal of danger in dealing -with current work. It is necessary to be in sympathy with the thought of -the day, but it is only too common to pay too dear for this. It is -extremely hard, for instance, to distinguish between genuine literary -taste and curiosity when writings are concerned which have the fresh and -lively interest which attaches to those things about which our fellows -are actually talking and thinking. It is of course allowable to gratify -a healthy curiosity, but it is well to recognize that such reading is -hardly likely to promote mental growth. There is no law, civil or moral, -against indulging the desire to know what is in any one of those books -which are written to be talked about at ladies' luncheons; and it is not -impossible that the readers who give their time to this unwholesome -stuff would be doing something worse if they were not reading it. The -only point upon which I wish to insist is that such amusement is neither -literary nor intellectual. - -There is, moreover, the danger of allowing the mind to become fixed upon -the accidental instead of the permanent. I have spoken of the fact that -the temporary interest of a book may be so great as to blind the reader -to all else. When "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was new, it was practically -impossible for the readers of that day to see in it anything but a fiery -tract against slavery. To-day who reads "Ground Arms" without being -chiefly impressed with its arguments against war? It is as controversial -documents that these books were written. If they have truth to life, if -they adequately express human emotion, they will be of permanent value -after this temporary interest has passed. The danger is that the passing -interest, which is natural and proper in itself, shall blind us to false -sentiment, to unjust views of life, to sham emotion. We are constantly -led to forget the important principle that books of our own time must be -judged by the standards which are afforded by the books which are of all -time. - -There has never been a time when self-possession and sound judgment in -dealing with contemporary literature were more important than they are -to-day. The immeasurably prolific press of the nineteenth century is -like a fish-breeding establishment where minnows are born by the million -a minute. There are so many books that the mind becomes bewildered. The -student who might have the strength of mind to form an intelligent -opinion of five books is utterly incapable of doing the same by five -thousand. We are all constantly led on to read too many things. It has -been again and again remarked that our grandfathers were better educated -than their grandsons because they knew thoroughly the few works which -came in their way. We have become the victims of over-reading until the -modern mind seems in danger of being destroyed by literary gluttony. - -It is well in dealing with contemporary work to be especially -self-exacting in insisting that a book is not to be read once which is -not to be read a second time. This may seem to be a rule made merely for -the sake of having a proper theory, yet it is to be taken literally and -observed exactly. It is true that the temptation is so great to read -books which are talked about, that we are all likely to run through a -good many things which we know to be really unworthy of a single -perusal, and of course to go over them again would be a waste of more -time. Where to draw the line between the permanent and the ephemeral is -a point which each must settle for himself. If, on the whole, it seem to -a man well to pay the price in time and in the risk of forming bad -mental habits, it is his right to do this, but pay the price he must and -will. - - * * * * * - -It is hardly possible to discuss contemporary literature without -speaking of that which is not literature,--the periodicals. One of the -conditions of the present time which most strongly affects the relations -of ordinary readers to reading in general is the part which periodicals -of one sort or another play in modern life. The newspaper enters so -intimately into existence to-day that no man can escape it if he would, -and with innumerable readers it is practically the sole mental food. It -is hardly necessary to say that there is no more relation between the -newspaper and literature than there would be between two persons -because they both wear hats. Both books and journals are expressed in -printed words, and that is about all that there is in common. It is -necessary to use the daily paper, but its office is chiefly a mechanical -one. It is connected with the purely material side of life. This is not -a fault, any more than it is the fault of a spade that it is employed to -dig the earth instead of being used to serve food with. It is not the -function of the newspapers to minister to the intellect or the -imagination in any high sense. They fulfill their mission when they are -clean and reliable in material affairs. What is beyond this is a -pretense at literature under impossible conditions, assumed to beguile -the unwary, and harmless or vicious, according to circumstances. It is -seen at its worst in the Sunday editions, with their sheets as many - - --as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks - In Vallombrosa. - -It is safe to say that for the faithful reader of the Sunday newspaper -there is no intellectual salvation. Like the Prodigal Son, he is fain to -fill his belly with the husks which the swine do eat, and he has not the -grace even to long for the more dignified diet of fatted calf. - -The newspaper habit is pretty generally recognized as demoralizing, and -in so far it may be in a literary point of view less dangerous than the -magazine habit. The latter is often accompanied by a self-righteous -conviction that it is a virtue. There is a class who take on airs of -being of the intellectual elect on the strength of reading all the -leading magazines; who are as proud of having four serials in hand at -once as is a society belle of being able to drive as many horses; who -look with a sort of pitying contempt upon persons so old-fashioned as to -neglect the magazines in favor of books, and who in general are as -proudly patronizing in their attitude toward literature as they are -innocent of any connection with it. This is worse than too great a -fondness for journalism, and of course this is an extreme type; but it -is to be feared that at their best the magazines represent mental -dissipation. - -It is true that genuine literature is often published in periodicals; -and there are many editors who deeply regret that the public will not -allow them to print a great deal more. As things are, real literature in -the magazines is the exception rather than the rule. The general -standard of magazine excellence is the taste of the intellectually -_nouveaux riches_--for persons who have entered upon an intellectual -heritage which they are not fitted rightly to understand or employ are -as common as those who come to material wealth under the same -conditions. It is to this class, which is one of the most numerous, and -still more one of the most conspicuous in our present civilization, that -most of the magazines address themselves. The genuinely cultivated -reader finds in the monthlies many papers which he looks through as he -looks through the newspaper, for the sake of information, and less often -he comes upon imaginative work. The serials which are worth reading at -all are worthy of being read as a whole, and not in the distorted and -distorting fashion of so many words a month, according to the size of -the page of a particular periodical. Reading a serial is like plucking a -rose petal by petal; the whole of the flower may be gathered, but its -condition is little likely to be satisfactory. While the magazines, -moreover, are not to be looked to for a great deal of literature of -lasting value, they not only encourage the habit of reading indifferent -imitations, but they foster a dangerous and demoralizing inability to -fix the attention for any length of time. The magazine-mind is a thing -of shreds and patches at best; incapable of grasping as a whole any -extended work. Literature holds the mirror up to nature, but the -magazine is apt to show the world through a toy multiplying-glass, which -gives to the eye a hundred minute and distorted images. - -It may seem that I do scant justice to the magazines. It is certainly to -be remembered that in the less thickly settled parts of this great -inchoate country, where libraries are not, the magazine is often a -comfort and even an inspiration. It is to be acknowledged that, with the -enormous mass of half-educated but often earnest and sincere souls, the -periodical has done and may still do a great deal of good. The child -must play with toys before it is fitted to grasp the tools of -handicraft, and enjoyment of the chromo may be a healthy and legitimate -stage on the way to an appreciation of the masters of painting. It is -not a reproach to call a man a toy-vender or a maker of chromos; nor do -I see that what I have been saying is to be interpreted as reflecting on -the makers of periodicals. It must be remembered that the publication of -a magazine is a business enterprise in the same sense that the selling -of carpets or calicoes is a business enterprise. The manufacturer of -magazines must please the general public with what he prints, as the -manufacturer must satisfy the ordinary buyer by the designs of his -fabrics. In either case it is the taste of the intellectual -_bourgeoisie_ which is the standard of success. The maker of periodicals -can no more afford to appeal to the taste of the cultivated few than can -the thrifty maker of stuffs. What is sold in open market must be adapted -to the demands of the open market. It is simply legitimate business -prudence which keeps most magazines from attempting to print literature. -They publish, as a rule, all the literature that the public will -have,--modified, unhappily, by the difficulty of getting it to publish -in a world where literature cannot be made to order. A book, it is to be -remembered, is a venture; a magazine is an enterprise. The periodical -must pay or it must be discontinued. - -The moral of the whole matter is that the only thing to do is to accept -magazines for what they are; neither to neglect them completely, nor to -give to them that abundant or exclusive attention which they cannot even -aim under existing conditions at deserving. They may easily be dangerous -intellectual snares; but the wise student will often find them -enjoyable, and sometimes useful. - - - - -XIII - -NEW BOOKS AND OLD - - -The quality of "timeliness" is one of the things which makes it -especially difficult to distinguish among new books. There is in this -day an ever increasing tendency to treat all topics of popular -discussion in ways which profess to be imaginative, and especially in -the narrative form. The novel with a theory and the poem with a purpose -are so enveloped with the glamour of immediate interest that they appear -to be of an importance far beyond that which belongs to their real -merit. Curiosity to know what these books have to say upon the questions -which most deeply interest or most vitally affect humanity is as natural -as it is difficult to resist. The desire to see what a book which is -talked about is like is doubly hard to overcome when it is so easily -excused under the pretense of gaining light on important questions. Time -seems to be proving, however, that the amount of noise made over these -theory-mongering romances is pretty nearly in adverse ratio to their -worth. We are told in Scripture that wisdom calleth in the streets, and -no man regardeth, but the opposite seems to be true of the clamors of -error. The very vehemence of these books is the quality which secures -to them attention; and it is impossible wholly to ignore them, and yet -to keep in touch with the time. - -It is the more difficult to evade pretentious and noisily worthless -writings because of the great ingenuity of the advertising devices which -force them upon the attention. The student of genuine literature -naturally does not allow himself to be led by these, no matter how -persuasive they may be. The man who bases his choice of books upon the -advertisements is like him who regulates the health of his family by the -advice of a patent-medicine almanac. It is not easy, however, to escape -entirely from the influence of advertising. If we have seen a book -talked about in print, been confronted with its title on a dazzling -poster, if it has been recommended by the chief prize-fighter in the -land, or damned by the admiration of Mr. Gladstone, we are any of us -inclined to read it, just to see what it is like. The ways by which new -publications are insinuated upon the attention are, too, so impalpably -effective, so cunningly unexpected, that we take our opinion from them -without realizing that we have not originated it. The inspiration and -stress of soul which in Greece begot art, bring forth in our day -advertising, and no man can wholly escape its influence. - -Innumerable are the methods by which authors, whose sole claim to genius -is this skill in advertising, keep themselves and their books before the -public. Eccentricities of manner and of matter are so varied as to -provoke wonder that mental fertility of resource so remarkable should -not produce results really great and lasting. Some writers claim to be -founders of schools, and talk a good deal about their "modernity," a -word which really means stale sensationalism revamped; others insist in -season and out of season that they have discovered the only true theory -of art, and that literature is only possible upon the lines which they -lay down. It is unfortunately to be observed that the theory invariably -follows the practice; that they first produce queer books, and then -formulate a theory which excuses them. Still others call attention to -themselves by a variety of artifices, from walking down Piccadilly -mooning over a sunflower to driving through the Bois de Boulogne in -brocade coat, rose-pink hat, and cravat of gold-lace, like Barbey -d'Aurevilly. No man ever produced good art who worked to advertise -himself, and fortunately the day of these charlatans is usually short. I -have spoken in another place of the danger of confounding an author and -his work; and of course this peril is especially great in the case of -writers of our own time. I may add that the parading of authors is a -vice especially prevalent in the nineteenth century. Mrs. Leo Hunter -advertises herself, and incidentally the celebrities whom she captures, -and the publishers not infrequently show a disposition to promote the -folly for the sake of their balance-sheet. If Apollo and the Muses -returned to earth they would be bidden instantly to one of Mrs. Hunter's -Saturday five o'clocks, and a list of the distinguished guests would be -in the Sunday papers. That is what many understand by the encouragement -of literature. - -Another method of securing notice, which is practiced by not a few -latter-day writers, is that of claiming startling originality. Many of -the authors who are attempting to take the kingdom of literary -distinction by violence lay great stress upon the complete novelty of -their views or their emotions. Of these, it is perhaps sufficient to say -that the men who are genuine insist that what they say is true, not that -they are the first to say it. In all art that is of value the end sought -is the work and not the worker. Perhaps most vicious of all these -self-advertisers are those who force themselves into notice by thrusting -forward whatever the common consent of mankind has hitherto kept -concealed. It is chiefly to France that we owe this development of -recent literature so-called. If a French writer wishes to be effective, -it is apparently his instant instinct to be indecent. The trick is an -easy one. It is as if the belle who finds herself a wall-flower at a -ball should begin loudly to swear. She would be at once the centre of -observation. - -Of books of these various classes Max Nordau has made a dismal list in -"Degeneration," a book itself discouragingly bulky, discouragingly -opinionated, discouragingly prejudiced and illogical, and yet not -without much rightness both of perception and intention. He says of the -books most popular with that portion of society which is most in -evidence, that they - - diffuse a curious perfume, yielding distinguishable odors of incense, - eau de Lubin, and refuse, one or the other preponderating - alternately.... Books treating of the relations of the sexes, with no - matter how little reserve, seem too dully moral. Elegant titillation - only begins where normal sexual relations leave off.... Ghost-stories - are very popular, but they must come on in scientific disguise, as - hypnotism, telepathy, or somnambulism. So are marionette plays, in - which seemingly naïve but knowing rogues make used-up old ballad - dummies babble like babies or idiots. So are esoteric novels in which - the author hints that he could say a deal about magic, fakirism, - kabbala, astrology, and other white and black arts if he chose. - Readers intoxicate themselves in the hazy word-sequences of symbolic - poetry. Ibsen dethrones Goethe; Maeterlinck ranks with Shakespeare; - Nietzsche is pronounced by German and even French critics to be the - leading German writer of the day; the "Kreutzer Sonata" is the Bible - of ladies, who are amateurs in love, but bereft of lovers; dainty - gentlemen find the street ballads and gaol-bird songs of Jules Jouy, - Bruant, MacNab, and Xanroff very _distingué_ on account of "the warm - sympathy pulsing in them," as the phrase runs; and society persons, - whose creed is limited to baccarat and the money market, make - pilgrimages to the Oberammergau Passion-Play, and wipe away a tear - over Paul Verlaine's invocations to the Virgin.--_Degeneration_, ii. - -This is a picture true of only a limited section of modern society, a -section, moreover, much smaller in America than abroad. Common sense and -a sense of humor save Americans from many of the extravagances to be -observed across the ocean. There are too many fools, however, even in -this country. To secure immediate success with these readers a writer -need do nothing more than to produce erotic eccentricities. There are -many intellectually restless persons who suppose themselves to be -advancing in culture when they are poring over the fantastic -imbecilities of Maeterlinck, or the nerve-rasping unreason of Ibsen; -when they are sailing aloft on the hot-air balloons of Tolstoi's -extravagant theories, or wallowing in the blackest mud of Parisian slums -with Zola. Dull and jaded minds find in these things an excitement, as -the jaded palate finds stimulation in the sting of fiery sauces. There -are others, too, who believe that these books are great because they are -so impressive. The unreflective reader measures the value of a book not -by its permanent qualities but by its instantaneous effect, and an -instantaneous effect is very apt to be simple sensationalism. - -It is not difficult to see the fallacy of these amazing books. A -blackguard declaiming profanely and obscenely in a drawing-room can -produce in five minutes more sensation than a sage discoursing -learnedly, delightfully, and profoundly could cause in years. Because a -book makes the reader cringe it by no means follows that the author is a -genius. In literature any writer of ordinary cleverness may gain -notoriety if he is willing to be eccentric enough, extravagant enough, -or indecent enough. An ass braying attracts more attention than an -oriole singing. The street musician, scraping a foundling fiddle, vilely -out of tune, compels notice; but the master, freeing the ecstasy -enchanted in the bosom of a violin of royal lineage, touches and -transports. All standards are confounded if notoriety means excellence. - -There is a sentence in one of the enticing and stimulating essays of -James Russell Lowell which is applicable to these writers who gain -reputation by setting on edge the reader's teeth. - - There is no work of genius which has not been the delight of - mankind.--_Rousseau and the Sentimentalists._ - -Notice: the delight of mankind; not the sensation, the pastime, the -amazement, the horror, or the scandal of mankind,--but the delight. This -is a wise test by which to try a good deal of the best advertised -literature of the present day. Do not ask whether the talked-of book -startles, amuses, shocks, or even arouses simply; but inquire, if you -care to estimate its literary value, whether it delights. - -It is necessary, of course, to understand that Mr. Lowell uses the word -here in its broad signification. He means more than the simple pleasure -of smooth and sugary things. He means the delight of tragedy as well as -of comedy; of "King Lear" and "Othello" as well as of "Midsummer Night's -Dream;" but he does not mean the nerve-torture of "Ghosts" or the mental -nausea of "L'Assommoir." By delight he means that persuasion which is an -essential quality of all genuine art. The writer who makes his readers -shrink and quiver may produce a transient sensation. His notoriety is -noisily proclaimed by the trumpets of to-day; but the brazen voice of -to-morrow will as lustily roar other fleeting successes, and all alike -be forgotten in a night. - -I insisted in the first of these talks upon the principle that good art -is "human and wholesome and sane." We need to keep these characteristics -constantly in mind; and to make them practical tests of the literature -upon which we feed our minds and our imaginations. We are greatly in -need of some sort of an artistic quarantine. Literature should not be -the carrier of mental or emotional contagion. A work which swarms with -mental and moral microbes should be as ruthlessly disinfected by fire as -if it were a garment contaminated with the germs of fever or cholera. It -is manifestly impossible that this shall be done, however, in the -present state of society; and it follows that each reader must be his -own health-board in the choice of books. - -The practical question which instantly arises is how one is to know good -books from bad until one has read them. How to distinguish between what -is worthy of attention and what is ephemeral trash has perplexed many a -sincere and earnest student. This is a duty which should devolve largely -upon trained critics, but unhappily criticism is not to-day in a -condition which makes it reliable or practically of very great -assistance where recent publications are concerned. The reader is left -to his own judgment in choosing among writings hot from the press. -Fortunately the task of discriminating is not impossible. It is even far -less difficult than it at first appears. The reader is seldom without a -pretty clear idea of the character of notorious books before he touches -them. Where the multitude of publications is so great, the very means of -advertising which are necessary to bring them into notice show what they -are. Even should a man make it a rule to read nothing until he has a -definite estimate of its merit, he will find in the end that he has lost -little. For any purposes of the cultivation of the mind or the -imagination the book which is good to read to-day is good to read -to-morrow, so that there is not the haste about reading a real book that -there is in getting through the morning paper, which becomes obsolete by -noon. When one considers, too, how small a portion of the volumes -published it is possible to have time for, and how important it is to -make the most of life by having these of the best, one realizes that it -is worth while to take a good deal of trouble, and if need be to -sacrifice the superficial enjoyment of keeping in the front rank of the -mad mob of sensation seekers whose only idea of literary merit is noise -and novelty. It is a trivial and silly vanity which is unhappy because -somebody--or because everybody--has read new books first. - -There is, moreover, nothing more stupid than the attempt to deceive -ourselves,--especially if the attempt succeeds. Of all forms of lying -this is at once the most demoralizing and the most utterly useless. If -we read poor books from puerile or unworthy motives, let us at least be -frank about it in our own minds. If we have taken up with unwholesome -writers from idle curiosity, or, worse, from prurient hankering after -uncleanness, what do we gain by assuring ourselves that we did not know -what we were doing, or by pretending that we have unwillingly been -following out a line of scientific investigation? Fine theories make but -flimsy coverings for unhealthy desires. - -Of course this whole matter lies within the domain of individual liberty -and individual responsibility. The use or the abuse of reading is -determined by each man for himself. To gloat over scorbutic prose and -lubricious poetry, to fritter the attention upon the endless repetition -of numberless insignificant details, to fix the mind upon phonographic -reports of the meaningless conversations of meaningless characters, to -lose rational consciousness in the confusion of verbal eccentricities -which dazzle by the cunning with which words are prevented from -conveying intelligence,--and the writings of to-day afford ample -opportunity for doing all of these things!--is within the choice of -every reader. It is to be remembered, however, that no excuse evades the -consequence. He who wastes life finds himself bankrupt, and there is no -redress. - -Always it is to be remembered that the classics afford us the means of -measuring the worth of what we read. He who pauses to consider a little -will see at once something of what is meant by this. He will realize the -wide difference there is between familiarity with the permanent -literature of the world and acquaintance with the most sensational and -widely discussed books of to-day. A man may be a virtuous citizen and a -good husband and father, with intelligence in his business and common -sense in the affairs of life, and yet be utterly ignorant of how -Achilles put the golden tress into the hand of dead Patroclus, or of the -stratagem by which Iphigenia saved the life of Orestes at Tauris, or of -the love of Palamon and Arcite for Emilie the fair, or of whom Gudrun -married and whom she loved, or of how Sancho Panza governed his island, -or of the ill-fated loves of Romeo and Juliet, or of the agony of -Othello, or of Hamlet, or Lear, or Perdita, or Portia. The knowledge of -none of these is necessary to material existence, and it is possible to -make a creditable figure in the world without it. Yet we are all -conscious that the man who is not aware of these creations which are so -much more real than the majority of the personages that stalk -puppet-like across the pages of history, has missed something of which -the loss makes his life definitely poorer. We cannot but feel the -enrichment of mind and feeling which results from our having in classic -pages made the acquaintance with these gracious beings and shared their -adventures and their emotions. Suppose that the books most noisily -lauded to-day were to be tried by the same test. Is a man better for -knowing with Zola all the diseased genealogy of the Rougon-Macquart -family, morbid, criminal, and foul? Is not the mind cleaner and saner if -it has never been opened to the entertainment of Poznyscheff, Hedda -Gabler, Dr. Rank, Mademoiselle de Maupin, Oswald Alving, or any of this -unclean tribe? It is not that a strong or well-developed man will -ignore the crime or the criminals of the world; but it is not necessary -to gloat over either. It is not difficult to learn all that it is -necessary to know about yellow fever, cholera, or leprosy, without -passing days and nights in the pest hospitals. - -These unwholesome books, however, are part of the intellectual history -of our time. He who would keep abreast of modern thought and of life as -it is to-day, we are constantly reminded, must take account of the -writers who are most loudly lauded. Goethe has said: "It is in her -monstrosities that nature reveals herself;" and the same is measurably -true in the intellectual world. The madness, the eccentricity, the -indecencies of these books, are so many indications by which certain -tendencies of the period betray themselves. It seems to me, however, -that this is a consideration to which it is extremely easy to give too -much weight. To mistake this noisy and morbid class of books, these -self-parading and sensational authors, for the most significant signs of -the intellectual condition of the time is like mistaking a drum-major -for the general, because the drum-major is most conspicuous and always -to the fore,--except in action. The mind is nourished and broadened, -moreover, by the study of sanity. It is the place of the physician to -concern himself with disease; but as medical treatises are dangerous in -the hands of laymen, so are works of morbid psychology in the hands of -the ordinary reader. - -Fortunately contemporary literature is not confined to books of the -unwholesome sort, greatly as these are in evidence. We have a real -literature as well as a false one. Time moves so swiftly that we have -begun to regard the works of Thackeray and Dickens and Hawthorne, and -almost of Browning and Tennyson, as among the classics. They are so, -however, by evident merit rather than by age, and have not been in -existence long enough to receive the suffrages of generations. The names -of these authors remind us how many books have been written in our time -which endure triumphantly all tests that have been proposed; books to -miss the knowledge of which is to lose the opportunity of making life -richer. Certainly we should be emotionally and spiritually poorer -without the story of Hester Prynne and Arthur Dimmesdale, between whom -the Scarlet Letter glowed balefully; without Hilda in her tower and poor -Miriam bereft of her Faun below. To have failed to share the Fezziwigs' -ball, or the trial of Mr. Pickwick for breach of promise; to have lived -without knowing the inimitable Sam Weller and the juicy Micawbers, the -amiable Quilp and the elegant Mrs. Skewton, philanthropic Mrs. Jellyby -and airy Harold Skimpole, is to have failed of acquaintances that would -have brightened existence; to be ignorant of Becky Sharp and Colonel -Newcome, of Arthur Pendennis and George Warrington, of Beatrix and -Colonel Esmond, is to have neglected one of the blessings, and not of -the lesser blessings either. No man is without a permanent and tangible -gain who has comprehendingly read Emerson's "Rhodora," or the -"Threnody," or "Days," or "The Problem." Whoever has been -sympathetically through the "Idylls of the King" not only experienced a -long delight but has gained a fresh ideal; while to have gone to the -heart of "The Ring and the Book,"--that most colossal _tour-de-force_ in -all literature,--to have heard the tender confidences of dying Pompilia, -the anguished confession of Caponsacchi, the noble soliloquy of the -Pope, is to have lived through a spiritual and an emotional experience -of worth incalculable. In the age of Thackeray and Dickens, of Hawthorne -and Emerson and Tennyson and Browning, we cannot complain that there is -any lack of genuine literature. - -Nor are we obliged to keep to what seems to some a high and breathless -altitude of reading. There are many readers who are of so little natural -imagination, or who have cultivated it so little, that it is a conscious -and often a fatiguing effort to keep to the mood of these greater -authors. Beside these works to the keen enjoyment of which imagination -is necessary, there are others which are genuine without being of so -high rank. It is certainly on the whole a misfortune that one should be -deprived of a knowledge of Mrs. Proudie and the whole clerical circle in -which she moved, and especially of Mr. Harding, the delightful "Warden;" -he is surely to be pitied who has not read the story of "Silas Marner," -who does not feel friendly and intimate with shrewd and epigrammatic -Mrs. Poyser, with spiritual Dinah Morris, and with Maggie Tulliver and -her family. No intelligent reader can afford to have passed by in -neglect the pleasant sweetness of Longfellow or the wholesome soundness -of Whittier, the mystic sensuousness of Rossetti or the voluptuous -melodiousness of Swinburne. - -It is manifestly impossible to enumerate all the authors who illustrate -the richness of the latter half of the nineteenth century; but there are -those of the living who cannot be passed in silence. To deal with those -who are writing to-day is manifestly difficult, but as I merely claim to -cite illustrations no fault can justly be found with omissions. -Naturally Meredith and Hardy come first to mind. He who has read that -exquisite chapter in "The Ordeal of Richard Feverel" which tells of the -meeting of Richard and Lucy in the meadows by the river has in memory a -gracious possession for the rest of his days. Who can recall from "The -Return of the Native" the noonday visit of Mrs. Yeobright to the house -of her son and her journey to death back over Egdon Heath, without a -heart-deep thrill? What sympathetic reader fails to recognize that he is -mentally and imaginatively richer for the honest little reddle-man, -Diggory Venn, for sturdy Gabriel Oak, for the delightful clowns of -"Under the Greenwood Tree" and "Far from the Madding Crowd," or for -ill-starred Tess when on that dewy morning she had the misfortune to -touch the caddish heart of Angel Clare? To have failed to read and to -reread Stevenson,--for one thinks of Stevenson as still of the -living,--to have passed Kipling by, is to have neglected one of the -blessings of the time. - -It may be that I have seemed to imply by the examples I have chosen that -the literature of continental Europe is to be shunned. Naturally in -addressing English-speaking folk one selects examples when possible from -literature in that tongue; and I have alluded to books in other -languages only when they brought out more strikingly than do English -books a particular point. It is needless to say that in these -cosmopolitan days no one can afford to neglect the riches of other -nations in contemporary literature. It is difficult to resist the -temptation to make lists, to speak of the men who in France with Guy de -Maupassant at their head have developed so great a mastery of style; one -would gladly dwell on the genius of Turgenieff, perhaps the one writer -who excuses the modern craze for Russian books; or of Sienkiewicz, who -has only Dumas _père_ to dispute his place as first romancer of the -world; and so on for other writers of other lands and tongues. It is -unnecessary, however, to multiply examples, and here there is no attempt -to speak exhaustively even of English literature. - -The thing to be kept in mind is that it is our good fortune to live in -the century which in the whole course of English literature is outranked -by the brilliant Elizabethan period only. It is surely worth while to -attempt to prove ourselves worthy of that which the gods have graciously -given us. Men sigh for the good day that is gone, and imagine that had -they lived then they would have made their lives correspondingly rich to -match the splendors of an age now famous. We live in a time destined to -go down to the centuries not unrenowned for literary achievement; it is -for us to prove ourselves appreciative and worthy of this time. - - - - -XIV - -FICTION - - -Probably the oldest passion of the race which can lay any claim to -connection with the intellect is the love of stories. The most ancient -examples of literature which have been preserved are largely in the form -of narratives. As soon as man has so far conquered the art of speech as -to get beyond the simplest statements, he may be supposed to begin -instinctively to relate incidents, to tell rudimentary tales, and to put -into words the story of events which have happened, or which might have -happened. - -The interest which every human being takes in the things which may -befall his fellows underlies this universal fondness; and the man who -does not love a story must be devoid of normal human sympathy with his -kind. It is hardly necessary, at this late day, to point out the strong -hold upon the sympathies of his fellows which the story-teller has had -from the dawn of civilization. The mind easily pictures the gaunt -reciters who, in savage tribes, repeat from generation to generation the -stories and myths handed orally from father to son; or the professional -narrators of the Orient who repeat gorgeously colored legends and -fantastic adventures in the gate or the market. Perhaps, too, the -mention of the subject of this talk brings from the past the homely, -kindly figure of the nurse who made our childish eyes grow large, and -our little hearts go trippingly in the days of pinafores and -fairy-lore--the blessed days when "once upon a time" was the open sesame -to all delights. The responsiveness of human beings to story-telling the -world over unites all mankind as in a bond of common sympathy. - -What old-fashioned theologians seemed to find an inexhaustible pleasure -in calling "the natural man" has always been strongly inclined to turn -in his reading to narratives in preference to what our grandparents -primly designated as "improving works." In any library the bindings of -the novels are sure to be worn, while the sober backs of treatises upon -manners, or morals, or philosophy, or even science, remain almost as -fresh as when they left the bindery. Each reader in his own grade -selects the sort of tale which most appeals to him; and while the range -is wide, the principle of selection is not so greatly varied. The -shop-girl gloats over "The Earl's Bride; or, The Heiress of Plantagenet -Park." The school-miss in the street-car smiles contemptuously as she -sees this title, and complacently opens the volume of the "Duchess" or -of Rhoda Broughton which is the delight of her own soul. The advanced -young woman of society has only contempt for such trash, and accompanies -her chocolate caramels with the perusal of "The Yellow Aster," or the -"Green Carnation," while her mother, very likely, reads the felicitous -foulness of some Frenchman. Those readers who have a sane and wholesome -taste, properly cultivated, take their pleasure in really good novels or -stories; but the fondness for narrative of some sort is universal. - -It would be manifestly unfair to imply that there is never a natural -inclination for what is known as "solid reading," but such a taste is -exceptional rather than general. Certainly a person who cared only for -stories could not be looked upon as having advanced far in intellectual -development; but appreciation for other forms of literature is rather -the effect of cultivation than the result of natural tendencies. Most of -us have had periods in which we have endeavored to persuade ourselves -that we were of the intellectual elect, and that however circumstances -had been against us, we did in our inmost souls pant for philosophy and -yearn for abstract wisdom. We are all apt to assure ourselves that if we -might, we should devote our days to the study of science and our nights -to mastering the deepest secrets of metaphysics. We declare to ourselves -that we have not time; that just now we are wofully overworked, but that -in some golden, although unfortunately indeterminate future, for which -we assure ourselves most solemnly that we long passionately, we shall -pore over tremendous tomes of philosophical thought as the bee grapples -itself to a honey-full clover-blossom. It is all humbug; and, what is -more, we know that it is humbug. We do not, as a rule, relish the -effort of comprehending and assimilating profoundly thoughtful -literature, and it is generally more easy to read fiction in a slipshod -way than it is to glide with any amusement over intellectual work. The -intense strain of the age of course increases this tendency to light -reading; but in any age the only books of which practically everybody -who reads at all is fond are the story-books. - - * * * * * - -It has been from time to time the habit of busy idlers to fall into -excited and often acrimonious discussion in regard to this general love -for stories. Many have held that it is an instinct of a fallen and -unregenerate nature, and that it is to be checked at any cost. It is not -so long since certain most respectable and influential religious sects -set the face steadfastly against novels; and you may remember as an -instance that when George Eliot was a young woman she regarded -novel-reading as a wicked amusement. There is to-day a more rational -state of feeling. It is seen that it is better to accept the instincts -of human nature, and endeavor to work through them than to engage in the -well-nigh hopeless task of attempting to eradicate them. To-day we are -coming to recognize the cunning of the East in inculcating wisdom in -fables and the profound lesson of the statement in the Gospels: "Without -a parable spake He not unto them." - -Much of the distrust which has been in the past felt in regard to -fiction has arisen from a narrow and uncomprehending idea of its nature. -Formalists have conceived that the relating of things which never -occurred--which indeed it was often impossible should occur,--is a -violation of truth. The fundamental ground of most of the objections -which moralists have made to fiction has been the assumption that -fiction is false. Of certain kinds of fiction this is of course true -enough, but of fiction which comes within the range of literature it is -conspicuously incorrect. - -Fiction is literature which is false to the letter that it may be true -to the spirit. It is unfettered by narrow actualities of form, because -it has to express the higher actualities of emotion. It uses incident -and character as mere language. It is as unfair to object to the -incidents of a great novel that they are untrue, as it would be to say -that the letters of a word are untrue. There is no question of truth or -untruth beyond the question whether the symbols express that which they -are intended to convey. The letters are set down to impart to the -intelligence of the reader the idea of a given word; the incidents of a -novel are used to embody a truth of human nature and life. Truth is here -the verity of the thing conveyed. In a narrow and literal sense Hamlet -and Othello and Colonel Newcome and Becky Sharp are untrue. They never -existed in the flesh. They have lived, however, in the higher and more -vital sense that they have been part of the imagination of a master. -They are true in that they express the truth. It is a dull -misunderstanding of the value of things to call that book untrue which -deals with fictitious characters wisely, yet to hold as verity that -which records actual events stolidly and unappreciatively. The history -may be false from beginning to end and the fiction true. Fiction which -is worthy of consideration under the name of literature is the truest -prose in the world; and I believe that it is not without an instinctive -recognition of this fact that mankind has so generally taken it to its -heart. - -The value of at least certain works of fiction has come to be generally -recognized by the intellectual world. There are some novels which it is -taken for granted that every person of education has read. Whoever makes -the smallest pretense of culture must, for instance, be at least -tolerably familiar with Scott, Thackeray, Dickens, and Hawthorne; while -he will find it difficult to hold the respect of cultivated men unless -he is also acquainted with Miss Austen, George Eliot, and Charlotte -Brontë, with Dumas _père_, Balzac, and Victor Hugo, and with the works -of leading living writers of romance. "Don Quixote" is as truly a -necessary part of a liberal education as is the multiplication table; -and it would not be difficult to extend the list of novels which it is -assumed as a matter of course that persons of cultivation know -familiarly. - -Nor is it only the works of the greater writers of imaginative narration -which have secured a general recognition. If it is not held that it is -essential for an educated man to have read Trollope, Charles Reade, -Kingsley, or Miss Mulock, for example, it is at least recognized that -one had better have gained an acquaintance with these and similar -writers. Traill, the English critic, speaks warmly of the books which -while falling below the first rank are yet richly worth attention. He -says with justice:-- - - The world can never estimate the debt that it owes to second-class - literature. Yet it is basely afraid to acknowledge the debt, - hypocritically desiring to convey the impression that such literature - comes to it in spite of protest, calling off its attention from the - great productions. - -It is true enough that there is a good deal of foolish pretense in -regard to our genuine taste in reading, but in actual practice most -persons do in the long run read chiefly what they really enjoy. It is -also true that there are more readers who are capable of appreciating -the novels of the second grade than there are those who are in sympathy -with fiction of the first. The thing for each individual reader is to -see to it that he is honest in this matter with himself, and that he -gives attention to the best that he can like rather than to the poorest. - -Even those who accept the fact that cultivated persons will read novels, -and those who go so far as to appreciate that it is a distinct gain to -the intellectual life, are, however, very apt to be troubled by the -dangers of over-indulgence in this sort of literature. It has been said -and repeated innumerable times that the excessive reading of novels is -mentally debilitating and even debauching. This is certainly true. So is -it true that there is great mental danger in the excessive reading of -philosophy or theology, or the excessive eating of bread, or the -excessive doing of any other thing. The favorite figure in connection -with fiction has been to compare it to opium-eating or to dram-drinking; -and the moral usually drawn is that the novel-reader is in imminent -danger of intellectual dissoluteness or even of what might be called the -delirium tremens of the imagination. I should not be honest if I -pretended to have a great deal of patience with most that is said in -this line. The exclusive use of fiction as mental food is of course -unwise, and the fact is so patent that it is hardly worth while to waste -words in repeating it. When I said a moment ago that there is danger in -the eating of bread if it is carried to excess I indicated what seems to -me to be the truth in this matter. If one reads good and wholesome -fiction, I believe that the natural instincts of the healthy mind may be -trusted to settle the question of how much shall be read. If the fiction -is unhealthy, morbid, or false, any of it is bad. If it is good, if it -calls into play a healthy imagination, there is very little danger that -too much of it will be taken. When there is complaint that a girl or a -boy is injuring the mind by too exclusive a devotion to novels, I -believe that it generally means, if the facts of the case were -understood, that the mind of the reader is in an unwholesome condition, -and that this excessive devotion to fiction is a symptom rather than a -disease. When the girl coughs, it is not the cough that is the trouble; -this is only a symptom of the irritation of membranes; and I believe -that much the same is the case with extravagant novel-readers. - -Of course this view of the matter will not commend itself to everybody. -It is hard for us to shake off the impression of all the countless -homilies which have been composed against novel-reading; and we are by -no means free from the poison of the ascetic idea that anything to which -mankind takes naturally and with pleasure cannot really be good in -itself. I hope, however, that it will not appear to you unreasonable -when I say that it seems to me far better to insist upon proper methods -of reading and upon the selection of books which are genuine literature -than to wage unavailing war against the natural love of stories which is -to be found in every normal and wholesome human being. If I could be -assured that a boy or a girl read only good novels and read them -appreciatively and sympathetically, I should never trouble myself to -inquire how many he or she read. I should be hopefully patient even if -there was apparently a neglect of history and philosophy. I should be -confident that it is impossible that the proper reading of good fiction -should not in the end both prove beneficial in itself and lead the mind -to whatever is good in other departments of literature. I am not -pleading for the indiscriminating indulgence in doubtful stories. I do -not believe that girls are brought to fine and well-developed womanhood -by an exclusive devotion to the chocolate-caramel-and-pickled-lime sort -of novels. I do not hold that boys come to nobility and manliness -through the influence of sensational tales wherein blood-boultered -bandits reduce to infinitesimal powder every commandment of the -decalogue. I do, however, thoroughly believe that sound and imaginative -fiction is as natural and as wholesome for growing minds as is the air -of the seashore or the mountains for growing bodies. - -The fact is of especial importance as applied to the education of -children. A healthy child is instinctively in the position of a learner. -He is unconsciously full of deep wonderment concerning this world in -which he finds himself, and concerning this mysterious thing called life -in which he has a share. His mind is eager to receive, but it is -entirely free from any affectation. A child accepts what appeals to him -directly, and he is without scruple in neglecting what does not interest -him. He learns only by slow degrees that knowledge may have value and -interest from its remote bearings; and in dealing with him in the -earlier stages of mental development there is no other means so sure and -effective as story-telling. It is here that a child finds the specific -and the concrete while he is still too immature to be moved by the -general and the abstract. - -It is "to cater to this universal taste," the circulars of the -publishers assure us, that so-called "juvenile literature" was invented. -I do not wish to be extravagant, but it does seem to me that modern -juvenile literature has blighted the rising generation as rust blights a -field of wheat. The holiday counters are piled high with hastily -written, superficial, often inaccurate, and, what is most important of -all, unimaginative books. The nursery of to-day is littered with -worthless volumes, and the child halfway through school has already -outlived a dozen varieties of books for the young. - -A good many of these works are as full of information as a sugar-coated -pill is of drugs. Thirst for practical information is one of the -extravagances of the age. Parents to-day make their children to pass -through tortures in the service of what they call "practical knowledge" -as the unnatural parents of old made their offspring to pass through the -fires of Moloch. We are all apt to lose sight of the fact that wisdom is -not what a man knows but what he is. The important thing is not what we -drill into our children, but what we drill them into. There are times -when it is the most profound moral duty of a parent to substitute -Grimm's fairy stories for text-books, and to devote the whole stress of -educational effort to the developing of the child's imagination. I am -not at all sure that it is not of more importance to see to it that a -child--and especially a boy--is familiar with "the land east of the sun -and west of the moon" than to stuff his brain with the geographical -details of the wilds of Asia, Africa, or the isles of the far seas. I am -sure that he is better off from knowing about Sindbad and Ali Baba than -for being able to extract a cube root. I do not wish to be understood as -speaking against the imparting of practical information, although I must -say that I think that the distinction between what is really practical -and what is not seems to me to be somewhat confused in these days. I -simply mean that just now there is need of enforcing the value of the -imaginative side of education. No accumulation of facts can compensate -for the narrowing of the growing mind; and indeed facts are not to be -really grasped and assimilated without the development of the -realizing--the imaginative--faculty. - -It is even more important for children than for adults that their -reading shall be imaginative. The only way to protect them against -worthless books is to give them a decided taste for what is good. It is -only after children have been debauched by vapid or sensational books -that they come to delight in rubbish. It is easier in the first place to -interest them in real literature than in shams. The thing is to take the -trouble to see to it that what they read is fine. The most common error -in this connection is to suppose that children need an especial sort of -literature different from that suited to adults. As far, certainly, as -serious education is concerned, there is neither adult literature nor -juvenile literature; there is simply literature. Speaking broadly, the -literature best for grown persons is the literature best for children. -The limitations of youth have, and should have, the same effects in -literature as in life. They restrict the comprehension and appreciation -of the facts of life; and equally they set a bound to the comprehension -and appreciation of what is read. The impressions which a child gets -from either are not those of his elders. The important thing is that -what the growing mind receives shall be vital and wholesome. It is less -unfortunate for the child to mistake what is genuine than to receive as -true what is really false. We all commit errors in the conclusions which -we draw from life; and so will it be with children and books. Books -which are wise and sane, however, will in time correct the -misconceptions they beget, as life in time makes clear the mistakes -which life has produced. - -The whole philosophy of reading for children is pretty well summed up by -implication in the often quoted passage in which Charles Lamb describes -under the disguise of Bridget Elia, the youthful experience of his -sister Mary:-- - - She was tumbled early, by accident or design, into a spacious closet - of good old English reading, without much selection or prohibition, - and browsed at will upon that fair and wholesome pasturage. Had I - twenty girls, they should be brought up exactly in this - fashion.--_Mackery End._ - -Fiction--to return to the immediate subject of this talk--is only a part -of a child's education, but it is a most essential part; and it is of -the greatest importance that the fiction given to a young reader be -noble; that it be true to the essentials of life, as it can be true only -if it is informed by a keen and sane imagination. Children should be fed -on the genuine and sound folk-tales like those collected by the brothers -Grimm; the tales of Hans Christian Andersen, of Asbjörnsen, of -Laboulaye, and of that delightful old lady, the Countess d'Aulnoy; the -fine and robust "Morte d'Arthur" of Malory; the more modern classics, -"Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver." Then there are Hawthorne's "Tanglewood -Tales" and the "Wonder-Book," "Treasure Island" and "Kidnapped," "Uncle -Remus," and the "Jungle Books." It may be claimed that these are -"juvenile" literature; but I have named nothing of which I, at least, am -not as fond now as in my youth, and I have yet to discover that adults -find lack of interest in good books even of fairy stories. What has been -said against juvenile literature has been intended against the -innumerable works mustered under that name which are not literature at -all. Wonder lore is as normal food for old as for young, and there is no -more propriety in confining it to children than there is in limiting the -use of bread and butter to the inhabitants of the nursery. - -It is neither possible nor wise to attempt here a catalogue of books -especially adapted to children. I should myself put Spenser high in the -list, and very likely include others which common custom does not regard -as well adapted to the young. These, of course, are books to be read to -the child, not that he at first can be expected to go pleasurably -through alone. Prominent among them I would insist first, last, and -always upon Shakespeare. If it were practically possible to confine the -reading of a child to Shakespeare and the Bible, the whole question -would be well and wisely settled. Since this cannot be, it is at least -essential that a child be given both as soon as he can be interested in -them,--and it is equally important that he be given neither until they -do attract him. He is to be guided and aided, but there cannot be a more -rich and noble introduction to fiction than through the inspired pages -of Shakespeare, and the child who has been well grounded in the greatest -of poets is not likely ever to go very widely astray in his reading. - - - - -XV - -FICTION AND LIFE - - -The reading of fiction has come to have an important and well recognized -place in modern life. However strong may be the expression of -disapprobation against certain individual books, no one in these days -attempts to deny the value of imaginative literature in the development -of mind and the formation of character; yet so strong is the Puritan -strain in the blood of the English race that there is still a good deal -of lingering ascetic disapproval of novels. - -It must be remembered in this connection that there are novels and -novels. The objections which have from time to time been heaped upon -fiction in general are more than deserved by fiction in particular; and -that, too, by the fiction most in evidence. The books least worthy are -for the most part precisely those which in their brief day are most -likely to excite comment. That the flaming scarlet toadstools which -irresistibly attract the eye in the forest are viciously poisonous does -not, however, alter the fact that mushrooms are at once delicious and -nutritious. It is no more logical to condemn all fiction on account of -the worthlessness or hurtfulness of bad books than it would be to -denounce all food because things have often been eaten which are -dangerously unwholesome. - -The great value of fiction as a means of intellectual and of moral -training lies in the fact that man is actually and vitally taught -nothing of importance save by that which really touches his feelings. -Advice appeals to the intellect, and experience to the emotions. What -has been didactically told to us is at best a surface treatment, while -what we have felt is an inward modification of what we are. We approve -of advice, and we act according to experience. Often when we have -decided upon one course of life or action, the inner self which is the -concrete result of our temperament and our experiences goes quietly -forward in a path entirely different. What we have resolved seldom comes -to pass unless it is sustained by what we have felt. For centuries has -man been defining himself as a being that reasons while he has been -living as a being that feels. - -The sure hold of fiction upon mankind depends upon the fact that it -enables the reader to gain experience vicariously. Seriously and -sympathetically to read a story which is true to life is to live through -an emotional experience. How vivid this emotion is will manifestly -depend upon the imaginative sympathy with which one reads. The young man -who has appreciatively entered into the life of Arthur Pendennis will -hardly find that he is able to go through the world in a spirit of -dandified self-complaisance without a restraining consciousness that -such an attitude toward life is most absurd folly. A man of confirmed -worldliness is perhaps not to be turned from his selfish and ignoble -living by studying the history of Major Pendennis, to read about whom is -not unlike drinking dry and rare old Madeira; yet it is scarcely to be -doubted that an appreciation of the figure cut by the old beau, -fluttering over the flowers of youth like a preserved butterfly poised -on a wire, must tend to lead a man to a different career. No reader can -have felt imaginatively the passionate spiritual struggles of Arthur -Dimmesdale without being thereafter more sensitive to good influences -and less tolerant of self-deception and concealed sin. These are the -more obvious examples. The experiences which one gains from good fiction -go much farther and deeper. They extend into those most intangible yet -most real regions where even the metaphysician, the psychologist, and -the maker of definitions have not yet been able to penetrate; those dim, -mysterious tracts of the mind which are still to us hardly better known -than the unexplored mid-countries of Asia or Africa. - -As a means of accomplishing a desired end didactic literature is -probably the most futile of all the unavailing attempts of mankind. In -the days when ringlets and pantalets were in fashion, when small boys -wore frilled collars and asked only improving questions, when the most -delirious literary dissipation of which the youthful fancy could -conceive was a Rollo book or a prim tale by Maria Edgeworth, it was -generally believed that moral precepts and wise maxims had a prodigious -influence upon the young. It was held possible to mould the rising -generation by putting one of the sentences of Solomon at the head of a -copy-book page, and to make a permanent impression upon the spirit by -saws and sermons. If this were ever true, it is certainly not true now. -If sermon or saw has touched the imagination of the hearer, it has had -some effect which will be lasting; and this the saw does oftener than -the sermon, the proverb than the precept. If it has won only an -intellectual assent, there is small ground for supposing that it will -bring about any alteration which will be permanent and effective. - -Taking into account these considerations, one might sum up the whole -matter somewhat in this way: To read fiction is certainly a pleasure; it -is to be looked upon as no less important a means of intellectual -development; while in the cultivation of the moral and spiritual sense -the proper use of fiction is one of the most effectual and essential -agencies to-day within the reach of men. In other words the proper -reading of fiction is, from the standpoint of pleasure, of intellectual -development, or of moral growth, neither more nor less than a distinct -and imperative duty. - -I have been careful to say, "the proper reading of fiction." Whatever -strictures may be laid upon careless readers in general may perhaps be -quadrupled when applied to bad reading of novels. It is the duty of -nobody to read worthless fiction; and it is a species of moral iniquity -to read good novels carelessly, flippantly, or superficially. There is -small literary or intellectual hope for those whom Henry James describes -as "people who read novels as an exercise in skipping." There are two -tests by which the novel-reader is to be tried: What sort of fiction -does he read, and how does he read it? If the answers to these questions -are satisfactory, the whole matter is settled. - -Of course it is of the first importance that the reader think for -himself; that he form his own opinions, and have his own appreciations. -Small minds are like weak galvanic cells; one alone is not strong enough -to generate a sensible current; they must be grouped to produce an -appreciable result. One has no opinion; while to accomplish anything -approaching a sensation a whole circle is required. It takes an entire -community of such intellects to get up a feeling, and of course the -feeling when aroused is shared in common. There are plenty of -pretentious readers of all the latest notorious novels who have as small -an individual share in whatever emotion the book excites as a Turkish -wife has in the multifariously directed affections of her husband. It is -impossible not to see the shallowness, the pretense, and the -intellectual demoralization of these readers; and it is equally idle to -deny the worthlessness of the books in which they delight. - -What, then, is to be learned from fiction, that so much stress is to be -laid upon the necessity of making it a part of our intellectual and -moral education? The answer has in part at least been so often given -that it seems almost superfluous to repeat it. The more direct lessons -of the novel are so evident as scarcely to call for enumeration. Nobody -needs at this late day to be told how much may be learned from fiction -of the customs of different grades of society, of the ways and habits of -all sorts and conditions of men, and of the even more fascinating if not -actually more vitally important manners and morals of all sorts and -conditions of women. Every reader knows how much may be learned from -stories of the facts of human relations and of social existence,--facts -which one accumulates but slowly by actual experience, while yet a -knowledge of them is of so great importance for the full appreciation -and the proper employment and enjoyment of life. - -Civilization is essentially an agreement upon conventions. It is the -tacit acceptance of conditions and concessions. It is conceded that if -human beings are to live together it is necessary that there must be -mutual agreement, and as civilization progresses this is extended to all -departments and details of life. What is called etiquette, for instance, -is one variety of social agreement into which men have entered for -convenience and comfort in living together. What is called good breeding -is but the manifestation of a generous desire to observe all those human -regulations by which the lives of others may be rendered more happy. -These concessions and conventions are not natural. A man may be born -with the spirit of good breeding, but he must learn its methods. Nature -may bestow the inclination to do what is wisest and best in human -relations, but the forms and processes of social life and of all human -intercourse must be acquired. It is one of the functions of fiction to -instruct in all this knowledge; and only he who is unacquainted with -life will account such an office trivial. - -Intimate familiarity with the inner characteristics of humanity, and -knowledge of the experiences and the nature of mankind, are a still more -important gain from fiction. Almost unconsciously the intelligent -novel-reader grows in the comprehension of what men are and of what they -may be. This art makes the reader a sharer in those moments when -sensation is at its highest, emotion at its keenest. It brings into the -life which is outwardly quiet and uneventful, into the mind which has -few actual experiences to stir it to its deeps, the splendid -exhilaration of existence at its best. The pulse left dull by a -colorless life throbs and tingles over the pages of a vivid romance; the -heart denied contact with actualities which would awaken it beats hotly -with the fictitious passion made real by the imagination; so that life -becomes forever richer and more full of meaning. - -In one way it is possible to gain from these imaginative experiences a -knowledge of life more accurate than that which comes from life itself. -It is possible to judge, to examine, to weigh, to estimate the emotions -which are enjoyed æsthetically; whereas emotions arising from real -events benumb all critical faculties by their stinging personal quality. -He who has never shared actual emotional experiences has never lived, -it is true; but he who has not shared æsthetic emotions has never -understood. - -What should be the character of fiction is pretty accurately indicated -by what has been said of the part which fiction should play in human -development. Here, as in all literature, men are less influenced by the -appeal to the reason than by the appeal to the feelings. The novelist -who has a strong and lasting influence is not he who instructs men -directly, but he who moves men. This is instruction in its higher sense. -The guidance of life must come from the reason; equally, however, must -the impulse of life come from the emotions. The man who is ruled by -reason alone is but a curious mechanical toy which mimics the movements -of life without being really alive. - -This prime necessity of touching and moving the reader determines one of -the most important points of difference between literature and science. -It forces the story-teller to modify, to select, and to change if need -be the facts of life, in order to produce an impression of truth. Out of -the multifarious details of existence the author must select the -significant; out of the real deduce the possibility which shall commend -itself to the reader as verity. - -Above everything else is an artist who is worthy of the name truthful in -his art. He never permits himself to set down anything which is not a -verity to his imagination, or which fails to be consistent with the -conditions of human existence. He realizes that fiction in which a -knowledge of the outward shell and the accidents of life is made the -chief object cannot be permanent and cannot be vitally effective. The -novelist is not called upon to paint life, but to interpret life. It is -his privilege to be an artist; and an artist is one who sees through -apparent truth to actual verity. It is his first and most essential duty -to arouse the inner being, and to this necessity he must be ready to -sacrifice literal fact. Until the imagination is awake, art cannot even -begin to do its work. It is true that there may be a good deal of -pleasant story-telling which but lightly touches the fancy and does not -reach deeper. It is often harmless enough; but it is as idle to expect -from this any keen or lasting pleasure, and still more any mental -experience of enduring significance, as it would be to expect to warm -Nova Zembla with a bonfire. What for the moment tickles the fancy goes -with the moment, and leaves little trace; what touches the imagination -becomes a fact of life. - -Macaulay, in his extraordinarily wrong-headed essay on Milton, has -explicitly stated a very wide-spread heresy when he says:-- - - We cannot unite the incompatible advantages of reality and deception, - the clear discernment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. - -This is the ground generally held by unimaginative men. Macaulay had -many good gifts and graces, but his warmest admirers would hardly -include among them a greatly endowed or vigorously developed -imagination. If one cannot unite the advantages of reality and -deception, if he cannot join clear discernment of truth to the -exquisite enjoyment of fiction, it is because he fails of all just and -adequate comprehension of literature. To call fiction deception is -simply to fail to understand that real truth may be independent of -apparent truth. It would from the point of view of this sentence of -Macaulay's be competent to open the Gospels and call the parable of the -sower a falsehood because there is no probability that it referred to -any particular incident. The stupidity of criticism of fiction which -begins with the assumption that it is not true is not unlike that of an -endeavor to swallow a chestnut burr and the consequent declaration that -the nut is uneatable. If one is not clever enough to get beneath the -husk, his opinion is surely not of great value. - -In order to enjoy a novel, it is certainly not necessary to believe it -in a literal sense. No sane man supposes that Don Quixote ever did or -ever could exist. To the intellect the book is little more than a -farrago of impossible absurdities. The imagination perceives that it is -true to the fundamental essentials of human nature, and understands that -the book is true in a sense higher than that of mere literal verity. It -is the cultivated man who has the keenest sense of reality, and yet only -to the cultivated man is possible the exquisite enjoyment of "Esmond," -of "Les Misérables," "The Scarlet Letter," "The Return of the Native," -or "The Ordeal of Richard Feverel." So far from being incompatible, the -clear discernment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction are -inseparable. - -An artist who is worthy of the name is above all else truthful in his -art. He never permits himself to set down anything which he does not -feel to be true. It is with a truth higher than a literal accuracy, -however, that he is concerned. His perception is the servant of his -imagination. He observes and he uses the outward facts of life as a -means of conveying its inner meanings. It is this that makes him an -artist. The excuse for his claiming the attention of the world is that -in virtue of his imagination he is gifted with an insight keener and -more penetrating than that of his fellows; and his enduring influence -depends upon the extent to which he justifies this claim. - -With the novel of trifles it is difficult to have any patience whatever. -The so-called Realistic story collects insignificant nothings about a -slender thread of plot as a filament of cobweb gathers dust in a barn. -The cobweb seems to me on the whole the more valuable, since at least it -has the benefit of the old wives' theory that it is good to check -bleeding. It is a more noble office to be wrapped about a cut finger -than to muffle a benumbed mind. - -One question which the great mass of novel-readers who are also students -of literature are interested to have answered is, How far is it well to -read fiction for simple amusement? With this inquiry, too, goes the -kindred one whether it is well or ill to relax the mind over light tales -of the sort sometimes spoken of as "summer reading." To this it is -impossible to give a categorical reply. It is like the question how -often and for how long it is wise to sit down to rest while climbing a -hill. It depends upon the traveler, and no one else can determine a -point which is to be decided by feelings and conditions known alone to -him. It is hardly possible and it is not wise to read always with -exalted aims. Whatever you might be advised by me or by any other, you -would be foolish not to make of fiction a means of grateful relaxation -as well as a help in mental growth. Always it is important to remember, -however, that there is a wide difference in the ultimate result, -according as a person reads for diversion the best that will entertain -him or the worst. It is a matter of the greatest moment that our -amusements shall not be allowed to debauch our taste. It is necessary to -have some standard even in the choice of the most foamy fiction, served -like a sherbet on a hot summer afternoon. One does not read vulgar and -empty books, even for simple amusement, without an effect upon his own -mind. The Chinese are said to have matches in which cockroaches are -pitted against each other to fight for the amusement of the oblique-eyed -heathen. To be thus ignoble in their very sports indicates a peculiar -degradation and poverty of spirit; and there are certain novels so much -in the same line that it is difficult to think of their being read -without seeing in fancy a group of pig-tailed Celestials hanging -breathlessly over a bowl in which struggle the disgusting little insect -combatants. To give the mind up to this sort of reading is not to be -commended in anybody. - -Fortunately we are in this day provided with a great deal of light -fiction which is sound and wholesome and genuine as far as it goes. Some -of it even goes far in the way of being imaginative and good. As -examples--not at all as a list--may be named Blackmore, Crawford, -Stanley Weyman, Anthony Hope, or the numerous writers of admirable short -stories, Cable, Miss Jewett, Miss Wilkins, J. M. Barrie, Ian Maclaren, -or Thomas Nelson Page. All these and others may be read for simple -entertainment, and all are worth reading for some more or less strongly -marked quality of permanent worth. There are plenty of writers, too, -like William Black and Clark Russell and Conan Doyle, concerning the -lasting value of whose stories there might easily be a question, yet who -do often contrive to be healthily amusing, and who furnish the means of -creating a pleasant and restful vacuity in lives otherwise too full. -Every reader must make his own choice, and determine for himself how -much picnicking he will do on his way up the hill of life. If he is wise -he will contrive to find his entertainment chiefly in books which -besides being amusing have genuine value; and he will at least see to it -that his intellectual dissipations shall be with the better of such -books as will amuse him and not with the poorer. - -The mention of the short story brings to mind the great part which this -form of fiction plays to-day. The restlessness of the age and the -fostering influence of the magazines have united to develop the short -story, and it has become one of the most marked of the literary -features of the time. It has the advantage of being easily handled and -comprehended as a whole, but it lessens the power of seizing in their -entirety works which are greater. It tends rather to increase than to -diminish mental restlessness, and the lover of short stories will do -well not to let any considerable length of time go by without reading -some long and far-reaching novel by way of corrective. Another -consequence of the wide popularity of the short story is that we have -nowadays so few additions to that delightful company of fictitious yet -most admirably real personages whose acquaintance the reader makes in -longer tales. The delight of knowing these characters is not only one of -the most attractive joys of novel-reading, but it is one which helps -greatly to brighten life and enhance friendship. Few things add more to -the sympathy of comradeship than a community of friends in the enchanted -realms of the imagination. Strangers in the flesh become instantly -conscious of an intimacy in spirit when they discover a common love for -some character in fiction. Two men may be strangers, with no common -acquaintances in the flesh, but if they discover that both admire -Elizabeth Bennet, or Lizzie Hexam, or Laura Bell, or Ethel Newcome; that -both are familiar friends with Pendennis, or Warrington, or Harry -Richmond, or Mulvaney, or Alan Breck, or Mowgli, or Zagloba; or belong -to the brave brotherhood of D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, they -have a community of sympathy which brings them very close together. - -It is seldom and indeed almost never that the short story gives to the -reader this sense of knowing familiarly its characters. If there be a -series, as in Kipling's "Jungle Book" or Maclaren's tales, where the -same actors appear again and again, of course the effect may be in this -respect the same as that of a novel; but cases of this sort are not -common. All the aged women of Miss Wilkins' stories, for instance, are -apt in the memory either to blend into one composite photograph of the -New England old woman, or to stand remotely, not as persons that we -know, but rather as types about which we know. The genuine novel-reader -will realize that this consideration is really one of no inconsiderable -weight; and it is one which becomes more and more pressing with the -increase of the influence of the short story. - -This consideration is the more important from the fact that novels in -which the reader is able to identify himself with the characters are by -far the most effective, because thus is he removed from the realities -which surround him, and for the time being freed from whatever would -hamper his imagination. That which in real life he would be, but may -not, he may in fiction blissfully and expandingly realize. The innate -sense of justice--not, perhaps, unseconded by the innate vanity; we are -all of us human!--demands that human possibilities shall be realized, -and in the story in which the reader merges his personality in that of -some actor, all this is accomplished. In actual outward experience life -justifies itself but rarely; to most men its justification is reached -only by the aid of the imagination, and it is largely by the aid of -literature that the imagination works. Even more true is this of the -other sex. Much that men learn from life women must learn from books; so -that to women fiction is the primer of life as well as the text-book of -the imagination. By the novels he reads the man gives evidence of his -imaginative development; the woman of her intellectual existence. - -Fiction should be delightful, absorbing, and above all inspiring. -Genuine art may sadden, but it cannot depress; it may bring a fresh -sense of the anguish of humanity, but it must from its very nature join -with this the consolation of an ideal. The tragedy of human life is in -art held to be the source of new courage, of nobler aspiration, because -it gives grander opportunities for human emotion to vindicate its -superiority to all disasters, all terrors, all woe. The reader does not -leave the great tragedies with a soured mind or a pessimistic disbelief -in life. "Lear," "Othello," "Romeo and Juliet," tragic as they are, -leave him quivering with sympathy but not with bitterness. The -inspiration of the thought of love triumphant over death, of moral -grandeur unsubdued by the worst that fate can do, lifts the mind above -the disaster. One puts down "The Kreutzer Sonata" with the very flesh -creeping with disgust at human existence; the same sin is treated no -less tragically in "The Scarlet Letter," yet the reader is left with an -inspiration and a nobler feeling toward life. The attitude of art is in -its essence hopeful, and the work of the pessimist must therefore fail, -even though it be informed with all the cleverness and the witchery of -genius. - -It is, I believe, from something akin to a remote and perhaps -half-conscious perception of this principle that readers in general -desire that a novel shall end pleasantly. The popular sentiment in favor -of a "happy ending" is by no means so entirely wrong or so utterly -Philistine as it is the fashion in these super-æsthetical days to -assume. The trick of a doleful conclusion has masqued and paraded as a -sure proof of artistic inspiration when it is nothing of the kind. -Unhappy endings may be more common than happy ones in life, although -even that proposition is by no means proved; they seem so from the human -habit of marking the disagreeables and letting pleasant things go -unnoted. Writers of a certain school have assumed from this that they -were keeping more close to life if they left the reader at the close of -a story in a state of darkest melancholy; and they have made much parade -of the claim that this is not only more true to fact, but more artistic. -There is no reason for such an assumption. The artistic climax of a tale -is that which grows out of the story by compelling necessity. There are -many narrations, of course, which would become essentially false if made -to end gladly. When the ingenious Frenchman rewrote the last act of -"Hamlet," marrying off the Prince and dismissing him with Ophelia to -live happily ever after, the thing was monstrously absurd. The general -public is not wholly blind to these things. No audience educated up to -the point of enjoying "Hamlet" or "Othello" at all would be satisfied -with a sugar-candy conclusion to these. The public does ask, however, -and asks justly, that there shall be no meaningless agony; and if it -prefers tales which inevitably come to a cheerful last chapter, this -taste is in the line with the great principle that it is the function of -art to uplift and inspire. - -It has already been said over and over that it is the office of -literature to show the meaning of life, and the meaning of life is not -only what it is but what it may be. To paint the actualities of life is -only to state a problem, and it is the mission of art to offer a -solution. The novel which can go no further than the presentation of the -apparent fact is from the higher standpoint futile because it fails to -indicate the meaning of that fact; it falls short as art in so far as it -fails to justify existence. - -Lowell complains:-- - - Modern imaginative literature has become so self-conscious, and - therefore so melancholy, that Art, which should be "the world's sweet - inn," whither we repair for refreshment and repose, has become rather - a watering-place, where one's private touch of liver-complaint is - exasperated by the affluence of other sufferers whose talk is a - narrative of morbid symptoms.--_Chaucer._ - -We have introduced into fiction that popular and delusive fallacy of -emotional socialism which insists not so much that all shall share the -best of life, as that none shall escape its worst. The claim that all -shall be acquainted with every phase of life is enforced not by an -endeavor to make each reader a sharer in the joys and blessings of -existence, but by a determined thrusting forward of the pains and shames -of humanity. Modern literature has too generally made the profession of -treating all facts of life impartially a mere excuse for dealing -exclusively with whatever is ugly and degraded, and for dragging to -light whatever has been concealed. This is at best as if one used rare -cups of Venetian glass for the measuring out of commercial kerosene and -vinegar, or precious Grecian urns for the gathering up of the refuse of -the streets. - -The wise student of literature will never lose sight of the fact that -fiction which has not in it an inspiration is to be looked upon as -ineffectual, if it is not to be avoided as morbid and unwholesome. -Fiction may be sad, it may deal with the darker side of existence; but -it should leave the reader with the uplift which comes from the -perception that there is in humanity the power to rise by elevation of -spirit above the bitterest blight, to triumph over the most cruel -circumstances which can befall. - -One word must be added in conclusion, and that is the warning that -fiction can never take the place of actual life. There is danger in all -art that it may win men from interest in real existence. Literature is -after all but the interpreter of life, and living is more than all -imaginative experience. We need both the book and the deed to round out -a full and rich being. It is possible to abuse literature as it is -possible to abuse any other gift of the gods. It is not impossible to -stultify and benumb the mind by too much novel-reading; but of this -there is no need. Fiction properly used and enjoyed is one of the -greatest blessings of civilization; and how poor and thin and meagre -would life be without it! - - - - -XVI - -POETRY - - -The lover of literature must approach any discussion of poetry with -feelings of mingled delight and dread. The subject is one which can -hardly fail to excite him to enthusiasm, but it is one with which it is -difficult to deal without a declaration of sentiments so strong that -they are not likely to be spoken; and it is one, too, upon which so much -has been said crudely and carelessly, or wisely and warmly, that any -writer must hesitate to add anything to the abundance of words already -spoken. - -For there have been few things so voluminously discussed as poetry. It -is a theme so high that sages could not leave it unpraised; while there -is never a penny-a-liner so poor or so mean that he hesitates to write -his essay upon the sublime and beautiful art. It is one of the -consequences of human vanity that the more subtile and difficult a -matter, the more feeble minds feel called upon to cover it with the dust -of their empty phrases. The most crowded places are those where angels -fear to tread; and it is with reverence not unmixed with fear that any -true admirer ventures to speak even his love for the noble art of -poetry. No discussion of the study of literature, however, can leave -out of the account that which is literature's crown and glory; and of -the much that might be said and must be felt, an effort must be made -here to set something down. - - * * * * * - -There are few characteristics more general in the race of man than that -responsiveness to rhythm which is the foundation of the love of verse. -The sense of symmetry exists in the rudest savage that tattoos the two -sides of his face in the same pattern, or strings his necklace of shells -in alternating colors. The same feeling is shown by the unæsthetic -country matron, the mantel of whose sacredly dark and cold best room is -not to her eye properly adorned unless the ugly vase at one end is -balanced by another exactly similar ugly vase upon the other. In sound -the instinct is yet more strongly marked. The barbaric drum-beat which -tells in the quivering sunlight of an African noon that the -cannibalistic feast is preparing appeals crudely to the same quality of -the human mind which in its refinement responds to the swelling cadences -of Mendelssohn's Wedding March or the majestic measures of the Ninth -Symphony. The rhythm of the voice in symmetrically arranged words is -equally potent in its ability to give pleasure. Savage tribes make the -beginnings of literature in inchoate verse. Indeed, so strongly does -poetry appeal to men even in the earlier states of civilization that -Macaulay seems to have conceived the idea that poetry belongs to an -immature stage of growth,--a deduction not unlike supposing the sun to -be of no consequence to civilization because it has been worshiped by -savages. In the earlier phases of human development, whether of the -individual or of the race, the universal instincts are more apparent; -and the hold which song takes upon half-barbaric man is simply a proof -of how primal and universal is the taste to which it appeals. The sense -and enjoyment of rhythm show themselves in a hundred ways in the life -and pleasures of primitive races, the vigorous shoots from which is to -spring a splendid growth. - -Not to go so far back as the dawn of civilization, however, it is -sufficient here to recall our own days in the nursery, when Mother -Goose, the only universal Alma Mater, with rhymes foolish but -rhythmical, meaningless but musical, delighted ears yet too untrained to -distinguish sense from folly, but not too young to enjoy the delight of -the beating of the voice in metrically arranged accents. - -This pleasure in rhythm is persistent, and it is strongly marked even in -untrained minds. In natures unspoiled and healthy, natures not -bewildered and sophisticated by a false idea of cultivation, or deceived -into unsound notions of the real value of poetry, the taste remains -sound and good. In the youth of a race this natural enjoyment of verse -is gratified by folk-songs. These early forms are naturally undeveloped -and simple, but the lays are genuine and wholesome; they possess lasting -quality. Different peoples have in differing degrees the power of -appreciating verse, but I do not know that any race has been found to -lack it entirely. There is abundant evidence that the Anglo-Saxon and -Norman ancestors from whom sprang the English-speaking peoples were in -this respect richly endowed, and that they early went far in the -development of this power. The old ballads of our language are so rich -and so enduringly beautiful that we are proved to come from a stock -endowed with a rich susceptibility to poetry. If this taste has not been -generally developed it is from some reason other than racial incapacity. -Nothing need be looked for in early literatures sweeter and sounder than -the fine old ballads of "Chevy Chace," "Tamlane," "Sir Patrick Spens," -or "Clerk Saunders." Many a later poet of no mean reputation has failed -to strike so deep and true a note as rings through these songs made by -forgotten minstrels for a ballad-loving people. There are not too many -English-speaking poets to-day who could match the cry of the wraith of -Clerk Saunders at the window of his love:-- - - Oh, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, - The wild fowls are boding day; - Give me my faith and troth again, - Let me fare on my way.... - - Cauld mould it is my covering now, - But and my winding sheet; - The dew it falls nae sooner down - Than my resting-place is weet! - -How far popular taste has departed from an appreciation of verse that is -simple and genuine is shown by those favorite rhymes which are -unwearyingly yearned for in the columns of Notes and Queries, and which -reappear with periodic persistence in Answers to Correspondents. In -educated persons, it is true, there is still a love of what is really -good in verse, but it is far too rare. The general ear and the general -taste have become vitiated. There is a melancholy and an amazing number -of readers who are pleased only with rhymes of the sort of Will -Carleton's "Farm Ballads," the sentimentally inane jingles published in -the feminine domestic periodicals, and the rest of what might be called, -were not the phrase perilously near to the vulgar, the chewing-gum -school of verse. - -One of the most serious defects in modern systems of education seems to -me to be, as has been said in an earlier talk, an insufficient provision -for the development of the imagination. This is nowhere more marked than -in the failure to recognize the place and importance of poetry in the -training of the mind of youth. It might be supposed that an age which -prides itself upon being scientific in its methods would be clever -enough to perceive that from the early stages of civilization may well -be taken hints for the development of the intellect of the young. -Primitive peoples have invariably nourished their growing intelligence -and enlarged their imagination by fairy-lore and poetry. The childhood -of the individual is in its essentials not widely dissimilar from the -childhood of the race; and what was the instinctive and wholesome food -for one is good for the other. If our common schools could but omit a -good deal of the instruction which is falsely called "practical," -because it deals with material issues, and devote the time thus gained -to training children to enjoy poetry and to use their imagination, the -results would be incalculably better.[2] - -[Footnote 2: I say to enjoy poetry. There is much well-meant instruction -which is unconsciously conducive to nothing but its detestation. -Students who by nature have a fondness for verse are laboriously trained -by conscientiously mistaken instructors to regard anything in poetical -form as a bore and a torment. The business of a teacher in a preparatory -school should be to incite the pupil to love poetry. It is better to -make a boy thrill and kindle over a single line than it is to get into -his head all the comments made on literature from the beginning of -time.] - -The strain and stress of modern life are opposed to the appreciation of -any art; and in the case of poetry this difficulty has been increased by -a wide-spread feeling that poetry is after all of little real -consequence. It has been held to be an excrescence upon life rather than -an essential part of it. It is the tendency of the time to seek for -tangible and present results; and men have too generally ceased to -appreciate the fact that much which is best is to be reached more surely -indirectly than directly. Since of the effects which spring from poetry -those most of worth are its remote and intangible results, careless and -superficial thinkers have come to look upon song as an unmanly -affectation, a thing artificial if not effeminate. This is one of the -most absolute and vicious of all intellectual errors. In high and noble -truth, poetry is as natural as air; poetry is as virile as war! - -It is not easy to discover whence arose the popular feeling of the -insignificance of poetry. It is allied to the materialistic undervaluing -of all art, and it is probably not unconnected with the ascetic idea -that whatever ministers to earthly delight is a hindrance to progress -toward the unseen life of another world. Something is to be attributed, -no doubt, to the contempt bred by worthless imitations with which facile -poetasters have afflicted a long-suffering world; but most of all is the -want of an appreciation of the value of poetry to be attributed to the -fact that men engrossed in literal and material concerns have not been -able to appreciate remote consequences, or to comprehend the utterances -of the masters who speak the language of the imagination. - -While the world in general, however, has been increasingly unsympathetic -toward poetry, the sages have universally concurred in giving to it the -highest place in the list of literary achievements. "Poetry," Emerson -said, "is the only verity." The same thought is expanded in a passage -from Mrs. Browning, in which she speaks of poets as - - --the only truth-tellers now left to God,-- - The only speakers of essential truth, - Opposed to relative, comparative, - And temporal truths; the only holders by - His sun-skirts, through conventual gray glooms; - The only teachers who instruct mankind - From just a shadow on a charnel wall - To find man's veritable stature out, - Erect, sublime,--the measure of a man. - - --_Aurora Leigh_ - -So Wordsworth:-- - - Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge, it is the - impassioned expression which is on the face of all science. - -It is needless, however, to multiply quotations. The world has never -doubted the high respect which those who appreciate poetry have for the -art. - -It is true also that however general at any time may have been the -seeming or real neglect of poetry, the race has not failed to preserve -its great poems. The prose of the past, no matter how great its wisdom, -has never been able to take with succeeding generations the rank held by -the masterpieces of the poets. Mankind has seemed not unlike one who -affects to hold his jewels in little esteem, it may be, yet like the -jewel owner it has guarded them with constant jealousy. The honor-roll -of literature is the world's list of great poets. The student of -literature is not long in discovering that his concern is far more -largely with verse than with anything else that the wit of mankind has -devised to write. However present neglect may at any time appear to show -the contrary, the long-abiding regard of the race declares beyond -peradventure that it counts poetry as most precious among all its -intellectual treasures. - - - - -XVII - -THE TEXTURE OF POETRY - - -In discussing poetry it is once more necessary to begin with something -which will serve us as a definition. No man can imprison the essence of -an art in words; and it is not to be understood that a formal definition -can be framed which shall express all that poetry is and means. Its more -obvious characteristics, however, may be phrased, and even an incomplete -formula is often useful. There have been almost as many definitions of -poetry made already as there have been writers on literature, some -of them intelligible and some of them open to the charge of -incomprehensibility. Schopenhauer, for instance, defined poetry as the -art of exciting by words the power of the imagination; a phrase so broad -that it is easily made to cover all genuine literature. It will perhaps -be sufficient for our purpose here if we say that poetry is the -embodiment in metrical, imaginative language of passionate emotion. - -By metrical language is meant that which is systematically rhythmical. -Much prose is rhythmical. Indeed it is difficult to conceive of fine or -delicate prose which has not rhythm to some degree, and oratorical prose -is usually distinguished by this. The Bible abounds in excellent -examples; as, for instance, this passage from Job:-- - - Hell is naked before Him, and destruction hath no covering; He - stretcheth out the north over the empty place, and hangeth the earth - upon nothing. He bindeth up the waters in his thick clouds; and the - cloud is not rent under them. He holdeth back the face of His throne, - and spreadeth His cloud upon it. He hath compassed the waters with - bounds until the day and night come to an end. The pillars of heaven - tremble, and are astonished at His reproof. He divideth the sea with - His power, and by His understanding He smiteth through the - proud.--_Job_, xxvi. 6-12. - -Here, as in all fine prose, there is a rhythm which is marked, and at -times almost regular; but it is not ordered by a system, as it must be -in the simplest verse of poetry. Take, by way of contrast, a stanza from -the superb chorus to Artemis in "Atalanta in Calydon:"-- - - Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, - Maiden most perfect, lady of light, - With a noise of winds and many rivers, - With a clamor of waters and with might; - Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, - Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; - For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, - Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. - -Here the rhythm is systematized according to regular laws, and so -becomes metrical. The effect upon the ear in prose is largely due to -rhythm, but metrical effects are entirely within the province of poetry. - -This difference between rhythmical and metrical language would seem to -be sufficiently obvious, but the difficulty which many students have in -appreciating it may make it worth while to give another illustration. -The following passage from Edmund Burke, that great master of sonorous -English, is strongly and finely rhythmical:-- - - Because we are so made as to be affected at such spectacles with - melancholy sentiments upon the unstable condition of mortal - prosperity, and the tremendous uncertainty of human greatness; because - in those natural feelings we learn great lessons; because in events - like these our passions instruct our reason; because when kings are - hurled from their thrones by the Supreme Director of this great drama, - and become objects of insult to the base, and of pity to the good, we - behold such disasters in the moral, as we should behold a miracle in - the physical order of things.--_Reflections on the Revolution in - France._ - -So markedly rhythmical is this, indeed, that it would take but little to -change it into metre:-- - - Because we are so made as to be moved by spectacles like these with - melancholy sentiments of the unstable case of mortal things, and the - uncertainty of human greatness here; because in those our natural - feelings we may learn great lessons too; because in such events our - passions teach our reason well; because when kings are hurled down - from their thrones, etc. - -There is no longer any dignity in this. It has become a sort of -sing-song, neither prose nor yet poetry. The sentiments are not unlike -those of a familiar passage in Shakespeare:-- - - This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth - The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms, - And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: - The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; - And,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely - His greatness is a ripening,--nips his root, - And then he falls, as I do. - - _Henry VIII._, iii. 2. - -In the extract from Burke a sense of weakness and even of flatness is -produced by the rearrangement of the accents so that they are made -regular; while in the verse of Shakespeare the sensitive ear is very -likely troubled by the single misplaced accent in the first line. In any -mood save the poetic metre seems an artificiality and an affectation, -but in that mood it is as natural and as necessary as air to the lungs. - -Besides being metrical the language of poetry must be imaginative. By -imaginative language is meant that which not only conveys imaginative -conceptions, but which is itself full of force and suggestion; language -which not only expresses ideas and emotions, but which by its own power -evokes them. Imaginative language is marked by the most vivid perception -on the part of the writer of the connotive effect of words; it conveys -even more by implication than by direct denotation. It may of course be -used in poetry or prose. In the passage from Job just quoted, the use of -such phrases as "empty place," "hangeth the earth upon nothing," convey -more by what they suggest to the mind than by their literal assertion. -The writer has evidently used them with a vital and vivid understanding -of their suggestiveness. He realizes to the full their office to convey -impressions so subtle that they cannot be given by direct and literal -diction. - -Poetry is made up of words and phrases which glow with this richness of -intention. When Shakespeare speaks of skin "smooth as monumental -alabaster," how much is added to the idea by the epithet "monumental," -the suggestion of the polished and protected stone, enshrined on a tomb; -how much is due to association and implication in such phrases as the -"reverberate hills," "parting is such sweet sorrow," "the white wonder -of dear Juliet's hand," "and sleep in dull, cold marble,"--phrases all -of which have a literal significance plain enough, yet of which this -literal meaning is of small account beside that which they evoke. Poetic -diction naturally and inevitably melts into figures, as when we read of -"the shade of melancholy boughs," "the spendthrift sun," "the bubble -reputation," "the inaudible and noiseless foot of time;" but the point -here is that even in its literal words there is constantly the sense and -the employment of implied meanings. It is by no means necessarily -figures to which language owes the quality of being imaginative. Broadly -speaking, a style may be said to be imaginative in proportion as the -writer has realized and intended its suggestions. - -The language of prose is often imaginative to a high degree, but seldom -if ever to that extent or with that deliberate purpose which in verse is -nothing less than essential. Genuine poetry differs from prose in the -entire texture of its web. From the same threads the loom may weave -plain stuff or richest brocade; and thus of much the same words are made -prose and poetry. The difference lies chiefly in the fashion of working. - -The essentials of the manner of poetry being language metrical and -imaginative, the essential of the matter is that it be the expression of -passionate emotion. By passionate emotion is meant any feeling, powerful -or delicate, which is capable of filling the whole soul; of taking -possession for the time being of the entire man. It may be fierce hate, -enthralling love, ambition, lust, rage, jealousy, joy, sorrow, any -over-mastering mood, or it may be one of those intangible inclinations, -those moods of mist, ethereal as hazes in October, those caprices of -pleasure or sadness which Tennyson had the art so marvelously to -reproduce. Passionate emotion is by no means necessarily intense, but it -is engrossing. For the time being, at least, it seems to absorb the -whole inner consciousness. - -It is the completeness with which such a mood takes possession of the -mind, so that for the moment it is to all intents and purposes the man -himself, that gives it so great an importance in human life and makes it -the fitting and the sole essential theme of the highest art. Behind all -serious human effort lies the instinctive sense of the fitness of -things. The artist must always convince that his end is worthy of the -means which he employs to reach it; and it follows naturally that the -writer who uses imaginative diction and the elaborateness of metre must -justify this by what he embodies in them. Metrical forms are as much -out of place in treating of the material concerns of life as would be -court robes or religious rites in the reaping of a field or the selling -of a cargo of wool. The poet is justified in his use of all the -resources of form and of poetic diction by the fact that the message -which he is endeavoring to convey is high and noble; that the meaning -which he attempts to impart is so profoundly subtle as to be -inexpressible unless the words which he employs are assisted by the -language of rhythm and metre. - -That the reader unconsciously recognizes the fact that the essential -difference in the office of prose and poetry makes inevitable a -difference also of method, is shown by his dissatisfaction when the -writer of prose invades the province of poetry. The arrangement of the -words of prose into systematic rhythm produces at once an effect of -weakness and of insincerity. Dickens in some of his attempts to reach -deep pathos has made his prose metrical with results most disastrous. -The mood of poetry is so elevated that metrical conventions seem -appropriate and natural; whereas in the mood of even the most emotional -prose they appear fantastical and affected. The difference is not unlike -that between the speaking and the singing voice. A man who sang in -conversation, or even in a highly excited oration, would simply make -himself ridiculous. In song this manner of using the voice is not only -natural but inevitable and delightful. What would be uncalled for in the -most exalted moods of the prose writer is natural and fitting in the -case of the poet, because the poet is endeavoring to embody, in language -the most deep, the most high, the most delicate experiences of which -humanity is capable. The form is with him a part of his normal language. -To say in prose: "My love is like a red rose newly sprung in June, or -like a melody beautifully played," means not much. Yet the words -themselves are not widely varied from those in which Burns conveys the -same ideas with so great an added beauty, and so much more emotional -force:-- - - Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose - That's newly sprung in June; - Oh, my luve's like a melodie - That's sweetly played in tune. - -The metrical cadences woo the ear like those of a melody sweetly played, -and to that which the words may say or suggest they add an effect yet -more potent and delightful. - -A moment's consideration of these facts enables one to estimate rightly -the stricture made by Plato:-- - - You have often seen what a poor appearance the tales of poets make - when stripped of the colors which music puts upon them, and recited in - prose. They are like faces which were never really beautiful, but only - blooming, and now the bloom of youth has passed away from them. - -It would be more just and more exact to say that they are like the -framework of a palace from which have been stripped the slabs of -precious marble which covered it. It is neither more nor less -reasonable to object to poetry that its theme told in prose is slight or -dull than it would be to scorn St. Peter's because its rafters and -ridgepole might not be attractive if they stood out bare against the -sky. The form is in poetry as much an integral part as walls and roof -and dome, statues and jewel-like marbles, are part of the temple. - -Leaving out of consideration those peculiarities such as rhyme and -special diction, which although often of much effect are not essential -since poetry may be great without them, it is sufficiently exact for a -general examination to say that the effects of poetry are produced by -the threefold union of ideas, suggestion, and melody. In the use of -ideas poetry is on much the same footing as prose, except in so far as -it deals with exalted moods which have no connection with thoughts which -are mean or commonplace. In the use of suggestion poetry but carries -farther the means employed in imaginative prose. Melody may be said -practically to be its own prerogative. The smoothest flow of rhythmical -prose falls far below the melodious cadences of metrical language; and -in this manner of appeal to the senses and the soul of man verse has no -rival save music itself. - -These three qualities may be examined separately. Verse may be found in -which there is almost nothing but melody, divorced from suggestion or -ideas. There are good examples in Edward Lear's "Nonsense Songs," in -which there is an intentional lack of sense; or in the "Alice" books, -as, for instance:-- - - And as in uffish thought he stood, - The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, - Came whiffling through the tulgy wood, - And burbled as it came!... - - "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? - Come to my arms, my beamish boy! - O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" - He chortled in his joy. - -Or one may take something which will convey no idea and no suggestion -beyond that which comes with sound and rhythm. Here is a verse once made -in sport to pass as a folk-song in an unknown tongue:-- - - Apaulthee kong lay laylarthay; - Ameeta tinta prown, - Lay lista, lay larba, lay moona long, - Toolay échola doundoolay koko elph zong, - Im lay melplartha bountaina brown. - -This is a collection of unmeaning syllables, and yet to the ear it is a -pleasure. The examples may seem trivial, but they serve to illustrate -the fact that there is magic in the mere sound of words, meaning though -they have none. - -The possibility of pleasing solely by the arrangement and choice of -words in verse has been a snare to more than one poet; as a neglect of -melody has been the fault of others. In much of the later work of -Swinburne it is evident that the poet became intoxicated with the mere -beauty of sound, and forgot that poetry demands thought as well as -melody; while the reader is reluctantly forced to acknowledge that in -some of the verse of Browning there is a failure to recognize that -melody is an element as essential as thought. - -As verse may be found which has little but melody, so is it possible to -find verse in which there is practically nothing save melody and -suggestion. In "Ulalume" Poe has given an instance of the effect -possible from the combining of these with but the thinnest thread of -idea:-- - - The skies they were ashen and sober; - The leaves they were crispèd and sere,-- - The leaves they were withering and sere; - It was night in the lonesome October, - Of my most immemorial year; - It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, - In the misty mid-region of Weir-- - It was down by the dark tarn of Auber, - In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. - -There is here no definite train of thought. It is an attempt to convey a -certain mood by combining mysterious and weird suggestion with melody -enticing and sweet. - -A finer example is the closing passage in "Kubla Khan." The suggestions -are more vivid, and the imagination far more powerful. - - A damsel with a dulcimer - In a vision once I saw; - It was an Abyssinian maid, - And on her dulcimer she played, - Singing of Mount Abora. - Could I revive within me - Her symphony and song, - To such deep delight 'twould win me, - That with music loud and long, - I would build that dome in air, - That sunny dome; those caves of ice; - And all who heard should see them there, - And all should cry: "Beware! Beware! - His flashing eyes, his floating hair; - Weave a circle round him thrice, - And close your eyes with holy dread, - For he on honey-dew hath fed, - And drunk the milk of Paradise." - -Here there is a more evident succession of ideas than in "Ulalume;" but -in both the effect is almost entirely produced by the music and the -suggestion, with very little aid from ideas. - -How essential to poetry are melody and suggestion is at once evident -when one examines verse which contains ideas without these fundamental -qualities. Wordsworth, great as he is at his best, affords ready -examples here. The following is by no means the least poetical passage -in "The Prelude," but it is sufficiently far from being poetry in any -high sense to serve as an illustration:-- - - I was a better judge of thoughts than words, - Misled in estimating words, not only - By common inexperience of youth, - But by the trade of classic niceties, - The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase - From languages that want the living voice - To carry meaning to the natural heart. - -Here are ideas, but there is no emotion, and the thing could be said -better in prose. It is as fatal to try to express in poetry what is not -elevated enough for poetic treatment as it is to endeavor to say in -prose those high things which can be embodied by poetry only. Melody -alone, or suggestiveness alone, is better than ideas alone if there is -to be an attempt to produce the effect of poetry. - -Poetry which is complete and adequate adds melody and suggestion to -that framework of ideas which is to them as the skeleton to flesh and -blood. Any of the great lyrics of the language might be given as -examples. The reader has but to open his Shakespeare's "Sonnets" at -random, as for instance, at this:-- - - From you have I been absent in the spring, - When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, - Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing, - That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him. - Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell - Of different flowers in odor and in hue, - Could make me any summer's story tell, - Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: - Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, - Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose; - They were but sweet, but figures of delight, - Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. - Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away, - As with your shadow I with these did play. - -It is not necessary to carry this analysis farther. The object of -undertaking it is to impress upon the reader the fact that in poetry -form is an essential element in the language of the art. The student -must realize that the poet means his rhythm as truly as and in the same -measure that he means the thought; and that to attempt to appreciate -poetry without sensitiveness to melody is as hopeless as would be a -similar attempt to try to appreciate music. When Wordsworth said that -poetry is inevitable, he meant the metre no less than the thought; he -wished to convey the fact that the impassioned mood breaks into melody -of word as the full heart breaks into song. The true poem is the -embodiment of what can be expressed in no other way than by that -especial combination of idea, suggestion, and sound. The thought, the -hint, and the music are united in one unique and individual whole. - - - - -XVIII - -POETRY AND LIFE - - -Vitally to appreciate what poetry is, it is necessary to realize what -are its relations to life. Looked at in itself its essentials are -emotion which is capable of taking entire possession of the -consciousness, and the embodiment of this emotion by the combined -effects of imaginative language and melodious form. It is still needful, -however, to consider how this art acts upon human beings, and why there -has been claimed for it so proud a pre-eminence among the arts. - -Why, for instance, should Emerson speak of the embodiment of mere -emotion as "the only verity," Wordsworth as "the breath and finer spirit -of all knowledge," and why does Mrs. Browning call poets "the only -truth-tellers"? The answer briefly is: Because consciousness is -identical with emotion, and consciousness is life. For all practical -purposes man exists but in that he feels. The universe concerns him in -so far as it touches his feelings, and it concerns him no farther. That -is for man most essential which comes most near to the conditions of his -existence. Pure and ideal emotion is essential truth in the sense that -it approaches most nearly to the consciousness,--that is, to the actual -being of the race. - -I am aware that this sounds dangerously like an attempt to be darkly -metaphysical; but it is impossible to talk on high themes without to -some extent using high terms. It is useless to hope to put into words -all the mysteries of the relations of art to life, yet it is not -impossible to approximate somewhat to what must be the truth of the -matter, although in doing it one inevitably runs the risk of seeming to -attempt to say what cannot be said. What I have been endeavoring to -convey will perhaps be plainer if I say that for purposes of our -discussion man is practically alive only in so far as he realizes life. -This realization of life, this supreme triumph of inner consciousness, -comes to him through his feelings,--indeed, is perhaps to be considered -as identical with his feelings. His sensations affect him only by the -emotions which they excite. His emotion, in a word, is the measure of -his existence. Now the emotion of man always responds, in a degree -marked by appreciation, to certain presentations of the relation of -things, to certain considerations of the nature of human life, and above -all to certain demonstrations of the possibilities of human existence. -If these are made actual and clear to the mind, they cannot fail to -arouse that engrossing realization which is the height of consciousness. -To enable a man to seize with his imagination the ideal of love or hate, -of fear or courage, of shame or honor, is to make him kindle and thrill. -It is to make him for the time being thoroughly and richly alive, and it -is to increase greatly his power of essential life. These are the -things which most deeply touch human creatures; they are the universal -in that they appeal to all sane hearts and minds; they are the eternal -as measured by mortal existence because they have power to touch the men -of all time; hence they are the real truths; they are, for beings under -the conditions of earthly existence, the only verities. - -The ordinary life of man is not unlike the feeble flame of a miner's -lamp, half smothered in some underground gallery until a draught of -vital air kindles it into sudden glow and sparkle. Most human beings -have but a dull flicker of half-alive consciousness until some outward -breath causes it to flash into quick and quivering splendor. Poetry is -that divine air, that breeze from unscaled heights of being, the -kindling breath by which the spark becomes a flame. - -It is but as a means of conveying the essential truth which is the -message of poetry, that the poet employs obvious truth. The facts which -impress themselves upon the outer senses are to him merely a language by -means of which he seeks to impart the higher facts that are apprehended -only by the inner self; those facts of emotion which it is his office as -a seer to divine and to interpret. The swineherd and the wandering -minstrel saw the same wood and sky and lake; but to one they were earth -and air and water; while to the other they were the outward and visible -embodiment of the spirit of beauty which is eternal though earth and sea -and sky vanish. To Peter Bell the primrose by the river's brim was but -a primrose and nothing more; to the poet it was the symbol and the -embodiment of loveliness, the sign of an eternal truth. To the laborer -going afield in the early light the dewdrops are but so much water, -wetting unpleasantly his shoes; to Browning it was a symbol of the -embodiment in woman of all that is pure and holy when he sang:-- - - There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest. - -It is evident from what has been said that in reading poetry it is -necessary to penetrate through the letter to the spirit. I have already -spoken at length in a former lecture upon the need of knowing the -language of literature, and of being in sympathy with the mood of the -writer. This is especially true in regard to poetry, since poetry -becomes great in proportion as it deals with the spirit rather than with -the letter. "We are all poets when we read a poem well," Carlyle has -said. It is only by entering into the mood and by sharing the exaltation -of the poet that we are able to appreciate his message. A poem is like a -window of stained glass. From without one may be able to gain some -general idea of its design and to guess crudely at its hues; but really -to perceive its beauty, its richness of design, its sumptuousness of -color, one must stand within the very sanctuary itself. - -It is partly from the lack of sensitiveness of the imagination of the -reading public, I believe, that in the latter half of this century the -novel has grown into a prominence so marked. The great mass of readers -no longer respond readily to poetry, and fiction is in a sense a -simplification of the language of imagination so that it may be -comprehended by those who cannot rise to the heights of verse. In this -sense novels might almost be called the kindergarten of the imagination. -In fiction, emotional experiences are translated into the language of -ordinary intellectual life; whereas in poetry they are phrased in terms -of the imagination, pure and simple. There can be no question of the -superiority of the means employed by the poet. Much which is embodied in -verse cannot be expressed by prose of any sort, no matter how exalted -that prose may be; but for the ordinary intelligence the language of -prose is far more easily comprehensible. - - * * * * * - -What I have been saying, however, may seem to be so general and -theoretical that I may be held not yet fairly to have faced that issue -at which I hinted in the beginning, the issue which Philistine minds -raise bluntly: What is the use of poetry? Philistines are willing to -concede that there is a sensuous pleasure to be gained from verse. They -are able to perceive how those who care for such things may find an -enervating enjoyment in the linked sweetness of cadence melting into -cadence, in musical line and honeyed phrase. What they are utterly -unable to understand is how thoughtful men, men alive to the practical -needs and the real interests of the race, can speak of poetry as if it -were a thing of genuine importance in the history and development of -mankind. It would not be worth while to attempt an answer to this for -the benefit of the Philistines. They are a folk who are so completely -ignorant of the higher good of life that it is impossible to make them -understand. Their conception of value does not reach beyond pecuniary -and physical standards; they comprehend nothing which is not expressed -in material terms. One who attempted to describe a symphony to a deaf -man would not be more at a loss for terms than must be he who attempts -to set forth the worth of art to those ignorant of real values. The -question may be answered, but to those who most need to be instructed in -regard to æsthetic values any answer must forever remain unintelligible. - -There are, however, many sincere and earnest seekers after truth who are -unable to clear up their ideas when they come in contact, as they must -every day, with the assumption that poetry is but the plaything of idle -men and women, a thing not only unessential but even frivolous. For them -it is worth while to formulate some sort of a statement; although to do -this is like making the attempt to declare why the fragrance of the rose -is sweet or why the hue of its petals gives delight. - -In the first place, then, the use of poetry is to nourish the -imagination. I have spoken earlier of the impossibility of fulfilling -the higher functions of life without this faculty. A common error -regards imagination as a quality which has to do with rare and -exceptional experiences; as a power of inventing whimsical and -impossible thoughts; as a sort of jester to beguile idle moments of the -mind. In reality imagination is to the mental being what blood is to the -physical man. Upon it the intellect and the emotional consciousness -alike depend for nourishment. Without it the mind is powerless to seize -or to make really its own anything which lies outside of actual -experience. Without it the broker could not so fully realize his cunning -schemes as to manipulate the market and control the price of stocks; -without it the inventor could devise no new machine, the scientist grasp -no fresh secret of laws which govern the universe. It is the divine -power in virtue of which man subdues the world to his uses. In a word, -imagination is that faculty which distinguishes man from brute. - -It is the beginning of wisdom to know; it is the culmination of wisdom -to feel. The intellect accumulates; the emotion assimilates. What we -learn, we possess; but what we feel, we are. The perception acquires, -and the imagination realizes; and thus it is that only through the -imagination can man build up and nourish that inner being which is the -true and vital self. To cultivate the imagination, therefore, is an -essential--nay, more; it is the one essential means of insuring the -progression of the race. This is the great office of all art, but -perhaps most obviously is it the noble prerogative and province of -poetry. "In the imagination," wrote Coleridge, "is the distinguishing -characteristic of man as a progressive being." To kindle into flame the -dull embers of this god-like attribute is the first office of poetry; -and were this all, it would lift the art forever above every cumbering -material care and engrossing intellectual interest. - -In the second place, the use of poetry is to give man knowledge of his -unrecognized experiences or his unrealized capacities of feeling. The -poet speaks what many have felt, but what none save he can say. He -accomplishes the hitherto impossible. He makes tangible and subject the -vague emotions which disquiet us as if they were elusive ghosts haunting -the dwelling of the soul, unsubdued and oppressive in their mystery. The -joy of a moment he has fixed for all time; the throb gone almost before -it is felt he has made captive; to the evasive emotion he has given -immortality. In a word, it is his office to confer upon men dominion -over themselves. - -Third, it is poetry which nourishes and preserves the optimism of the -race. Poetry is essentially optimistic. It raises and encourages by -fixing the mind upon the possibilities of life. Even when it bewails -what is gone, when it weeps lost perfection, vanished joy, and crushed -love, the reader receives from the poetic form, from the uplift of -metrical inspiration, a sense that the possibilities of existence -overwhelm individual pain. The fact that such blessings could and may -exist is not only consolation when fate has wrenched them away, but the -vividness with which they are recalled may almost make them seem to be -relived. That - - A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things, - -is not the whole story. In times of deepest woe it is this very -remembrance which makes it possible to live on at all. The unconscious -and the inevitable lesson of all true art, moreover, is that the -possibility of beauty in life is compensation for the anguish which its -existence entails. The poet who weeps for the lost may have no word of -comfort to offer, but the fact that life itself is of supreme -possibilities is shown inevitably and persuasively by the fact that he -is so deeply moved. He could not be thus stricken had he not known very -ecstasies of joy; and his message to the race is that such bliss has -been and thus may be again. More than this, the fact that he in his -anguish instinctively turns to art is the most eloquent proof that -however great may be the sorrows of life there is for them an -alleviating balm in æsthetic enjoyment. He may speak of - - Beauty that must die, - And Joy whose hand is ever at his lips, - Bidding adieu; - -but with the very thought of the brevity is coupled an exquisite sense -of both beauty and joy in ever fresh renewal, so that the reader knows a -subtle thrill of pleasure even at the mention of pain. Poe's proposition -that poetry should be restricted to sorrowful themes probably arose from -a more or less conscious feeling that the expression of despair is the -surest means of conveying vividly a sense of the value of what is gone; -and whether Poe went so far as to realize it or not the fact is that -the passion of loss most surely expresses the possible bliss of -possession. Even when it would, art cannot deny the worth and the glory -of existence. The word of denial is chanted to a strain which inspires -and affirms. Even when he would be most pessimistic the genuine poet -must perforce preach in deathless tones the gospel of optimism. - -Fourth, poetry is the original utterance of the ideas of the world. It -is easy and not uncommon to regard the art of the poet as having little -to do with the practical conduct of life; yet there is no man in -civilization who does not hold opinions and theories, thoughts and -beliefs, which he owes to the poets. Thought is not devised in the -marketplace. What thinkers have divined in secret is there shown openly -by its results. Every poet of genius remakes the world. He leaves the -stamp of his imagination upon the whole race, and philosophers reason, -scientists explore, money-changers scheme, tradesmen haggle, and farmers -plough or sow, all under conditions modified by what has been divulged -in song. The poet is the great thinker, whose thought, translated, -scattered, diluted, spilled upon the ground and gathered up again, is -the inspiration and the guide of mankind. - -If this seem extravagant, think for a little. Reflect in what -civilization differs from savagery; consider not the accidental and -outward circumstance, but the fundamental causes upon which these -depend. If you endeavor to find adequately expressed the ideals of -honor, of truth, of love, and of aspiration which are behind all the -development of mankind, it is to the poets that you turn instinctively. -It is possible to go farther than this. Knowledge is but a perception of -relations. The conception of the universe is too vast to be assimilated -all at once, but every perception of the way in which one part is -related to another, one fact to another, one thing to the rest, helps -toward a realization of the ultimate truth. It is the poet who first -discerns and proclaims the relations of those facts which the experience -of the race accumulates. From the particular he deduces the general, -from the facts he perceives the principles which underlie them. The -general, that is, in its relation to that emotional consciousness which -is the real life of man; the principles which take hold not upon -material things only, but upon the very conditions of human existence. -All abstract truth has sprung from poetry as rain comes from the sea. -Changed, diffused, carried afar and often altered almost beyond -recognition, the thought of the world is but the manifestation of the -imagination of the world; and it has found its first tangible expression -in poetry. - -Fifth, poetry is the instructor in beauty. No small thing is human -happiness, and human happiness is nourished on beauty. Poetry opens the -eyes of men to loveliness in earth and sky and sea, in flower and weed, -in tree and rock and stream, in things common and things afar alike. It -is by the interpretation of the poet that mankind in general is aware of -natural beauty; and it is hardly less true that the beauty of moral and -emotional worlds would be practically unknown were it not for these -high interpreters. The race has first become aware of all ethereal and -elusive loveliness through the song of the poet, sensitive to see and -skillful to tell. For its beauty in and of itself, and for its -revelation of the beauty of the universe, both material and intangible, -poetry is to the world a boon priceless and peerless. - -Sixth, poetry is the creator and preserver of ideals. The ideal is the -conception of the existence beyond what is of that which may and should -be. It is the measure of the capability of desire. "Man's desires are -limited by his perceptions," says William Blake; "none can desire what -he has not perceived." What man can receive, what it is possible for him -to enjoy, is limited to what he is able to wish for. The ideal is the -highest point to which his wish has been able to attain, and upon the -advancement of this point must depend the increasing of the -possibilities of individual experience. With the growth of ideals, -moreover, comes the constant, however slow, realization of them. So true -is this that it almost affords a justification of the belief that -whatever mankind really desires must in the end be realized from the -very fact that it is desired. Be that as it may, an ideal is the -perception of a higher reality. It is the recognition of essential as -distinguished from accidental truth; the comprehension of the eternal -principle which must underlie every fact. It is a realization of the -meaning of existence; a piercing through the transient appearance to the -fundamental and the enduring. The reader who finds himself caught away -like St. Paul to the third heaven--"whether in the body I cannot tell; -or whether out of the body I cannot tell"--has no need to ask whether -life is merely eating and drinking, getting and spending, marrying and -giving in marriage. He has for that transcendent moment lived the real -life; he has tasted the possibilities of existence; he has for one -glorious instant realized the ideal. When a poem has carried him out of -himself and the material present which we call the real, then the verse -has been for him as a chariot of fire in which he has been swirled -upward to the very heart of the divine. - -When not actually under the influence of this high exalting power of -poetry most men have a strange reluctance to admit that it is possible -for them to be so moved; and thus it may easily happen that what has -just been said may seem to the reader extravagant and florid. There are -happily few, however, to whom there have not come moments of inner -illumination, few who cannot if they will call up times when the -imagination has carried them away, and the delight of being so borne -above the actual was a revelation and a joy not easily to be put into -word. Recalling such an experience, you will not find it difficult to -understand what is meant by the claim that poetry creates in the mind of -man an ideal which in turn it justifies also. - -Lastly and above all, the use of poetry is--poetry. - - 'Tis the deep music of the rolling world - Kindling within the strings of the waved air - Æolian modulations. - -It is vain to endeavor to put into word the worth and office of poetry. -At the last we are brought face to face with the fact that anything -short of itself is inadequate to do it justice. To read a single page of -a great singer is more potent than to pore over volumes in his praise. A -single lyric puts to shame the most elaborate analysis or the most -glowing eulogy; in the end there is no resource but to appeal to the -inner self which is the true man; since in virtue of what is most deep -and noble in the soul, each may perceive for himself that poetry is its -own supreme justification; that there is no need to discuss the relation -of poetry to life, since poetry is the expression of life in its best -and highest possibilities. - - - - -INDEX - - - Abbot, J. S. C., "Rollo," 201. - - Addison, 66. - - Advertising, 168-170. - - Æschylus, 149. - - Aldrich, T. B., "Story of a Bad Boy," 11, 15. - - Allusions, Biblical, 98-101; - to folk-lore, 106; - historical, 103-106; - literary, 107-108; - mythological, 101-103. - - Amiel, "Journal Intime," 7. - - Amiot, 90. - - Andersen, Hans Christian, 196. - - Apprehension, 74. - - Ariosto, 143. - - Art, conventions in, 89; - deals with the typical, 6; - end of, 87; - good, 22; - origin of, 3-5; - sanity of, 174; - truth in, 206; - truth of, 209; - _vs._ science, 32. - - Artist, office of, 207. - - Asbjörnsen, 196. - - Augustine, St., "Confessions," 7. - - Austen, Jane, 189. - - - Ballads, 222. - - Balzac, 189. - - Barrie, J. M., 211. - - Bible, 101, 140, 142, 145, 197; - allusions to, 98-101; - as a classic, 143-147; - books of, characterized, 146; - quoted, 100, 228; - Revised Version _vs._ King James, 146. - - Black, William, 13, 211. - - Blackmore, R. D., 211. - - Blake, William, 54, 66; - quoted, 58, 121, 252. - - Boccaccio, 143. - - Breeding, good, 204. - - Brontë, Charlotte, 189. - - Broughton, Rhoda, 185. - - Browning, Mrs. E. B., quoted, 8, 132, 225, 241; - "Sonnets from the Portuguese," 7-9. - - Browning Robert, 92, 155, 179, 180; - "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came," 48; - lack of melody, 236; - obscure in allusions, 106; - "Prospice," 13; - quoted, 244; - "The Ring and the Book," 180. - - Bunyan, John, "Pilgrim's Progress," 129. - - Burke, Edmund, quoted, 229. - - Burns, quoted, 234. - - Byron, Lord, 11, 12; - quoted, 104. - - - Cable, G. W., 211. - - Carleton, Will, "Farm Ballads," 223. - - Carlyle, Thomas, 42; - quoted, 244. - - Carroll, Lewis, quoted, 236. - - Cervantes, 133, 140, 143; - "Don Quixote," 129, 189. - - Character, 56. - - Chaucer, Geoffrey, 78, 116, 123, 124, 140, 142, 146; - as a classic, 151-152; - Lowell on, 114; - quoted, 114. - - Children, education of, 193-196, 223; - reading of, 195-198. - - Civilization, 204. - - Classic, defined, 127. - - Classics, 176, 177; - cause of the neglect of, 132-134; - test of, 130. - - "Clerk Saunders," 222. - - Coleridge, S. T., 54, 66; - "Hymn Before Sunrise," etc., 75; - quoted, 145, 237, 247. - - Collins, William, 66. - - Comprehension, 74. - - Conventions, 88-92. - - Cowper, William, quoted, 79. - - Crawford, F. M., 211. - - Critics, use of, 70. - - - Dante, 58, 78, 140, 142, 146; - as a classic, 150-151. - - Darwin, Charles, 55. - - D'Aulnoy, Countess, 196. - - D'Aurevilly, Barbey, 169. - - Defoe, 66; - "Robinson Crusoe," 197. - - De Gasparin, Madame, "The Near and the Heavenly Horizons," 48. - - De Maupassant, Guy, 182. - - Dekker, Thomas, quoted, 115. - - Dickens, Charles, 179, 180, 189; - his metrical prose, 233. - - Doyle, A. Conan, 211; - quoted, 134. - - Dryden, John, 66, 146; - quoted, 152. - - "Duchess," The, 13, 185. - - Dumas, A., _père_, 182, 189; - "D'Artagnan Romances," 27, 92. - - - Edgeworth, Maria, 201. - - Education, use of poetry in, 223. - - Eliot, George, 180, 187, 189. - - Emerson, R. W., 179, 180; - on translations, 148; - quoted, 43, 47, 103, 225, 241. - - Emotion, 241-245; - fashion in, 15; - genuine, 68; - tests of genuineness of, 10-20. - - Etiquette, 204. - - Euripides, 149. - - Experience the test of art, 10. - - - Fairy stories, 196-197. - - Fiction, truth in, 188. - - Fielding, Henry, 66. - - Folk-lore, 223. - - Folk-songs, 137-139, 221-222. - - French authors, 170. - - Fuller, Margaret, 86. - - - Genius, 20, 250. - - Gibbon, Edward, quoted, 74. - - Gladstone, W. E., 168. - - Goethe, quoted, 36, 178. - - Goldsmith, Oliver, 66. - - Gower, John, 116. - - Gray, Thomas, quoted, 103. - - Greek literature, 149, 150. - - Greek sculpture, 150. - - Greek tragedians, 143, 148. - - Greeks, sanity of the, 148. - - Grimm, The Brothers, 194, 196. - - - Haggard, Rider, "She," 26. - - Hannay, James, quoted, 57. - - Hardy, Thomas, "Far from the Madding Crowd," 181; - "The Return of the Native," 181, 208; - "Tess of the D'Urbervilles," 181; - "Under the Greenwood Tree," 181. - - Harris, J. C., "Uncle Remus," 197. - - Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 179, 180, 189; - Arthur Dimmesdale, 201; - "The Marble Faun," 92; - quoted, 83; - "The Scarlet Letter," 2, 13, 201, 208, 214; - "Tanglewood Tales," 197; - "The Wonder-Book," 197. - - Hazlitt, William, quoted, 113. - - "Helen of Kirconnell," 13, 138. - - Homer, 58, 78, 123, 131, 140, 142, 146, 151; - as a classic, 147-150. - - Hope, Anthony, 211. - - Hugo, Victor, 189; - "Les Misérables," 92, 208. - - Hunt, Leigh, quoted, 84. - - Hunt, W. M., quoted, 62. - - - Ibsen, 172, 173, 177; - "The Doll's House," 18; - "Ghosts," 173. - - Imagination, 93, 246-248, 253; - and thought, 251; - creative, 111; - the realizing faculty, 19; - reality of, 54. - - Imaginative language, defined, 230-231. - - Imaginative quality, test of, 93. - - Impressionism, 69. - - Interest, temporary and permanent, 127-129. - - Irreverence, 87. - - Isaiah, 146, 150. - - - James, Henry, quoted, 203. - - Jewett, Sarah O., Miss, 211. - - Job, 146, 230. - - Johnson, Samuel, quoted, 84. - - Jonson, Ben, quoted, 83. - - Judd, Sylvester, "Margaret," 30. - - - Keats, John, 54, 92, 112; - letters to Miss Brawne, 62; - "Ode on a Grecian Urn," 17; - quoted, 94, 102, 249. - - Kingsley, Charles, 189. - - Kipling, Rudyard, 182; - "Jungle Books," 197, 213. - - - Laboulaye, Édouard, 196. - - Lamb, Charles, 133; - quoted, 196. - - Language, imaginative, defined, 230-231. - - Lear, Edward, 235. - - Lessing, "Nathan the Wise," 48. - - Lincoln, Abraham, "Gettysburg Address," 112. - - Literature, books about, 65-68; - convincing, 14; - defined, 1-32; - didactic, 201; - early, 136; - eighteenth century, 65, 66; - gossip about, 62-65; - history of, 65; - juvenile, 193-195; - morbid, 20, 177, 178; - office of, 46-59; - relative rank, 31; - study of, defined, 33-44, 60-68; - study of, difficult, 72; - talk about, 40-43; - a unit, 154; - _vs._ science, 55. - - "Littell's Living Age," 39. - - Longfellow, H. W., 181. - - Lowell, J. R., 67; - quoted, 78, 102, 114, 173, 216. - - - Macaulay, T. B., 220; - quoted, 207. - - Maclaren, Ian, 211, 213. - - Maeterlinck, 172. - - Magazines, 163-166. - - Malory, Thomas, "Morte d'Arthur," 196. - - Marcus Aurelius, "Reflections," 7. - - Marlowe, Christopher, "The Jew of Malta," 76. - - Melody, 235-240. - - Meredith, George, "The Ordeal of Richard Feverel," 92, 181, 208. - - Metre, 227-230. - - Milton, John, 108, 140, 143; - "L'Allegro," 106; - "Il Penseroso," 107; - "Lycidas," 77; - "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity," 100; - quoted, 63, 113, 163. - - Modernity, 169. - - Molière, 140, 143. - - Montaigne, 133, 140, 143. - - Morbidity, 140. - - Morley, John, 67. - - "Mother Goose," 96, 221. - - Mulock, D. M., 189. - - Music, barbaric, 90; - Chinese, 90. - - Musset, A. de, "Mlle. de Maupin," 177. - - - Newspapers, 162, 163. - - Nordau, Max, "Degeneration," 170; - quoted, 171. - - Notes, use of, 84, 109. - - Notoriety, 128, 172. - - Novels, realistic, 209; - _vs._ poetry, 245; - with a theory, 167. - - Novelty, 134. - - - "Old Oaken Bucket," The, 17. - - Originality, 170. - - Ouida, 17, 41. - - - Page, T. N., 211. - - Pater, Walter, "Marius the Epicurean," 25. - - Periodicals, 162-166. - - Petrarch, 143. - - Philology not the study of literature, 79. - - Plato, quoted, 234. - - Plutarch, letter to his wife, 50. - - Poe, E. A., "Lygeia," 22; - quoted, 104, 105, 237, 249; - Tales, 21. - - Poetry, defined, 227; - form is essential, 236, 239; - how different from prose, 231, 232; - office in education, 223; - office of, 245-252; - optimism of, 248-250; - origin, 5; - reading of, 244; - _vs._ novels, 245. - - Pope, Alexander, 66. - - Prose, how different from poetry, 231-232; - language of, 231. - - Public guided by the few, 10. - - - Quincy, Josiah, 50. - - - Rabelais, 133, 140. - - Reade, Charles, 189. - - Reading, first, 85; - for amusement, 210; - measure of character, 159; - serious matter, 87; - should be a pleasure, 71-73; - test of, 86; - works as units, 81. - - Realism, 69, 209. - - Reverence, 87. - - Rhythm, 220, 221, 227-229. - - Richardson, Samuel, 66. - - Rossetti, D. G., 181; - "Sister Helen," 119, 120. - - Rousseau, "Confessions," 7. - - Ruskin, John, quoted, 95. - - Russell, W. Clark, 13, 211. - - - Sanity, 140, 174. - - Schopenhauer, quoted, 63, 227. - - Science _vs._ art, 32. - - Science _vs._ literature, case of Darwin, 55. - - Scott, Sir Walter, 189. - - Sculpture, Aztec, 89; - Greek, 89. - - Sensationalism, 26. - - Sentiment, 16, 157; - defined, 15. - - Sentimentality, 16, 139, 157; - defined, 15. - - Shakespeare, William, 3, 35, 41, 53, 58, 65, 77, 86, - 92, 93, 107, 118, 124, 133, 140, 143, 145, 147, - 173, 214, 216; - as a classic, 152-153; - condensation of, 93; - "Cymbeline," 75; - epithets of, 112, 231; - for children, 197; - "Hamlet," 81, 215; - "King Lear," 81; - "The Merchant of Venice," 115-118; - "Othello," 81; - quoted, 102, 104, 113, 114, 115, 229, 231, 239; - "Sonnets," 8, 239. - - Shelley, P. B., 92, 131; - quoted, 254; - "Stanzas Written in Dejection," etc., 17. - - Shorthouse, J. H., "John Inglesant," 29. - - Sienkiewicz, 182; - "The Deluge," 92. - - Sincerity, 12-15. - - Smile, sardonic, 95. - - Sophocles, 149. - - Spenser, Edmund, 123, 124, 143, 197. - - Standards, 141; - of criticism, 161. - - Steele, Sir Richard, 66. - - Stephen, Leslie, 67. - - Stevenson, R. L., 181; - "Kidnapped," 197; - quoted, 57; - "Treasure Island," 27, 197. - - Stockton, Frank, "The Adventures of Captain Horn," 27. - - Story, happy ending of a, 215; - the short, 211-214. - - Stowe, Mrs. H. B., on Byron, 62. - - Suckling, Sir John, quoted, 106. - - Suggestion, 111-114, 118-120, 230, 235. - - Suttner, Baroness von, 161. - - Swift, Jonathan, 66; - "Gulliver's Travels," 197. - - Swinburne, A. C., 181; - "Atalanta in Calydon," 228; - excess of melody, 236. - - Symbolism, 69. - - Sympathy between reader and author, 82. - - - Talleyrand, quoted, 38. - - Tasso, 143. - - Taste a measure of character, 3. - - Technical excellence, 25. - - Tennyson, Alfred, 92, 155, 179, 180, 232; - "Idylls of the King," 180; - "In Memoriam," 7, 50; - quoted, 101, 249. - - Thackeray, W. M., 42, 179, 180, 189; - Beatrix Esmond, 92; - Colonel Newcome, 13; - "Henry Esmond," 208; - Major Pendennis, 201; - "Pendennis," 200. - - Titian, 42-43. - - Tolstoi, 172, 177; - "The Kreutzer Sonata," 20, 214; - "War and Peace," 29. - - Traill, H. D., quoted, 190. - - Translations, use of, 147, 148. - - Trollope, Anthony, 180, 189. - - Tupper, M. F., 3. - - Turgenieff, 182. - - - "Uncle Tom's Cabin," 160. - - - Vedas, The, 145. - - Verlaine, 22. - - - "Waly, waly," 138. - - Wendell, Barrett, quoted, 42. - - Weyman, S. J., 211. - - Whittier, J. G., 181. - - Wilkins, Miss M. E., 211, 213. - - Wordsworth, William, 54, 66; - "The Daffodils," 17; - quoted, 108, 225, 238, 239, 241, 243; - "To Lucy," 13. - - - Zend-Avesta, The, 145. - - Zola, 172, 173, 177; - "L'Assommoir," 173. - - - - -Books by Arlo Bates. - - - THE INTOXICATED GHOST AND OTHER STORIES. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - THE DIARY OF A SAINT. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - LOVE IN A CLOUD. A Novel. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - THE PURITANS. A Novel. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - THE PHILISTINES. A Novel. 12mo, $1.50. - THE PAGANS. A Novel. 16mo, $1.00. - PATTY'S PERVERSITIES. A Novel. 16mo, $1.00. - PRINCE VANCE. The Story of a Prince with a Court in his Box. By - Arlo Bates and Eleanor Putnam. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - A LAD'S LOVE. 16mo, $1.00. - UNDER THE BEECH-TREE. Poems. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - TALKS ON WRITING ENGLISH. First Series. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - TALKS ON WRITING ENGLISH. Second Series. Crown 8vo, $1.30, _net_. - Postpaid, $1.42. - TALKS ON TEACHING LITERATURE. Crown 8vo, $1.30, _net_. Postpaid, - $1.42. - TALKS ON THE STUDY OF LITERATURE. Crown 8vo, $1.50. - - HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY - Boston and New York - - - - -Transcriber's Notes. - - -The advertisement "Books by Arlo Bates" which was originally before -the title page, has been moved to the back, after the index. - -Phrases in italics are indicated by _italics_. - -Words in the text which were in small-caps were converted to normal -case. - -The "OE" ligature is indicated by "OE" (e.g. OEdipus, pg. 107). - -A missing closing quote was inserted after the phrase -'worthy of his attention?' (pg. 70) - -Typos corrected: - - "to" changed to "on" (pg. 17 and 260 (index entry)) - (Ode _to_ a Grecian Urn) - - "Neitzsche" changed to "Nietzsche" (pg. 171) - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Talks on the study of literature., by Arlo Bates - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALKS ON THE STUDY OF LITERATURE. *** - -***** This file should be named 42773-8.txt or 42773-8.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/2/7/7/42773/ - -Produced by Michael Seow, sp1nd and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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