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| author | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:21:59 -0700 |
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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:21:59 -0700 |
| commit | a6a19a31cf03b5e41fcafdb18d74ad562dc47d16 (patch) | |
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diff --git a/3640-h/3640-h.htm b/3640-h/3640-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d4d67bf --- /dev/null +++ b/3640-h/3640-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2806 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>Literary Taste | Project Gutenberg</title> + +<style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 5%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 3640 ***</div> + + <h1> + LITERARY TASTE + </h1> + <h3> + How To Form It + </h3> + <h3> + With Detailed Instructions For Collecting A Complete Library Of English + Literature + </h3> + <h2> + By Arnold Bennett + </h2> + <hr /> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#linkchap1"> Chapter I — THE AIM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> Chapter II — YOUR PARTICULAR CASE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> Chapter III — WHY A CLASSIC IS A CLASSIC + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> Chapter IV — WHERE TO BEGIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> Chapter V — HOW TO READ A CLASSIC </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> Chapter VI — THE QUESTION OF STYLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> Chapter VII — WRESTLING WITH AN AUTHOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> Chapter VIII — SYSTEM IN READING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> Chapter IX — VERSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> Chapter X — BROAD COUNSELS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> Chapter XI — AN ENGLISH LIBRARY: PERIOD I + </a> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> Chapter XII — AN ENGLISH LIBRARY: PERIOD II + </a> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> Chapter XIII — AN ENGLISH LIBRARY: PERIOD + III </a> + </p> + + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> Chapter XIV — MENTAL STOCKTAKING </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <a name="linkchap1" id="linkchap1"></a> + </p> + <h2> + Chapter I — THE AIM + </h2> + <p> + At the beginning a misconception must be removed from the path. Many + people, if not most, look on literary taste as an elegant accomplishment, + by acquiring which they will complete themselves, and make themselves + finally fit as members of a correct society. They are secretly ashamed of + their ignorance of literature, in the same way as they would be ashamed of + their ignorance of etiquette at a high entertainment, or of their + inability to ride a horse if suddenly called upon to do so. There are + certain things that a man ought to know, or to know about, and literature + is one of them: such is their idea. They have learnt to dress themselves + with propriety, and to behave with propriety on all occasions; they are + fairly "up" in the questions of the day; by industry and enterprise they + are succeeding in their vocations; it behoves them, then, not to forget + that an acquaintance with literature is an indispensable part of a + self-respecting man's personal baggage. Painting doesn't matter; music + doesn't matter very much. But "everyone is supposed to know" about + literature. Then, literature is such a charming distraction! Literary + taste thus serves two purposes: as a certificate of correct culture and as + a private pastime. A young professor of mathematics, immense at + mathematics and games, dangerous at chess, capable of Haydn on the violin, + once said to me, after listening to some chat on books, "Yes, I must take + up literature." As though saying: "I was rather forgetting literature. + However, I've polished off all these other things. I'll have a shy at + literature now." + </p> + <p> + This attitude, or any attitude which resembles it, is wrong. To him who + really comprehends what literature is, and what the function of literature + is, this attitude is simply ludicrous. It is also fatal to the formation + of literary taste. People who regard literary taste simply as an + accomplishment, and literature simply as a distraction, will never truly + succeed either in acquiring the accomplishment or in using it + half-acquired as a distraction; though the one is the most perfect of + distractions, and though the other is unsurpassed by any other + accomplishment in elegance or in power to impress the universal snobbery + of civilised mankind. Literature, instead of being an accessory, is the + fundamental <i>sine qua non</i> of complete living. I am extremely anxious + to avoid rhetorical exaggerations. I do not think I am guilty of one in + asserting that he who has not been "presented to the freedom" of + literature has not wakened up out of his prenatal sleep. He is merely not + born. He can't see; he can't hear; he can't feel, in any full sense. He + can only eat his dinner. What more than anything else annoys people who + know the true function of literature, and have profited thereby, is the + spectacle of so many thousands of individuals going about under the + delusion that they are alive, when, as a fact, they are no nearer being + alive than a bear in winter. + </p> + <p> + I will tell you what literature is! No—I only wish I could. But I + can't. No one can. Gleams can be thrown on the secret, inklings given, but + no more. I will try to give you an inkling. And, to do so, I will take you + back into your own history, or forward into it. That evening when you went + for a walk with your faithful friend, the friend from whom you hid nothing— + or almost nothing...! You were, in truth, somewhat inclined to hide from + him the particular matter which monopolised your mind that evening, but + somehow you contrived to get on to it, drawn by an overpowering + fascination. And as your faithful friend was sympathetic and discreet, and + flattered you by a respectful curiosity, you proceeded further and further + into the said matter, growing more and more confidential, until at last + you cried out, in a terrific whisper: "My boy, she is simply miraculous!" + At that moment you were in the domain of literature. + </p> + <p> + Let me explain. Of course, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, she + was not miraculous. Your faithful friend had never noticed that she was + miraculous, nor had about forty thousand other fairly keen observers. She + was just a girl. Troy had not been burnt for her. A girl cannot be called + a miracle. If a girl is to be called a miracle, then you might call pretty + nearly anything a miracle.... That is just it: you might. You can. You + ought. Amid all the miracles of the universe you had just wakened up to + one. You were full of your discovery. You were under a divine impulsion to + impart that discovery. You had a strong sense of the marvellous beauty of + something, and you had to share it. You were in a passion about something, + and you had to vent yourself on somebody. You were drawn towards the whole + of the rest of the human race. Mark the effect of your mood and utterance + on your faithful friend. He knew that she was not a miracle. No other + person could have made him believe that she was a miracle. But you, by the + force and sincerity of your own vision of her, and by the fervour of your + desire to make him participate in your vision, did for quite a long time + cause him to feel that he had been blind to the miracle of that girl. + </p> + <p> + You were producing literature. You were alive. Your eyes were unlidded, + your ears were unstopped, to some part of the beauty and the strangeness + of the world; and a strong instinct within you forced you to tell someone. + It was not enough for you that you saw and heard. Others had to see and + hear. Others had to be wakened up. And they were! It is quite possible—I + am not quite sure— that your faithful friend the very next day, or + the next month, looked at some other girl, and suddenly saw that she, too, + was miraculous! The influence of literature! + </p> + <p> + The makers of literature are those who have seen and felt the miraculous + interestingness of the universe. And the greatest makers of literature are + those whose vision has been the widest, and whose feeling has been the + most intense. Your own fragment of insight was accidental, and perhaps + temporary. <i>Their</i> lives are one long ecstasy of denying that the + world is a dull place. Is it nothing to you to learn to understand that + the world is not a dull place? Is it nothing to you to be led out of the + tunnel on to the hill-side, to have all your senses quickened, to be + invigorated by the true savour of life, to feel your heart beating under + that correct necktie of yours? These makers of literature render you their + equals. + </p> + <p> + The aim of literary study is not to amuse the hours of leisure; it is to + awake oneself, it is to be alive, to intensify one's capacity for + pleasure, for sympathy, and for comprehension. It is not to affect one + hour, but twenty-four hours. It is to change utterly one's relations with + the world. An understanding appreciation of literature means an + understanding appreciation of the world, and it means nothing else. Not + isolated and unconnected parts of life, but all of life, brought together + and correlated in a synthetic map! The spirit of literature is unifying; + it joins the candle and the star, and by the magic of an image shows that + the beauty of the greater is in the less. And, not content with the + disclosure of beauty and the bringing together of all things whatever + within its focus, it enforces a moral wisdom by the tracing everywhere of + cause and effect. It consoles doubly— by the revelation of + unsuspected loveliness, and by the proof that our lot is the common lot. + It is the supreme cry of the discoverer, offering sympathy and asking for + it in a single gesture. In attending a University Extension Lecture on the + sources of Shakespeare's plots, or in studying the researches of George + Saintsbury into the origins of English prosody, or in weighing the + evidence for and against the assertion that Rousseau was a scoundrel, one + is apt to forget what literature really is and is for. It is well to + remind ourselves that literature is first and last a means of life, and + that the enterprise of forming one's literary taste is an enterprise of + learning how best to use this means of life. People who don't want to + live, people who would sooner hibernate than feel intensely, will be wise + to eschew literature. They had better, to quote from the finest passage in + a fine poem, "sit around and eat blackberries." The sight of a "common + bush afire with God" might upset their nerves. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter II — YOUR PARTICULAR CASE + </h2> + <p> + The attitude of the average decent person towards the classics of his own + tongue is one of distrust—I had almost said, of fear. I will not + take the case of Shakespeare, for Shakespeare is "taught" in schools; that + is to say, the Board of Education and all authorities pedagogic bind + themselves together in a determined effort to make every boy in the land a + lifelong enemy of Shakespeare. (It is a mercy they don't "teach" Blake.) I + will take, for an example, Sir Thomas Browne, as to whom the average + person has no offensive juvenile memories. He is bound to have read + somewhere that the style of Sir Thomas Browne is unsurpassed by anything + in English literature. One day he sees the <i>Religio Medici</i> in a + shop-window (or, rather, outside a shop-window, for he would hesitate + about entering a bookshop), and he buys it, by way of a mild experiment. + He does not expect to be enchanted by it; a profound instinct tells him + that Sir Thomas Browne is "not in his line"; and in the result he is even + less enchanted than he expected to be. He reads the introduction, and he + glances at the first page or two of the work. He sees nothing but words. + The work makes no appeal to him whatever. He is surrounded by trees, and + cannot perceive the forest. He puts the book away. If Sir Thomas Browne is + mentioned, he will say, "Yes, very fine!" with a feeling of pride that he + has at any rate bought and inspected Sir Thomas Browne. Deep in his heart + is a suspicion that people who get enthusiastic about Sir Thomas Browne + are vain and conceited <i>poseurs</i>. After a year or so, when he has + recovered from the discouragement caused by Sir Thomas Browne, he may, if + he is young and hopeful, repeat the experiment with Congreve or Addison. + Same sequel! And so on for perhaps a decade, until his commerce with the + classics finally expires! That, magazines and newish fiction apart, is the + literary history of the average decent person. + </p> + <p> + And even your case, though you are genuinely preoccupied with thoughts of + literature, bears certain disturbing resemblances to the drab case of the + average person. You do not approach the classics with gusto— anyhow, + not with the same gusto as you would approach a new novel by a modern + author who had taken your fancy. You never murmured to yourself, when + reading Gibbon's <i>Decline and Fall</i> in bed: "Well, I really must read + one more chapter before I go to sleep!" Speaking generally, the classics + do not afford you a pleasure commensurate with their renown. You peruse + them with a sense of duty, a sense of doing the right thing, a sense of + "improving yourself," rather than with a sense of gladness. You do not + smack your lips; you say: "That is good for me." You make little plans for + reading, and then you invent excuses for breaking the plans. Something + new, something which is not a classic, will surely draw you away from a + classic. It is all very well for you to pretend to agree with the verdict + of the elect that <i>Clarissa Harlowe</i> is one of the greatest novels in + the world—a new Kipling, or even a new number of a magazine, will + cause you to neglect <i>Clarissa Harlowe</i>, just as though Kipling, + etc., could not be kept for a few days without turning sour! So that you + have to ordain rules for yourself, as: "I will not read anything else + until I have read Richardson, or Gibbon, for an hour each day." Thus + proving that you regard a classic as a pill, the swallowing of which + merits jam! And the more modern a classic is, the more it resembles the + stuff of the year and the less it resembles the classics of the centuries, + the more easy and enticing do you find that classic. Hence you are glad + that George Eliot, the Brontës, Thackeray, are considered as classics, + because you really <i>do</i> enjoy them. Your sentiments concerning them + approach your sentiments concerning a "rattling good story" in a magazine. + </p> + <p> + I may have exaggerated—or, on the other hand, I may have understated— + the unsatisfactory characteristics of your particular case, but it is + probable that in the mirror I hold up you recognise the rough outlines of + your likeness. You do not care to admit it; but it is so. You are not + content with yourself. The desire to be more truly literary persists in + you. You feel that there is something wrong in you, but you cannot put + your finger on the spot. Further, you feel that you are a bit of a sham. + Something within you continually forces you to exhibit for the classics an + enthusiasm which you do not sincerely feel. You even try to persuade + yourself that you are enjoying a book, when the next moment you drop it in + the middle and forget to resume it. You occasionally buy classical works, + and do not read them at all; you practically decide that it is enough to + possess them, and that the mere possession of them gives you a <i>cachet</i>. + The truth is, you are a sham. And your soul is a sea of uneasy remorse. + You reflect: "According to what Matthew Arnold says, I ought to be + perfectly mad about Wordsworth's <i>Prelude</i>. And I am not. Why am I + not? Have I got to be learned, to undertake a vast course of study, in + order to be perfectly mad about Wordsworth's <i>Prelude</i>? Or am I born + without the faculty of pure taste in literature, despite my vague + longings? I do wish I could smack my lips over Wordsworth's <i>Prelude</i> + as I did over that splendid story by H. G. Wells, <i>The Country of the + Blind</i>, in the <i>Strand Magazine</i>!"... Yes, I am convinced that in + your dissatisfied, your diviner moments, you address yourself in these + terms. I am convinced that I have diagnosed your symptoms. + </p> + <p> + Now the enterprise of forming one's literary taste is an agreeable one; if + it is not agreeable it cannot succeed. But this does not imply that it is + an easy or a brief one. The enterprise of beating Colonel Bogey at golf is + an agreeable one, but it means honest and regular work. A fact to be borne + in mind always! You are certainly not going to realise your ambition—and + so great, so influential an ambition!—by spasmodic and half-hearted + effort. You must begin by making up your mind adequately. You must rise to + the height of the affair. You must approach a grand undertaking in the + grand manner. You ought to mark the day in the calendar as a solemnity. + Human nature is weak, and has need of tricky aids, even in the pursuit of + happiness. Time will be necessary to you, and time regularly and sacredly + set apart. Many people affirm that they cannot be regular, that regularity + numbs them. I think this is true of a very few people, and that in the + rest the objection to regularity is merely an attempt to excuse idleness. + I am inclined to think that you personally are capable of regularity. And + I am sure that if you firmly and constantly devote certain specific hours + on certain specific days of the week to this business of forming your + literary taste, you will arrive at the goal much sooner. The simple act of + resolution will help you. This is the first preliminary. + </p> + <p> + The second preliminary is to surround yourself with books, to create for + yourself a bookish atmosphere. The merely physical side of books is + important—more important than it may seem to the inexperienced. + Theoretically (save for works of reference), a student has need for but + one book at a time. Theoretically, an amateur of literature might develop + his taste by expending sixpence a week, or a penny a day, in one sixpenny + edition of a classic after another sixpenny edition of a classic, and he + might store his library in a hat-box or a biscuit-tin. But in practice he + would have to be a monster of resolution to succeed in such conditions. + The eye must be flattered; the hand must be flattered; the sense of owning + must be flattered. Sacrifices must be made for the acquisition of + literature. That which has cost a sacrifice is always endeared. A detailed + scheme of buying books will come later, in the light of further knowledge. + For the present, buy—buy whatever has received the <i>imprimatur</i> + of critical authority. Buy without any immediate reference to what you + will read. Buy! Surround yourself with volumes, as handsome as you can + afford. And for reading, all that I will now particularly enjoin is a + general and inclusive tasting, in order to attain a sort of familiarity + with the look of "literature in all its branches." A turning over of the + pages of a volume of Chambers's <i>Cyclopædia of English Literature</i>, + the third for preference, may be suggested as an admirable and a diverting + exercise. You might mark the authors that flash an appeal to you. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter III — WHY A CLASSIC IS A CLASSIC + </h2> + <p> + The large majority of our fellow-citizens care as much about literature as + they care about aeroplanes or the programme of the Legislature. They do + not ignore it; they are not quite indifferent to it. But their interest in + it is faint and perfunctory; or, if their interest happens to be violent, + it is spasmodic. Ask the two hundred thousand persons whose enthusiasm + made the vogue of a popular novel ten years ago what they think of that + novel now, and you will gather that they have utterly forgotten it, and + that they would no more dream of reading it again than of reading Bishop + Stubbs's <i>Select Charters</i>. Probably if they did read it again they + would not enjoy it—not because the said novel is a whit worse now + than it was ten years ago; not because their taste has improved—but + because they have not had sufficient practice to be able to rely on their + taste as a means of permanent pleasure. They simply don't know from one + day to the next what will please them. + </p> + <p> + In the face of this one may ask: Why does the great and universal fame of + classical authors continue? The answer is that the fame of classical + authors is entirely independent of the majority. Do you suppose that if + the fame of Shakespeare depended on the man in the street it would survive + a fortnight? The fame of classical authors is originally made, and it is + maintained, by a passionate few. Even when a first-class author has + enjoyed immense success during his lifetime, the majority have never + appreciated him so sincerely as they have appreciated second-rate men. He + has always been reinforced by the ardour of the passionate few. And in the + case of an author who has emerged into glory after his death the happy + sequel has been due solely to the obstinate perseverance of the few. They + could not leave him alone; they would not. They kept on savouring him, and + talking about him, and buying him, and they generally behaved with such + eager zeal, and they were so authoritative and sure of themselves, that at + last the majority grew accustomed to the sound of his name and placidly + agreed to the proposition that he was a genius; the majority really did + not care very much either way. + </p> + <p> + And it is by the passionate few that the renown of genius is kept alive + from one generation to another. These few are always at work. They are + always rediscovering genius. Their curiosity and enthusiasm are + exhaustless, so that there is little chance of genius being ignored. And, + moreover, they are always working either for or against the verdicts of + the majority. The majority can make a reputation, but it is too careless + to maintain it. If, by accident, the passionate few agree with the + majority in a particular instance, they will frequently remind the + majority that such and such a reputation has been made, and the majority + will idly concur: "Ah, yes. By the way, we must not forget that such and + such a reputation exists." Without that persistent memory-jogging the + reputation would quickly fall into the oblivion which is death. The + passionate few only have their way by reason of the fact that they are + genuinely interested in literature, that literature matters to them. They + conquer by their obstinacy alone, by their eternal repetition of the same + statements. Do you suppose they could prove to the man in the street that + Shakespeare was a great artist? The said man would not even understand the + terms they employed. But when he is told ten thousand times, and + generation after generation, that Shakespeare was a great artist, the said + man believes—not by reason, but by faith. And he too repeats that + Shakespeare was a great artist, and he buys the complete works of + Shakespeare and puts them on his shelves, and he goes to see the + marvellous stage-effects which accompany <i>King Lear</i> or <i>Hamlet</i>, + and comes back religiously convinced that Shakespeare was a great artist. + All because the passionate few could not keep their admiration of + Shakespeare to themselves. This is not cynicism; but truth. And it is + important that those who wish to form their literary taste should grasp + it. + </p> + <p> + What causes the passionate few to make such a fuss about literature? There + can be only one reply. They find a keen and lasting pleasure in + literature. They enjoy literature as some men enjoy beer. The recurrence + of this pleasure naturally keeps their interest in literature very much + alive. They are for ever making new researches, for ever practising on + themselves. They learn to understand themselves. They learn to know what + they want. Their taste becomes surer and surer as their experience + lengthens. They do not enjoy to-day what will seem tedious to them + to-morrow. When they find a book tedious, no amount of popular clatter + will persuade them that it is pleasurable; and when they find it + pleasurable no chill silence of the street-crowds will affect their + conviction that the book is good and permanent. They have faith in + themselves. What are the qualities in a book which give keen and lasting + pleasure to the passionate few? This is a question so difficult that it + has never yet been completely answered. You may talk lightly about truth, + insight, knowledge, wisdom, humour, and beauty. But these comfortable + words do not really carry you very far, for each of them has to be + defined, especially the first and last. It is all very well for Keats in + his airy manner to assert that beauty is truth, truth beauty, and that + that is all he knows or needs to know. I, for one, need to know a lot + more. And I never shall know. Nobody, not even Hazlitt nor Sainte-Beuve, + has ever finally explained why he thought a book beautiful. I take the + first fine lines that come to hand— + </p> + <p> + The woods of Arcady are dead, And over is their antique joy— + </p> + <p> + and I say that those lines are beautiful, because they give me pleasure. + But why? No answer! I only know that the passionate few will, broadly, + agree with me in deriving this mysterious pleasure from those lines. I am + only convinced that the liveliness of our pleasure in those and many other + lines by the same author will ultimately cause the majority to believe, by + faith, that W. B. Yeats is a genius. The one reassuring aspect of the + literary affair is that the passionate few are passionate about the same + things. A continuance of interest does, in actual practice, lead + ultimately to the same judgments. There is only the difference in width of + interest. Some of the passionate few lack catholicity, or, rather, the + whole of their interest is confined to one narrow channel; they have none + left over. These men help specially to vitalise the reputations of the + narrower geniuses: such as Crashaw. But their active predilections never + contradict the general verdict of the passionate few; rather they + reinforce it. + </p> + <p> + A classic is a work which gives pleasure to the minority which is + intensely and permanently interested in literature. It lives on because + the minority, eager to renew the sensation of pleasure, is eternally + curious and is therefore engaged in an eternal process of rediscovery. A + classic does not survive for any ethical reason. It does not survive + because it conforms to certain canons, or because neglect would not kill + it. It survives because it is a source of pleasure, and because the + passionate few can no more neglect it than a bee can neglect a flower. The + passionate few do not read "the right things" because they are right. That + is to put the cart before the horse. "The right things" are the right + things solely because the passionate few <i>like</i> reading them. Hence—and + I now arrive at my point— the one primary essential to literary + taste is a hot interest in literature. If you have that, all the rest will + come. It matters nothing that at present you fail to find pleasure in + certain classics. The driving impulse of your interest will force you to + acquire experience, and experience will teach you the use of the means of + pleasure. You do not know the secret ways of yourself: that is all. A + continuance of interest must inevitably bring you to the keenest joys. + But, of course, experience may be acquired judiciously or injudiciously, + just as Putney may be reached <i>via</i> Walham Green or <i>via</i> St. + Petersburg. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter IV — WHERE TO BEGIN + </h2> + <p> + I wish particularly that my readers should not be intimidated by the + apparent vastness and complexity of this enterprise of forming the + literary taste. It is not so vast nor so complex as it looks. There is no + need whatever for the inexperienced enthusiast to confuse and frighten + himself with thoughts of "literature in all its branches." Experts and + pedagogues (chiefly pedagogues) have, for the purpose of convenience, + split literature up into divisions and sub-divisions— such as prose + and poetry; or imaginative, philosophic, historical; or elegiac, heroic, + lyric; or religious and profane, etc., <i>ad infinitum</i>. But the + greater truth is that literature is all one—and indivisible. The + idea of the unity of literature should be well planted and fostered in the + head. All literature is the expression of feeling, of passion, of emotion, + caused by a sensation of the interestingness of life. What drives a + historian to write history? Nothing but the overwhelming impression made + upon him by the survey of past times. He is forced into an attempt to + reconstitute the picture for others. If hitherto you have failed to + perceive that a historian is a being in strong emotion, trying to convey + his emotion to others, read the passage in the <i>Memoirs</i> of Gibbon, + in which he describes how he finished the <i>Decline and Fall</i>. You + will probably never again look upon the <i>Decline and Fall</i> as a "dry" + work. + </p> + <p> + What applies to history applies to the other "dry" branches. Even + Johnson's Dictionary is packed with emotion. Read the last paragraph of + the preface to it: "In this work, when it shall be found that much is + omitted, let it not be forgotten that much likewise is performed.... It + may repress the triumph of malignant criticism to observe that if our + language is not here fully displayed, I have only failed in an attempt + which no human powers have hitherto completed...." And so on to the close: + "I have protracted my work till most of those whom I wish to please have + sunk into the grave, and success and miscarriage are empty sounds: I + therefore dismiss it with frigid tranquillity, having little to fear or + hope from censure or from praise." Yes, tranquillity; but not frigid! The + whole passage, one of the finest in English prose, is marked by the heat + of emotion. You may discover the same quality in such books as Spencer's + <i>First Principles</i>. You may discover it everywhere in literature, + from the cold fire of Pope's irony to the blasting temperatures of + Swinburne. Literature does not begin till emotion has begun. + </p> + <p> + There is even no essential, definable difference between those two great + branches, prose and poetry. For prose may have rhythm. All that can be + said is that verse will scan, while prose will not. The difference is + purely formal. Very few poets have succeeded in being so poetical as + Isaiah, Sir Thomas Browne, and Ruskin have been in prose. It can only be + stated that, as a rule, writers have shown an instinctive tendency to + choose verse for the expression of the very highest emotion. The supreme + literature is in verse, but the finest achievements in prose approach so + nearly to the finest achievements in verse that it is ill work deciding + between them. In the sense in which poetry is best understood, all + literature is poetry— or is, at any rate, poetical in quality. + Macaulay's ill-informed and unjust denunciations live because his genuine + emotion made them into poetry, while his <i>Lays of Ancient Rome</i> are + dead because they are not the expression of a genuine emotion. As the + literary taste develops, this quality of emotion, restrained or loosed, + will be more and more widely perceived at large in literature. It is the + quality that must be looked for. It is the quality that unifies literature + (and all the arts). + </p> + <p> + It is not merely useless, it is harmful, for you to map out literature + into divisions and branches, with different laws, rules, or canons. The + first thing is to obtain some possession of literature. When you have + actually felt some of the emotion which great writers have striven to + impart to you, and when your emotions become so numerous and puzzling that + you feel the need of arranging them and calling them by names, then—and + not before—you can begin to study what has been attempted in the way + of classifying and ticketing literature. Manuals and treatises are + excellent things in their kind, but they are simply dead weight at the + start. You can only acquire really useful general ideas by first acquiring + particular ideas, and putting those particular ideas together. You cannot + make bricks without straw. Do not worry about literature in the abstract, + about theories as to literature. Get at it. Get hold of literature in the + concrete as a dog gets hold of a bone. If you ask me where you ought to + begin, I shall gaze at you as I might gaze at the faithful animal if he + inquired which end of the bone he ought to attack. It doesn't matter in + the slightest degree where you begin. Begin wherever the fancy takes you + to begin. Literature is a whole. + </p> + <p> + There is only one restriction for you. You must begin with an acknowledged + classic; you must eschew modern works. The reason for this does not imply + any depreciation of the present age at the expense of past ages. Indeed, + it is important, if you wish ultimately to have a wide, catholic taste, to + guard against the too common assumption that nothing modern will stand + comparison with the classics. In every age there have been people to sigh: + "Ah, yes. Fifty years ago we had a few great writers. But they are all + dead, and no young ones are arising to take their place." This attitude of + mind is deplorable, if not silly, and is a certain proof of narrow taste. + It is a surety that in 1959 gloomy and egregious persons will be saying: + "Ah, yes. At the beginning of the century there were great poets like + Swinburne, Meredith, Francis Thompson, and Yeats. Great novelists like + Hardy and Conrad. Great historians like Stubbs and Maitland, etc., etc. + But they are all dead now, and whom have we to take their place?" It is + not until an age has receded into history, and all its mediocrity has + dropped away from it, that we can see it as it is—as a group of men + of genius. We forget the immense amount of twaddle that the great epochs + produced. The total amount of fine literature created in a given period of + time differs from epoch to epoch, but it does not differ much. And we may + be perfectly sure that our own age will make a favourable impression upon + that excellent judge, posterity. Therefore, beware of disparaging the + present in your own mind. While temporarily ignoring it, dwell upon the + idea that its chaff contains about as much wheat as any similar quantity + of chaff has contained wheat. + </p> + <p> + The reason why you must avoid modern works at the beginning is simply that + you are not in a position to choose among modern works. Nobody at all is + quite in a position to choose with certainty among modern works. To sift + the wheat from the chaff is a process that takes an exceedingly long time. + Modern works have to pass before the bar of the taste of successive + generations. Whereas, with classics, which have been through the ordeal, + almost the reverse is the case. <i>Your taste has to pass before the bar + of the classics.</i> That is the point. If you differ with a classic, it + is you who are wrong, and not the book. If you differ with a modern work, + you may be wrong or you may be right, but no judge is authoritative enough + to decide. Your taste is unformed. It needs guidance, and it needs + authoritative guidance. Into the business of forming literary taste faith + enters. You probably will not specially care for a particular classic at + first. If you did care for it at first, your taste, so far as that classic + is concerned, would be formed, and our hypothesis is that your taste is + not formed. How are you to arrive at the stage of caring for it? Chiefly, + of course, by examining it and honestly trying to understand it. But this + process is materially helped by an act of faith, by the frame of mind + which says: "I know on the highest authority that this thing is fine, that + it is capable of giving me pleasure. Hence I am determined to find + pleasure in it." Believe me that faith counts enormously in the + development of that wide taste which is the instrument of wide pleasures. + But it must be faith founded on unassailable authority. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter V — HOW TO READ A CLASSIC + </h2> + <p> + Let us begin experimental reading with Charles Lamb. I choose Lamb for + various reasons: He is a great writer, wide in his appeal, of a highly + sympathetic temperament; and his finest achievements are simple and very + short. Moreover, he may usefully lead to other and more complex matters, + as will appear later. Now, your natural tendency will be to think of + Charles Lamb as a book, because he has arrived at the stage of being a + classic. Charles Lamb was a man, not a book. It is extremely important + that the beginner in literary study should always form an idea of the man + behind the book. The book is nothing but the expression of the man. The + book is nothing but the man trying to talk to you, trying to impart to you + some of his feelings. An experienced student will divine the man from the + book, will understand the man by the book, as is, of course, logically + proper. But the beginner will do well to aid himself in understanding the + book by means of independent information about the man. He will thus at + once relate the book to something human, and strengthen in his mind the + essential notion of the connection between literature and life. The + earliest literature was delivered orally direct by the artist to the + recipient. In some respects this arrangement was ideal. Changes in the + constitution of society have rendered it impossible. Nevertheless, we can + still, by the exercise of the imagination, hear mentally the accents of + the artist speaking to us. We must so exercise our imagination as to feel + the man behind the book. + </p> + <p> + Some biographical information about Lamb should be acquired. There are + excellent short biographies of him by Canon Ainger in the <i>Dictionary of + National Biography</i>, in Chambers's <i>Encyclopædia</i>, and in + Chambers's <i>Cyclopædia of English Literature</i>. If you have none of + these (but you ought to have the last), there are Mr. E. V. Lucas's + exhaustive <i>Life</i> (Methuen, 7s. 6d.), and, cheaper, Mr. Walter + Jerrold's <i>Lamb</i> (Bell and Sons, 1s.); also introductory studies + prefixed to various editions of Lamb's works. Indeed, the facilities for + collecting materials for a picture of Charles Lamb as a human being are + prodigious. When you have made for yourself such a picture, read the <i>Essays + of Elia</i> by the light of it. I will choose one of the most celebrated, + <i>Dream Children: A Reverie</i>. At this point, kindly put my book down, + and read <i>Dream Children</i>. Do not say to yourself that you will read + it later, but read it now. When you have read it, you may proceed to my + next paragraph. + </p> + <p> + You are to consider <i>Dream Children</i> as a human document. Lamb was + nearing fifty when he wrote it. You can see, especially from the last + line, that the death of his elder brother, John Lamb, was fresh and heavy + on his mind. You will recollect that in youth he had had a disappointing + love-affair with a girl named Ann Simmons, who afterwards married a man + named Bartrum. You will know that one of the influences of his childhood + was his grandmother Field, housekeeper of Blakesware House, in + Hertfordshire, at which mansion he sometimes spent his holidays. You will + know that he was a bachelor, living with his sister Mary, who was subject + to homicidal mania. And you will see in this essay, primarily, a supreme + expression of the increasing loneliness of his life. He constructed all + that preliminary tableau of paternal pleasure in order to bring home to + you in the most poignant way his feeling of the solitude of his existence, + his sense of all that he had missed and lost in the world. The key of the + essay is one of profound sadness. But note that he makes his sadness + beautiful; or, rather, he shows the beauty that resides in sadness. You + watch him sitting there in his "bachelor arm-chair," and you say to + yourself: "Yes, it was sad, but it was somehow beautiful." When you have + said that to yourself, Charles Lamb, so far as you are concerned, has + accomplished his chief aim in writing the essay. How exactly he produces + his effect can never be fully explained. But one reason of his success is + certainly his regard for truth. He does not falsely idealise his brother, + nor the relations between them. He does not say, as a sentimentalist would + have said, "Not the slightest cloud ever darkened our relations;" nor does + he exaggerate his solitude. Being a sane man, he has too much common-sense + to assemble all his woes at once. He might have told you that Bridget was + a homicidal maniac; what he does tell you is that she was faithful. + Another reason of his success is his continual regard for beautiful things + and fine actions, as illustrated in the major characteristics of his + grandmother and his brother, and in the detailed description of Blakesware + House and the gardens thereof. + </p> + <p> + Then, subordinate to the main purpose, part of the machinery of the main + purpose, is the picture of the children—real children until the + moment when they fade away. The traits of childhood are accurately and + humorously put in again and again: "Here John smiled, as much as to say, + 'That would be foolish indeed.' " "Here little Alice spread her hands." + "Here Alice's little right foot played an involuntary movement, till, upon + my looking grave, it desisted." "Here John expanded all his eyebrows, and + tried to look courageous." "Here John slily deposited back upon the plate + a bunch of grapes." "Here the children fell a-crying...and prayed me to + tell them some stories about their pretty dead mother." And the exquisite: + "Here Alice put out one of her dear mother's looks, too tender to be + upbraiding." Incidentally, while preparing his ultimate solemn effect, + Lamb has inspired you with a new, intensified vision of the wistful beauty + of children—their imitativeness, their facile and generous emotions, + their anxiety to be correct, their ingenuous haste to escape from grief + into joy. You can see these children almost as clearly and as tenderly as + Lamb saw them. For days afterwards you will not be able to look upon a + child without recalling Lamb's portrayal of the grace of childhood. He + will have shared with you his perception of beauty. If you possess + children, he will have renewed for you the charm which custom does very + decidedly stale. It is further to be noticed that the measure of his + success in picturing the children is the measure of his success in his + main effect. The more real they seem, the more touching is the revelation + of the fact that they do not exist, and never have existed. And if you + were moved by the reference to their "pretty dead mother," you will be + still more moved when you learn that the girl who would have been their + mother is not dead and is not Lamb's. + </p> + <p> + As, having read the essay, you reflect upon it, you will see how its + emotional power over you has sprung from the sincere and unexaggerated + expression of actual emotions exactly remembered by someone who had an eye + always open for beauty, who was, indeed, obsessed by beauty. The beauty of + old houses and gardens and aged virtuous characters, the beauty of + children, the beauty of companionships, the softening beauty of dreams in + an arm-chair—all these are brought together and mingled with the + grief and regret which were the origin of the mood. Why is <i>Dream + Children</i> a classic? It is a classic because it transmits to you, as to + generations before you, distinguished emotion, because it makes you + respond to the throb of life more intensely, more justly, and more nobly. + And it is capable of doing this because Charles Lamb had a very + distinguished, a very sensitive, and a very honest mind. His emotions were + noble. He felt so keenly that he was obliged to find relief in imparting + his emotions. And his mental processes were so sincere that he could + neither exaggerate nor diminish the truth. If he had lacked any one of + these three qualities, his appeal would have been narrowed and weakened, + and he would not have become a classic. Either his feelings would have + been deficient in supreme beauty, and therefore less worthy to be + imparted, or he would not have had sufficient force to impart them; or his + honesty would not have been equal to the strain of imparting them + accurately. In any case, he would not have set up in you that vibration + which we call pleasure, and which is supereminently caused by vitalising + participation in high emotion. As Lamb sat in his bachelor arm-chair, with + his brother in the grave, and the faithful homicidal maniac by his side, + he really did think to himself, "This is beautiful. Sorrow is beautiful. + Disappointment is beautiful. Life is beautiful. <i>I must tell them.</i> I + must make them understand." Because he still makes you understand he is a + classic. And now I seem to hear you say, "But what about Lamb's famous + literary style? Where does that come in?" + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter VI — THE QUESTION OF STYLE + </h2> + <p> + In discussing the value of particular books, I have heard people say— + people who were timid about expressing their views of literature in the + presence of literary men: "It may be bad from a literary point of view, + but there are very good things in it." Or: "I dare say the style is very + bad, but really the book is very interesting and suggestive." Or: "I'm not + an expert, and so I never bother my head about good style. All I ask for + is good matter. And when I have got it, critics may say what they like + about the book." And many other similar remarks, all showing that in the + minds of the speakers there existed a notion that style is something + supplementary to, and distinguishable from, matter; a sort of notion that + a writer who wanted to be classical had first to find and arrange his + matter, and then dress it up elegantly in a costume of style, in order to + please beings called literary critics. + </p> + <p> + This is a misapprehension. Style cannot be distinguished from matter. When + a writer conceives an idea he conceives it in a form of words. That form + of words constitutes his style, and it is absolutely governed by the idea. + The idea can only exist in words, and it can only exist in one form of + words. You cannot say exactly the same thing in two different ways. + Slightly alter the expression, and you slightly alter the idea. Surely it + is obvious that the expression cannot be altered without altering the + thing expressed! A writer, having conceived and expressed an idea, may, + and probably will, "polish it up." But what does he polish up? To say that + he polishes up his style is merely to say that he is polishing up his + idea, that he has discovered faults or imperfections in his idea, and is + perfecting it. An idea exists in proportion as it is expressed; it exists + when it is expressed, and not before. It expresses itself. A clear idea is + expressed clearly, and a vague idea vaguely. You need but take your own + case and your own speech. For just as science is the development of + common-sense, so is literature the development of common daily speech. The + difference between science and common-sense is simply one of degree; + similarly with speech and literature. Well, when you "know what you + think," you succeed in saying what you think, in making yourself + understood. When you "don't know what to think," your expressive tongue + halts. And note how in daily life the characteristics of your style follow + your mood; how tender it is when you are tender, how violent when you are + violent. You have said to yourself in moments of emotion: "If only I could + write—," etc. You were wrong. You ought to have said: "If only I + could <i>think</i>— on this high plane." When you have thought + clearly you have never had any difficulty in saying what you thought, + though you may occasionally have had some difficulty in keeping it to + yourself. And when you cannot express yourself, depend upon it that you + have nothing precise to express, and that what incommodes you is not the + vain desire to express, but the vain desire to <i>think</i> more clearly. + All this just to illustrate how style and matter are co-existent, and + inseparable, and alike. + </p> + <p> + You cannot have good matter with bad style. Examine the point more + closely. A man wishes to convey a fine idea to you. He employs a form of + words. That form of words is his style. Having read, you say: "Yes, this + idea is fine." The writer has therefore achieved his end. But in what + imaginable circumstances can you say: "Yes, this idea is fine, but the + style is not fine"? The sole medium of communication between you and the + author has been the form of words. The fine idea has reached you. How? In + the words, by the words. Hence the fineness must be in the words. You may + say, superiorly: "He has expressed himself clumsily, but I can <i>see</i> + what he means." By what light? By something in the words, in the style. + That something is fine. Moreover, if the style is clumsy, are you sure + that you can see what he means? You cannot be quite sure. And at any rate, + you cannot see distinctly. The "matter" is what actually reaches you, and + it must necessarily be affected by the style. + </p> + <p> + Still further to comprehend what style is, let me ask you to think of a + writer's style exactly as you would think of the gestures and manners of + an acquaintance. You know the man whose demeanour is "always calm," but + whose passions are strong. How do you know that his passions are strong? + Because he "gives them away" by some small, but important, part of his + demeanour, such as the twitching of a lip or the whitening of the knuckles + caused by clenching the hand. In other words, his demeanour, + fundamentally, is not calm. You know the man who is always "smoothly + polite and agreeable," but who affects you unpleasantly. Why does he + affect you unpleasantly? Because he is tedious, and therefore + disagreeable, and because his politeness is not real politeness. You know + the man who is awkward, shy, clumsy, but who, nevertheless, impresses you + with a sense of dignity and force. Why? Because mingled with that + awkwardness and so forth <i>is</i> dignity. You know the blunt, rough + fellow whom you instinctively guess to be affectionate— because + there is "something in his tone" or "something in his eyes." In every + instance the demeanour, while perhaps seeming to be contrary to the + character, is really in accord with it. The demeanour never contradicts + the character. It is one part of the character that contradicts another + part of the character. For, after all, the blunt man <i>is</i> blunt, and + the awkward man <i>is</i> awkward, and these characteristics are defects. + The demeanour merely expresses them. The two men would be better if, while + conserving their good qualities, they had the superficial attributes of + smoothness and agreeableness possessed by the gentleman who is unpleasant + to you. And as regards this latter, it is not his superficial attributes + which are unpleasant to you; but his other qualities. In the end the + character is shown in the demeanour; and the demeanour is a consequence of + the character and resembles the character. So with style and matter. You + may argue that the blunt, rough man's demeanour is unfair to his + tenderness. I do not think so. For his churlishness is really very trying + and painful, even to the man's wife, though a moment's tenderness will + make her and you forget it. The man really is churlish, and much more + often than he is tender. His demeanour is merely just to his character. + So, when a writer annoys you for ten pages and then enchants you for ten + lines, you must not explode against his style. You must not say that his + style won't let his matter "come out." You must remember the churlish, + tender man. The more you reflect, the more clearly you will see that + faults and excellences of style are faults and excellences of matter + itself. + </p> + <p> + One of the most striking illustrations of this neglected truth is Thomas + Carlyle. How often has it been said that Carlyle's matter is marred by the + harshness and the eccentricities of his style? But Carlyle's matter is + harsh and eccentric to precisely the same degree as his style is harsh and + eccentric. Carlyle was harsh and eccentric. His behaviour was frequently + ridiculous, if it were not abominable. His judgments were often extremely + bizarre. When you read one of Carlyle's fierce diatribes, you say to + yourself: "This is splendid. The man's enthusiasm for justice and truth is + glorious." But you also say: "He is a little unjust and a little + untruthful. He goes too far. He lashes too hard." These things are not the + style; they are the matter. And when, as in his greatest moments, he is + emotional and restrained at once, you say: "This is the real Carlyle." + Kindly notice how perfect the style has become! No harshnesses or + eccentricities now! And if that particular matter is the "real" Carlyle, + then that particular style is Carlyle's "real" style. But when you say + "real" you would more properly say "best." "This is the best Carlyle." If + Carlyle had always been at his best he would have counted among the + supreme geniuses of the world. But he was a mixture. His style is the + expression of the mixture. The faults are only in the style because they + are in the matter. + </p> + <p> + You will find that, in classical literature, the style always follows the + mood of the matter. Thus, Charles Lamb's essay on <i>Dream Children</i> + begins quite simply, in a calm, narrative manner, enlivened by a certain + quippishness concerning the children. The style is grave when + great-grandmother Field is the subject, and when the author passes to a + rather elaborate impression of the picturesque old mansion it becomes as + it were consciously beautiful. This beauty is intensified in the + description of the still more beautiful garden. But the real dividing + point of the essay occurs when Lamb approaches his elder brother. He + unmistakably marks the point with the phrase: "<i>Then, in somewhat a more + heightened tone</i>, I told how," etc. Henceforward the style increases in + fervour and in solemnity until the culmination of the essay is reached: + "And while I stood gazing, both the children gradually grew fainter to my + view, receding and still receding till nothing at last but two mournful + features were seen in the uttermost distance, which, without speech, + strangely impressed upon me the effects of speech...." Throughout, the + style is governed by the matter. "Well," you say, "of course it is. It + couldn't be otherwise. If it were otherwise it would be ridiculous. A man + who made love as though he were preaching a sermon, or a man who preached + a sermon as though he were teasing schoolboys, or a man who described a + death as though he were describing a practical joke, must necessarily be + either an ass or a lunatic." Just so. You have put it in a nutshell. You + have disposed of the problem of style so far as it can be disposed of. + </p> + <p> + But what do those people mean who say: "I read such and such an author for + the beauty of his style alone"? Personally, I do not clearly know what + they mean (and I have never been able to get them to explain), unless they + mean that they read for the beauty of sound alone. When you read a book + there are only three things of which you may be conscious: (1) The + significance of the words, which is inseparably bound up with the thought. + (2) The look of the printed words on the page—I do not suppose that + anybody reads any author for the visual beauty of the words on the page. + (3) The sound of the words, either actually uttered or imagined by the + brain to be uttered. Now it is indubitable that words differ in beauty of + sound. To my mind one of the most beautiful words in the English language + is "pavement." Enunciate it, study its sound, and see what you think. It + is also indubitable that certain combinations of words have a more + beautiful sound than certain other combinations. Thus Tennyson held that + the most beautiful line he ever wrote was: + </p> + <p> + The mellow ouzel fluting in the elm. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, as sound, it was. Assuredly it makes a beautiful succession of + sounds, and recalls the bird-sounds which it is intended to describe. But + does it live in the memory as one of the rare great Tennysonian lines? It + does not. It has charm, but the charm is merely curious or pretty. A whole + poem composed of lines with no better recommendation than that line has + would remain merely curious or pretty. It would not permanently interest. + It would be as insipid as a pretty woman who had nothing behind her + prettiness. It would not live. One may remark in this connection how the + merely verbal felicities of Tennyson have lost our esteem. Who will now + proclaim the <i>Idylls of the King</i> as a masterpiece? Of the thousands + of lines written by him which please the ear, only those survive of which + the matter is charged with emotion. No! As regards the man who professes + to read an author "for his style alone," I am inclined to think either + that he will soon get sick of that author, or that he is deceiving himself + and means the author's general temperament—not the author's verbal + style, but a peculiar quality which runs through all the matter written by + the author. Just as one may like a man for something which is always + coming out of him, which one cannot define, and which is of the very + essence of the man. + </p> + <p> + In judging the style of an author, you must employ the same canons as you + use in judging men. If you do this you will not be tempted to attach + importance to trifles that are negligible. There can be no lasting + friendship without respect. If an author's style is such that you cannot + <i>respect</i> it, then you may be sure that, despite any present pleasure + which you may obtain from that author, there is something wrong with his + matter, and that the pleasure will soon cloy. You must examine your + sentiments towards an author. If when you have read an author you are + pleased, without being conscious of aught but his mellifluousness, just + conceive what your feelings would be after spending a month's holiday with + a merely mellifluous man. If an author's style has pleased you, but done + nothing except make you giggle, then reflect upon the ultimate tediousness + of the man who can do nothing but jest. On the other hand, if you are + impressed by what an author has said to you, but are aware of verbal + clumsinesses in his work, you need worry about his "bad style" exactly as + much and exactly as little as you would worry about the manners of a + kindhearted, keen-brained friend who was dangerous to carpets with a + tea-cup in his hand. The friend's antics in a drawing-room are somewhat + regrettable, but you would not say of him that his manners were bad. + Again, if an author's style dazzles you instantly and blinds you to + everything except its brilliant self, ask your soul, before you begin to + admire his matter, what would be your final opinion of a man who at the + first meeting fired his personality into you like a broadside. Reflect + that, as a rule, the people whom you have come to esteem communicated + themselves to you gradually, that they did not begin the entertainment + with fireworks. In short, look at literature as you would look at life, + and you cannot fail to perceive that, essentially, the style is the man. + Decidedly you will never assert that you care nothing for style, that your + enjoyment of an author's matter is unaffected by his style. And you will + never assert, either, that style alone suffices for you. + </p> + <p> + If you are undecided upon a question of style, whether leaning to the + favourable or to the unfavourable, the most prudent course is to forget + that literary style exists. For, indeed, as style is understood by most + people who have not analysed their impressions under the influence of + literature, there <i>is</i> no such thing as literary style. You cannot + divide literature into two elements and say: This is matter and that + style. Further, the significance and the worth of literature are to be + comprehended and assessed in the same way as the significance and the + worth of any other phenomenon: by the exercise of common-sense. + Common-sense will tell you that nobody, not even a genius, can be + simultaneously vulgar and distinguished, or beautiful and ugly, or precise + and vague, or tender and harsh. And common-sense will therefore tell you + that to try to set up vital contradictions between matter and style is + absurd. When there is a superficial contradiction, one of the two + mutually-contradicting qualities is of far less importance than the other. + If you refer literature to the standards of life, common-sense will at + once decide which quality should count heaviest in your esteem. You will + be in no danger of weighing a mere maladroitness of manner against a fine + trait of character, or of letting a graceful deportment blind you to a + fundamental vacuity. When in doubt, ignore style, and think of the matter + as you would think of an individual. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter VII — WRESTLING WITH AN AUTHOR + </h2> + <p> + Having disposed, so far as is possible and necessary, of that formidable + question of style, let us now return to Charles Lamb, whose essay on <i>Dream + Children</i> was the originating cause of our inquiry into style. As we + have made a beginning of Lamb, it will be well to make an end of him. In + the preliminary stages of literary culture, nothing is more helpful, in + the way of kindling an interest and keeping it well alight, than to + specialise for a time on one author, and particularly on an author so + frankly and curiously "human" as Lamb is. I do not mean that you should + imprison yourself with Lamb's complete works for three months, and read + nothing else. I mean that you should regularly devote a proportion of your + learned leisure to the study of Lamb until you are acquainted with all + that is important in his work and about his work. (You may buy the + complete works in prose and verse of Charles and Mary Lamb, edited by that + unsurpassed expert Mr. Thomas Hutchison, and published by the Oxford + University Press, in two volumes for four shillings the pair!) There is no + reason why you should not become a modest specialist in Lamb. He is the + very man for you; neither voluminous, nor difficult, nor uncomfortably + lofty; always either amusing or touching; and—most important— + himself passionately addicted to literature. You cannot like Lamb without + liking literature in general. And you cannot read Lamb without learning + about literature in general; for books were his hobby, and he was a critic + of the first rank. His letters are full of literariness. You will + naturally read his letters; you should not only be infinitely diverted by + them (there are no better epistles), but you should receive from them much + light on the works. + </p> + <p> + It is a course of study that I am suggesting to you. It means a certain + amount of sustained effort. It means slightly more resolution, more + pertinacity, and more expenditure of brain-tissue than are required for + reading a newspaper. It means, in fact, "work." Perhaps you did not + bargain for work when you joined me. But I do not think that the literary + taste can be satisfactorily formed unless one is prepared to put one's + back into the affair. And I may prophesy to you, by way of encouragement, + that, in addition to the advantages of familiarity with masterpieces, of + increased literary knowledge, and of a wide introduction to the true + bookish atmosphere and "feel" of things, which you will derive from a + comprehensive study of Charles Lamb, you will also be conscious of a moral + advantage—the very important and very inspiring advantage of really + "knowing something about something." You will have achieved a definite + step; you will be proudly aware that you have put yourself in a position + to judge as an expert whatever you may hear or read in the future + concerning Charles Lamb. This legitimate pride and sense of accomplishment + will stimulate you to go on further; it will generate steam. I consider + that this indirect moral advantage even outweighs, for the moment, the + direct literary advantages. + </p> + <p> + Now, I shall not shut my eyes to a possible result of your diligent + intercourse with Charles Lamb. It is possible that you may be disappointed + with him. It is—shall I say?— almost probable that you will be + disappointed with him, at any rate partially. You will have expected more + joy in him than you have received. I have referred in a previous chapter + to the feeling of disappointment which often comes from first contacts + with the classics. The neophyte is apt to find them—I may as well + out with the word—dull. You may have found Lamb less diverting, less + interesting, than you hoped. You may have had to whip yourself up again + and again to the effort of reading him. In brief, Lamb has not, for you, + justified his terrific reputation. If a classic is a classic because it + gives <i>pleasure</i> to succeeding generations of the people who are most + keenly interested in literature, and if Lamb frequently strikes you as + dull, then evidently there is something wrong. The difficulty must be + fairly fronted, and the fronting of it brings us to the very core of the + business of actually forming the taste. If your taste were classical you + would discover in Lamb a continual fascination; whereas what you in fact + do discover in Lamb is a not unpleasant flatness, enlivened by a vague + humour and an occasional pathos. You ought, according to theory, to be + enthusiastic; but you are apathetic, or, at best, half-hearted. There is a + gulf. How to cross it? + </p> + <p> + To cross it needs time and needs trouble. The following considerations may + aid. In the first place, we have to remember that, in coming into the + society of the classics in general and of Charles Lamb in particular, we + are coming into the society of a mental superior. What happens usually in + such a case? We can judge by recalling what happens when we are in the + society of a mental inferior. We say things of which he misses the import; + we joke, and he does not smile; what makes him laugh loudly seems to us + horseplay or childish; he is blind to beauties which ravish us; he is + ecstatic over what strikes us as crude; and his profound truths are for us + trite commonplaces. His perceptions are relatively coarse; our perceptions + are relatively subtle. We try to make him understand, to make him see, and + if he is aware of his inferiority we may have some success. But if he is + not aware of his inferiority, we soon hold our tongues and leave him alone + in his self-satisfaction, convinced that there is nothing to be done with + him. Every one of us has been through this experience with a mental + inferior, for there is always a mental inferior handy, just as there is + always a being more unhappy than we are. In approaching a classic, the + true wisdom is to place ourselves in the position of the mental inferior, + aware of mental inferiority, humbly stripping off all conceit, anxious to + rise out of that inferiority. Recollect that we always regard as quite + hopeless the mental inferior who does not suspect his own inferiority. Our + attitude towards Lamb must be: "Charles Lamb was a greater man than I am, + cleverer, sharper, subtler, finer, intellectually more powerful, and with + keener eyes for beauty. I must brace myself to follow his lead." Our + attitude must resemble that of one who cocks his ear and listens with all + his soul for a distant sound. + </p> + <p> + To catch the sound we really must listen. That is to say, we must read + carefully, with our faculties on the watch. We must read slowly and + perseveringly. A classic has to be wooed and is worth the wooing. Further, + we must disdain no assistance. I am not in favour of studying criticism of + classics before the classics themselves. My notion is to study the work + and the biography of a classical writer together, and then to read + criticism afterwards. I think that in reprints of the classics the + customary "critical introduction" ought to be put at the end, and not at + the beginning, of the book. The classic should be allowed to make his own + impression, however faint, on the virginal mind of the reader. But + afterwards let explanatory criticism be read as much as you please. + Explanatory criticism is very useful; nearly as useful as pondering for + oneself on what one has read! Explanatory criticism may throw one single + gleam that lights up the entire subject. + </p> + <p> + My second consideration (in aid of crossing the gulf) touches the quality + of the pleasure to be derived from a classic. It is never a violent + pleasure. It is subtle, and it will wax in intensity, but the idea of + violence is foreign to it. The artistic pleasures of an uncultivated mind + are generally violent. They proceed from exaggeration in treatment, from a + lack of balance, from attaching too great an importance to one aspect + (usually superficial), while quite ignoring another. They are gross, like + the joy of Worcester sauce on the palate. Now, if there is one point + common to all classics, it is the absence of exaggeration. The balanced + sanity of a great mind makes impossible exaggeration, and, therefore, + distortion. The beauty of a classic is not at all apt to knock you down. + It will steal over you, rather. Many serious students are, I am convinced, + discouraged in the early stages because they are expecting a wrong kind of + pleasure. They have abandoned Worcester sauce, and they miss it. They miss + the coarse <i>tang</i>. They must realise that indulgence in the <i>tang</i> + means the sure and total loss of sensitiveness—sensitiveness even to + the <i>tang</i> itself. They cannot have crudeness and fineness together. + They must choose, remembering that while crudeness kills pleasure, + fineness ever intensifies it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter VIII — SYSTEM IN READING + </h2> + <p> + You have now definitely set sail on the sea of literature. You are afloat, + and your anchor is up. I think I have given adequate warning of the + dangers and disappointments which await the unwary and the sanguine. The + enterprise in which you are engaged is not facile, nor is it short. I + think I have sufficiently predicted that you will have your hours of woe, + during which you may be inclined to send to perdition all writers, + together with the inventor of printing. But if you have become really + friendly with Lamb; if you know Lamb, or even half of him; if you have + formed an image of him in your mind, and can, as it were, hear him + brilliantly stuttering while you read his essays or letters, then + certainly you are in a fit condition to proceed and you want to know in + which direction you are to proceed. Yes, I have caught your terrified and + protesting whisper: "I hope to heaven he isn't going to prescribe a Course + of English Literature, because I feel I shall never be able to do it!" I + am not. If your object in life was to be a University Extension Lecturer + in English literature, then I should prescribe something drastic and + desolating. But as your object, so far as I am concerned, is simply to + obtain the highest and most tonic form of artistic pleasure of which you + are capable, I shall not prescribe any regular course. Nay, I shall + venture to dissuade you from any regular course. No man, and assuredly no + beginner, can possibly pursue a historical course of literature without + wasting a lot of weary time in acquiring mere knowledge which will yield + neither pleasure nor advantage. In the choice of reading the individual + must count; caprice must count, for caprice is often the truest index to + the individuality. Stand defiantly on your own feet, and do not excuse + yourself to yourself. You do not exist in order to honour literature by + becoming an encyclopædia of literature. Literature exists for your + service. Wherever you happen to be, that, for you, is the centre of + literature. + </p> + <p> + Still, for your own sake you must confine yourself for a long time to + recognised classics, for reasons already explained. And though you should + not follow a course, you must have a system or principle. Your native + sagacity will tell you that caprice, left quite unfettered, will end by + being quite ridiculous. The system which I recommend is embodied in this + counsel: Let one thing lead to another. In the sea of literature every + part communicates with every other part; there are no land-locked lakes. + It was with an eye to this system that I originally recommended you to + start with Lamb. Lamb, if you are his intimate, has already brought you + into relations with a number of other prominent writers with whom you can + in turn be intimate, and who will be particularly useful to you. Among + these are Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt. You + cannot know Lamb without knowing these men, and some of them are of the + highest importance. From the circle of Lamb's own work you may go off at a + tangent at various points, according to your inclination. If, for + instance, you are drawn towards poetry, you cannot, in all English + literature, make a better start than with Wordsworth. And Wordsworth will + send you backwards to a comprehension of the poets against whose influence + Wordsworth fought. When you have understood Wordsworth's and Coleridge's + <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>, and Wordsworth's defence of them, you will be in a + position to judge poetry in general. If, again, your mind hankers after an + earlier and more romantic literature, Lamb's <i>Specimens of English + Dramatic Poets Contemporary with Shakspere</i> has already, in an + enchanting fashion, piloted you into a vast gulf of "the sea which is + Shakspere." + </p> + <p> + Again, in Hazlitt and Leigh Hunt you will discover essayists inferior only + to Lamb himself, and critics perhaps not inferior. Hazlitt is unsurpassed + as a critic. His judgments are convincing and his enthusiasm of the most + catching nature. Having arrived at Hazlitt or Leigh Hunt, you can branch + off once more at any one of ten thousand points into still wider circles. + And thus you may continue up and down the centuries as far as you like, + yea, even to Chaucer. If you chance to read Hazlitt on <i>Chaucer and + Spenser</i>, you will probably put your hat on instantly and go out and + buy these authors; such is his communicating fire! I need not + particularise further. Commencing with Lamb, and allowing one thing to + lead to another, you cannot fail to be more and more impressed by the + peculiar suitability to your needs of the Lamb entourage and the Lamb + period. For Lamb lived in a time of universal rebirth in English + literature. Wordsworth and Coleridge were re-creating poetry; Scott was + re-creating the novel; Lamb was re-creating the human document; and + Hazlitt, Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, and others were re-creating criticism. + Sparks are flying all about the place, and it will be not less than a + miracle if something combustible and indestructible in you does not take + fire. + </p> + <p> + I have only one cautionary word to utter. You may be saying to yourself: + "So long as I stick to classics I cannot go wrong." You can go wrong. You + can, while reading naught but very fine stuff, commit the grave error of + reading too much of one kind of stuff. Now there are two kinds, and only + two kinds. These two kinds are not prose and poetry, nor are they divided + the one from the other by any differences of form or of subject. They are + the inspiring kind and the informing kind. No other genuine division + exists in literature. Emerson, I think, first clearly stated it. His terms + were the literature of "power" and the literature of "knowledge." In + nearly all great literature the two qualities are to be found in company, + but one usually predominates over the other. An example of the exclusively + inspiring kind is Coleridge's <i>Kubla Khan</i>. I cannot recall any + first-class example of the purely informing kind. The nearest approach to + it that I can name is Spencer's <i>First Principles</i>, which, however, + is at least once highly inspiring. An example in which the inspiring + quality predominates is <i>Ivanhoe</i>; and an example in which the + informing quality predominates is Hazlitt's essays on Shakespeare's + characters. You must avoid giving undue preference to the kind in which + the inspiring quality predominates or to the kind in which the informing + quality predominates. Too much of the one is enervating; too much of the + other is desiccating. If you stick exclusively to the one you may become a + mere debauchee of the emotions; if you stick exclusively to the other you + may cease to live in any full sense. I do not say that you should hold the + balance exactly even between the two kinds. Your taste will come into the + scale. What I say is that neither kind must be neglected. + </p> + <p> + Lamb is an instance of a great writer whom anybody can understand and whom + a majority of those who interest themselves in literature can more or less + appreciate. He makes no excessive demand either on the intellect or on the + faculty of sympathetic emotion. On both sides of Lamb, however, there lie + literatures more difficult, more recondite. The "knowledge" side need not + detain us here; it can be mastered by concentration and perseverance. But + the "power" side, which comprises the supreme productions of genius, + demands special consideration. You may have arrived at the point of keenly + enjoying Lamb and yet be entirely unable to "see anything in" such + writings as <i>Kubla Khan</i> or Milton's <i>Comus</i>; and as for <i>Hamlet</i> + you may see nothing in it but a sanguinary tale "full of quotations." + Nevertheless it is the supreme productions which are capable of yielding + the supreme pleasures, and which <i>will</i> yield the supreme pleasures + when the pass-key to them has been acquired. This pass-key is a + comprehension of the nature of poetry. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter IX — VERSE + </h2> + <p> + There is a word, a "name of fear," which rouses terror in the heart of the + vast educated majority of the English-speaking race. The most valiant will + fly at the mere utterance of that word. The most broad-minded will put + their backs up against it. The most rash will not dare to affront it. I + myself have seen it empty buildings that had been full; and I know that it + will scatter a crowd more quickly than a hose-pipe, hornets, or the rumour + of plague. Even to murmur it is to incur solitude, probably disdain, and + possibly starvation, as historical examples show. That word is "poetry." + </p> + <p> + The profound objection of the average man to poetry can scarcely be + exaggerated. And when I say the average man, I do not mean the "average + sensual man"—any man who gets on to the top of the omnibus; I mean + the average lettered man, the average man who does care a little for books + and enjoys reading, and knows the classics by name and the popular writers + by having read them. I am convinced that not one man in ten who reads, + reads poetry—at any rate, knowingly. I am convinced, further, that + not one man in ten who goes so far as knowingly to <i>buy</i> poetry ever + reads it. You will find everywhere men who read very widely in prose, but + who will say quite callously, "No, I never read poetry." If the sales of + modern poetry, distinctly labelled as such, were to cease entirely + to-morrow not a publisher would fail; scarcely a publisher would be + affected; and not a poet would die—for I do not believe that a + single modern English poet is living to-day on the current proceeds of his + verse. For a country which possesses the greatest poetical literature in + the world this condition of affairs is at least odd. What makes it odder + is that, occasionally, very occasionally, the average lettered man will + have a fit of idolatry for a fine poet, buying his books in tens of + thousands, and bestowing upon him immense riches. As with Tennyson. And + what makes it odder still is that, after all, the average lettered man + does not truly dislike poetry; he only dislikes it when it takes a certain + form. He will read poetry and enjoy it, provided he is not aware that it + is poetry. Poetry can exist authentically either in prose or in verse. + Give him poetry concealed in prose and there is a chance that, taken off + his guard, he will appreciate it. But show him a page of verse, and he + will be ready to send for a policeman. The reason of this is that, though + poetry may come to pass either in prose or in verse, it does actually + happen far more frequently in verse than in prose; nearly all the very + greatest poetry is in verse; verse is identified with the very greatest + poetry, and the very greatest poetry can only be understood and savoured + by people who have put themselves through a considerable mental + discipline. To others it is an exasperating weariness. Hence chiefly the + fearful prejudice of the average lettered man against the mere form of + verse. + </p> + <p> + The formation of literary taste cannot be completed until that prejudice + has been conquered. My very difficult task is to suggest a method of + conquering it. I address myself exclusively to the large class of people + who, if they are honest, will declare that, while they enjoy novels, + essays, and history, they cannot "stand" verse. The case is extremely + delicate, like all nervous cases. It is useless to employ the arts of + reasoning, for the matter has got beyond logic; it is instinctive. + Perfectly futile to assure you that verse will yield a higher percentage + of pleasure than prose! You will reply: "We believe you, but that doesn't + help us." Therefore I shall not argue. I shall venture to prescribe a + curative treatment (doctors do not argue); and I beg you to follow it + exactly, keeping your nerve and your calm. Loss of self-control might lead + to panic, and panic would be fatal. + </p> + <p> + First: Forget as completely as you can all your present notions about the + nature of verse and poetry. Take a sponge and wipe the slate of your mind. + In particular, do not harass yourself by thoughts of metre and verse + forms. Second: Read William Hazlitt's essay "On Poetry in General." This + essay is the first in the book entitled <i>Lectures on the English Poets</i>. + It can be bought in various forms. I think the cheapest satisfactory + edition is in Routledge's "New Universal Library" (price 1s. net). I might + have composed an essay of my own on the real harmless nature of poetry in + general, but it could only have been an echo and a deterioration of + Hazlitt's. He has put the truth about poetry in a way as interesting, + clear, and reassuring as anyone is ever likely to put it. I do not expect, + however, that you will instantly gather the full message and enthusiasm of + the essay. It will probably seem to you not to "hang together." Still, it + will leave bright bits of ideas in your mind. Third: After a week's + interval read the essay again. On a second perusal it will appear more + persuasive to you. + </p> + <p> + Fourth: Open the Bible and read the fortieth chapter of Isaiah. It is the + chapter which begins, "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people," and ends, "They + shall run and not be weary, and they shall walk and not faint." This + chapter will doubtless be more or less familiar to you. It cannot fail + (whatever your particular <i>ism</i>) to impress you, to generate in your + mind sensations which you recognise to be of a lofty and unusual order, + and which you will admit to be pleasurable. You will probably agree that + the result of reading this chapter (even if your particular <i>ism</i> is + opposed to its authority) is finer than the result of reading a short + story in a magazine or even an essay by Charles Lamb. Now the pleasurable + sensations induced by the fortieth chapter of Isaiah are among the + sensations usually induced by high-class poetry. The writer of it was a + very great poet, and what he wrote is a very great poem. Fifth: After + having read it, go back to Hazlitt, and see if you can find anything in + Hazlitt's lecture which throws light on the psychology of your own + emotions upon reading Isaiah. + </p> + <p> + Sixth: The next step is into unmistakable verse. It is to read one of + Wordsworth's short narrative poems, <i>The Brothers</i>. There are + editions of Wordsworth at a shilling, but I should advise the "Golden + Treasury" Wordsworth (2s. 6d. net), because it contains the famous essay + by Matthew Arnold, who made the selection. I want you to read this poem + aloud. You will probably have to hide yourself somewhere in order to do + so, for, of course, you would not, as yet, care to be overheard spouting + poetry. Be good enough to forget that <i>The Brothers</i> is poetry. <i>The + Brothers</i> is a short story, with a plain, clear plot. Read it as such. + Read it simply for the story. It is very important at this critical stage + that you should not embarrass your mind with preoccupations as to the <i>form</i> + in which Wordsworth has told his story. Wordsworth's object was to tell a + story as well as he could: just that. In reading aloud do not pay any more + attention to the metre than you feel naturally inclined to pay. After a + few lines the metre will present itself to you. Do not worry as to what + kind of metre it is. When you have finished the perusal, examine your + sensations.... + </p> + <p> + Your sensations after reading this poem, and perhaps one or two other + narrative poems of Wordsworth, such as <i>Michael</i>, will be different + from the sensations produced in you by reading an ordinary, or even a very + extraordinary, short story in prose. They may not be so sharp, so clear + and piquant, but they will probably be, in their mysteriousness and their + vagueness, more impressive. I do not say that they will be diverting. I do + not go so far as to say that they will strike you as pleasing sensations. + (Be it remembered that I am addressing myself to an imaginary tyro in + poetry.) I would qualify them as being "disturbing." Well, to disturb the + spirit is one of the greatest aims of art. And a disturbance of spirit is + one of the finest pleasures that a highly-organised man can enjoy. But + this truth can only be really learnt by the repetitions of experience. As + an aid to the more exhaustive examination of your feelings under + Wordsworth, in order that you may better understand what he was trying to + effect in you, and the means which he employed, I must direct you to + Wordsworth himself. Wordsworth, in addition to being a poet, was + unsurpassed as a critic of poetry. What Hazlitt does for poetry in the way + of creating enthusiasm Wordsworth does in the way of philosophic + explanation. And Wordsworth's explanations of the theory and practice of + poetry are written for the plain man. They pass the comprehension of + nobody, and their direct, unassuming, and calm simplicity is extremely + persuasive. Wordsworth's chief essays in throwing light on himself are the + "Advertisement," "Preface," and "Appendix" to <i>Lyrical Ballads</i>; the + letters to Lady Beaumont and "the Friend" and the "Preface" to the Poems + dated 1815. All this matter is strangely interesting and of immense + educational value. It is the first-class expert talking at ease about his + subject. The essays relating to <i>Lyrical Ballads</i> will be the most + useful for you. You will discover these precious documents in a volume + entitled <i>Wordsworth's Literary Criticism</i> (published by Henry + Frowde, 2s. 6d.), edited by that distinguished Wordsworthian Mr. Nowell C. + Smith. It is essential that the student of poetry should become possessed, + honestly or dishonestly, either of this volume or of the matter which it + contains. There is, by the way, a volume of Wordsworth's prose in the + Scott Library (1s.). Those who have not read Wordsworth on poetry can have + no idea of the naïve charm and the helpful radiance of his expounding. I + feel that I cannot too strongly press Wordsworth's criticism upon you. + </p> + <p> + Between Wordsworth and Hazlitt you will learn all that it behoves you to + know of the nature, the aims, and the results of poetry. It is no part of + my scheme to dot the "i's" and cross the "t's" of Wordsworth and Hazlitt. + I best fulfil my purpose in urgently referring you to them. I have only a + single point of my own to make— a psychological detail. One of the + main obstacles to the cultivation of poetry in the average sensible man is + an absurdly inflated notion of the ridiculous. At the bottom of that man's + mind is the idea that poetry is "silly." He also finds it exaggerated and + artificial; but these two accusations against poetry can be satisfactorily + answered. The charge of silliness, of being ridiculous, however, cannot be + refuted by argument. There is no logical answer to a guffaw. This sense of + the ridiculous is merely a bad, infantile habit, in itself grotesquely + ridiculous. You may see it particularly in the theatre. Not the greatest + dramatist, not the greatest composer, not the greatest actor can prevent + an audience from laughing uproariously at a tragic moment if a cat walks + across the stage. But why ruin the scene by laughter? Simply because the + majority of any audience is artistically childish. This sense of the + ridiculous can only be crushed by the exercise of moral force. It can only + be cowed. If you are inclined to laugh when a poet expresses himself more + powerfully than you express yourself, when a poet talks about feelings + which are not usually mentioned in daily papers, when a poet uses words + and images which lie outside your vocabulary and range of thought, then + you had better take yourself in hand. You have to decide whether you will + be on the side of the angels or on the side of the nincompoops. There is + no surer sign of imperfect development than the impulse to snigger at what + is unusual, naïve, or exuberant. And if you choose to do so, you can + detect the cat walking across the stage in the sublimest passages of + literature. But more advanced souls will grieve for you. + </p> + <p> + The study of Wordsworth's criticism makes the seventh step in my course of + treatment. The eighth is to return to those poems of Wordsworth's which + you have already perused, and read them again in the full light of the + author's defence and explanation. Read as much Wordsworth as you find you + can assimilate, but do not attempt either of his long poems. The time, + however, is now come for a long poem. I began by advising narrative poetry + for the neophyte, and I shall persevere with the prescription. I mean + narrative poetry in the restricted sense; for epic poetry is narrative. <i>Paradise + Lost</i> is narrative; so is <i>The Prelude</i>. I suggest neither of + these great works. My choice falls on Elizabeth Browning's <i>Aurora Leigh</i>. + If you once work yourself "into" this poem, interesting yourself primarily + (as with Wordsworth) in the events of the story, and not allowing yourself + to be obsessed by the fact that what you are reading is "poetry"—if + you do this, you are not likely to leave it unfinished. And before you + reach the end you will have encountered <i>en route</i> pretty nearly all + the moods of poetry that exist: tragic, humorous, ironic, elegiac, lyric—everything. + You will have a comprehensive acquaintance with a poet's mind. I guarantee + that you will come safely through if you treat the work as a novel. For a + novel it effectively is, and a better one than any written by Charlotte + Brontë or George Eliot. In reading, it would be well to mark, or take note + of, the passages which give you the most pleasure, and then to compare + these passages with the passages selected for praise by some authoritative + critic. <i>Aurora Leigh</i> can be got in the "Temple Classics" (1s. 6d.), + or in the "Canterbury Poets" (1s.). The indispensable biographical + information about Mrs. Browning can be obtained from Mr. J. H. Ingram's + short Life of her in the "Eminent Women" Series (1s. 6d.), or from <i>Robert + Browning</i>, by William Sharp ("Great Writers" Series, 1s.). + </p> + <p> + This accomplished, you may begin to choose your poets. Going back to + Hazlitt, you will see that he deals with, among others, Chaucer, Spenser, + Shakespeare, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Chatterton, Burns, and the Lake School. + You might select one of these, and read under his guidance. Said + Wordsworth: "I was impressed by the conviction that there were four + English poets whom I must have continually before me as examples—Chaucer, + Shakespeare, Spenser, and Milton." (A word to the wise!) Wordsworth makes + a fifth to these four. Concurrently with the careful, enthusiastic study + of one of the undisputed classics, modern verse should be read. (I beg you + to accept the following statement: that if the study of classical poetry + inspires you with a distaste for modern poetry, then there is something + seriously wrong in the method of your development.) You may at this stage + (and not before) commence an inquiry into questions of rhythm, + verse-structure, and rhyme. There is, I believe, no good, concise, cheap + handbook to English prosody; yet such a manual is greatly needed. The only + one with which I am acquainted is Tom Hood the younger's <i>Rules of + Rhyme: A Guide to English Versification</i>. Again, the introduction to + Walker's <i>Rhyming Dictionary</i> gives a fairly clear elementary account + of the subject. Ruskin also has written an excellent essay on + verse-rhythms. With a manual in front of you, you can acquire in a couple + of hours a knowledge of the formal principles in which the music of + English verse is rooted. The business is trifling. But the business of + appreciating the inmost spirit of the greatest verse is tremendous and + lifelong. It is not something that can be "got up." + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter X — BROAD COUNSELS + </h2> + <p> + I have now set down what appear to me to be the necessary considerations, + recommendations, exhortations, and dehortations in aid of this delicate + and arduous enterprise of forming the literary taste. I have dealt with + the theory of literature, with the psychology of the author, and—quite + as important—with the psychology of the reader. I have tried to + explain the author to the reader and the reader to himself. To go into + further detail would be to exceed my original intention, with no hope of + ever bringing the constantly-enlarging scheme to a logical conclusion. My + aim is not to provide a map, but a compass—two very different + instruments. In the way of general advice it remains for me only to put + before you three counsels which apply more broadly than any I have yet + offered to the business of reading. + </p> + <p> + You have within yourself a touchstone by which finally you can, and you + must, test every book that your brain is capable of comprehending. Does + the book seem to you to be sincere and true? If it does, then you need not + worry about your immediate feelings, or the possible future consequences + of the book. You will ultimately like the book, and you will be justified + in liking it. Honesty, in literature as in life, is the quality that + counts first and counts last. But beware of your immediate feelings. Truth + is not always pleasant. The first glimpse of truth is, indeed, usually so + disconcerting as to be positively unpleasant, and our impulse is to tell + it to go away, for we will have no truck with it. If a book arouses your + genuine contempt, you may dismiss it from your mind. Take heed, however, + lest you confuse contempt with anger. If a book really moves you to anger, + the chances are that it is a good book. Most good books have begun by + causing anger which disguised itself as contempt. Demanding honesty from + your authors, you must see that you render it yourself. And to be honest + with oneself is not so simple as it appears. One's sensations and one's + sentiments must be examined with detachment. When you have violently flung + down a book, listen whether you can hear a faint voice saying within you: + "It's true, though!" And if you catch the whisper, better yield to it as + quickly as you can. For sooner or later the voice will win. Similarly, + when you are hugging a book, keep your ear cocked for the secret warning: + "Yes, but it isn't true." For bad books, by flattering you, by caressing, + by appealing to the weak or the base in you, will often persuade you what + fine and splendid books they are. (Of course, I use the word "true" in a + wide and essential significance. I do not necessarily mean true to literal + fact; I mean true to the plane of experience in which the book moves. The + truthfulness of <i>Ivanhoe</i>, for example, cannot be estimated by the + same standards as the truthfulness of Stubbs's <i>Constitutional History</i>.) + In reading a book, a sincere questioning of oneself, "Is it true?" and a + loyal abiding by the answer, will help more surely than any other process + of ratiocination to form the taste. I will not assert that this question + and answer are all-sufficient. A true book is not always great. But a + great book is never untrue. + </p> + <p> + My second counsel is: In your reading you must have in view some definite + aim—some aim other than the wish to derive pleasure. I conceive that + to give pleasure is the highest end of any work of art, because the + pleasure procured from any art is tonic, and transforms the life into + which it enters. But the maximum of pleasure can only be obtained by + regular effort, and regular effort implies the organisation of that + effort. Open-air walking is a glorious exercise; it is the walking itself + which is glorious. Nevertheless, when setting out for walking exercise, + the sane man generally has a subsidiary aim in view. He says to himself + either that he will reach a given point, or that he will progress at a + given speed for a given distance, or that he will remain on his feet for a + given time. He organises his effort, partly in order that he may combine + some other advantage with the advantage of walking, but principally in + order to be sure that the effort shall be an adequate effort. The same + with reading. Your paramount aim in poring over literature is to enjoy, + but you will not fully achieve that aim unless you have also a subsidiary + aim which necessitates the measurement of your energy. Your subsidiary aim + may be æsthetic, moral, political, religious, scientific, erudite; you may + devote yourself to a man, a topic, an epoch, a nation, a branch of + literature, an idea—you have the widest latitude in the choice of an + objective; but a definite objective you must have. In my earlier remarks + as to method in reading, I advocated, without insisting on, regular hours + for study. But I both advocate and insist on the fixing of a date for the + accomplishment of an allotted task. As an instance, it is not enough to + say: "I will inform myself completely as to the Lake School." It is + necessary to say: "I will inform myself completely as to the Lake School + before I am a year older." Without this precautionary steeling of the + resolution the risk of a humiliating collapse into futility is enormously + magnified. + </p> + <p> + My third counsel is: Buy a library. It is obvious that you cannot read + unless you have books. I began by urging the constant purchase of books— + any books of approved quality, without reference to their immediate + bearing upon your particular case. The moment has now come to inform you + plainly that a bookman is, amongst other things, a man who possesses many + books. A man who does not possess many books is not a bookman. For years + literary authorities have been favouring the literary public with + wondrously selected lists of "the best books"—the best novels, the + best histories, the best poems, the best works of philosophy—or the + hundred best or the fifty best of all sorts. The fatal disadvantage of + such lists is that they leave out large quantities of literature which is + admittedly first-class. The bookman cannot content himself with a selected + library. He wants, as a minimum, a library reasonably complete in all + departments. With such a basis acquired, he can afterwards wander into + those special byways of book-buying which happen to suit his special + predilections. Every Englishman who is interested in any branch of his + native literature, and who respects himself, ought to own a comprehensive + and inclusive library of English literature, in comely and adequate + editions. You may suppose that this counsel is a counsel of perfection. It + is not. Mark Pattison laid down a rule that he who desired the name of + book-lover must spend five per cent. of his income on books. The proposal + does not seem extravagant, but even on a smaller percentage than five the + average reader of these pages may become the owner, in a comparatively + short space of time, of a reasonably complete English library, by which I + mean a library containing the complete works of the supreme geniuses, + representative important works of all the first-class men in all + departments, and specimen works of all the men of the second rank whose + reputation is really a living reputation to-day. The scheme for a library, + which I now present, begins before Chaucer and ends with George Gissing, + and I am fairly sure that the majority of people will be startled at the + total inexpensiveness of it. So far as I am aware, no such scheme has ever + been printed before. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XI — AN ENGLISH LIBRARY: PERIOD I + </h2> + <p> + (For much counsel and correction in the matter of editions and prices I am + indebted to my old and valued friend, Charles Young, head of the firm of + Lamley & Co., booksellers, South Kensington.) + </p> + <p> + For the purposes of book-buying, I divide English literature, not strictly + into historical epochs, but into three periods which, while scarcely + arbitrary from the historical point of view, have nevertheless been + calculated according to the space which they will occupy on the shelves + and to the demands which they will make on the purse: + </p> + <p> + I. From the beginning to John Dryden, or roughly, to the end of the + seventeenth century. + </p> + <p> + II. From William Congreve to Jane Austen, or roughly, the eighteenth + century. + </p> + <p> + III. From Sir Walter Scott to the last deceased author who is recognised + as a classic, or roughly, the nineteenth century. + </p> + <p> + Period III. will bulk the largest and cost the most; not necessarily + because it contains more absolutely great books than the other periods + (though in my opinion it <i>does</i>), but because it is nearest to us, + and therefore fullest of interest for us. + </p> + <p> + I have not confined my choice to books of purely literary interest— + that is to say, to works which are primarily works of literary art. + Literature is the vehicle of philosophy, science, morals, religion, and + history; and a library which aspires to be complete must comprise, in + addition to imaginative works, all these branches of intellectual + activity. Comprising all these branches, it cannot avoid comprising works + of which the purely literary interest is almost nil. + </p> + <p> + On the other hand, I have excluded from consideration:— + </p> + <p> + i. Works whose sole importance is that they form a link in the chain of + development. For example, nearly all the productions of authors between + Chaucer and the beginning of the Elizabethan period, such as Gower, + Hoccleve, and Skelton, whose works, for sufficient reason, are read only + by professors and students who mean to be professors. + </p> + <p> + ii. Works not originally written in English, such as the works of that + very great philosopher Roger Bacon, of whom this isle ought to be prouder + than it is. To this rule, however, I have been constrained to make a few + exceptions. Sir Thomas More's <i>Utopia</i> was written in Latin, but one + does not easily conceive a library to be complete without it. And could + one exclude Sir Isaac Newton's <i>Principia</i>, the masterpiece of the + greatest physicist that the world has ever seen? The law of gravity ought + to have, and does have, a powerful sentimental interest for us. + </p> + <p> + iii. Translations from foreign literature into English. + </p> + <p> + Here, then, are the lists for the first period: + </p> + <p> + PROSE WRITERS + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +Bede, <i>Ecclesiastical History:</i> Temple Classics 0 1 6 +Sir Thomas Malory, <i>Morte d'Arthur:</i> Everyman's Library (4 vols.) 0 4 0 +Sir Thomas More, <i>Utopia:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +George Cavendish, <i>Life of Cardinal Wolsey:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +Richard Hakluyt, <i>Voyages:</i> Everyman's Library (8 vols.) 0 8 0 +Richard Hooker, <i>Ecclesiastical Polity:</i> Everyman's Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +FRANCIS BACON, <i>Works:</i> Newnes's Thin-paper Classics 0 2 0 +Thomas Dekker, <i>Gull's Horn-Book:</i> King's Classics 0 1 6 +Lord Herbert of Cherbury, <i>Autobiography:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +John Selden, <i>Table-Talk:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +Thomas Hobbes, <i>Leviathan:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +James Howell, <i>Familiar Letters:</i> Temple Classics (3 vols.) 0 4 6 +SIR THOMAS BROWNE, <i>Religio Medici</i>, etc.: Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Jeremy Taylor, <i>Holy Living and Holy Dying:</i> Temple Classics (3 vols.) 0 4 6 +Izaak Walton, <i>Compleat Angler:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +JOHN BUNYAN, <i>Pilgrim's Progress:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +Sir William Temple, <i>Essay on Gardens of Epicurus:</i> King's Classics 0 1 6 +John Evelyn, <i>Diary:</i> Everyman's Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Samuel Pepys, <i>Diary:</i> Everyman's Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 + £2 1 6 +</pre> + <p> + The principal omission from the above list is <i>The Paston Letters</i>, + which I should probably have included had the enterprise of publishers + been sufficient to put an edition on the market at a cheap price. Other + omissions include the works of Caxton and Wyclif, and such books as + Camden's <i>Britannia</i>, Ascham's <i>Schoolmaster</i>, and Fuller's <i>Worthies</i>, + whose lack of first-rate value as literature is not adequately compensated + by their historical interest. As to the Bible, in the first place it is a + translation, and in the second I assume that you already possess a copy. + </p> + <p> + POETS. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +<i>Beowulf</i>, Routledge's London Library 0 2 6 +GEOFFREY CHAUCER, <i>Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 +Nicolas Udall, <i>Ralph Roister-Doister:</i> Temple Dramatists 0 1 0 +EDMUND SPENSER, <i>Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 +Thomas Lodge, <i>Rosalynde:</i> Caxton Series 0 1 0 +Robert Greene, <i>Tragical Reign of Selimus:</i> Temple Dramatists 0 1 + 0 +Michael Drayton, <i>Poems:</i> Newnes's Pocket Classics 0 3 6 +CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE, <i>Works:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, <i>Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 +Thomas Campion, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +Ben Jonson, <i>Plays:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +John Donne, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +John Webster, Cyril Tourneur, <i>Plays:</i> Mermaid Series 0 2 6 +Philip Massinger, <i>Plays:</i> Cunningham Edition 0 3 6 +Beaumont and Fletcher, <i>Plays: a Selection:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 + 0 +John Ford, <i>Plays:</i> Mermaid Series 0 2 6 +George Herbert, <i>The Temple:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +ROBERT HERRICK, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Edmund Waller, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Sir John Suckling, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +Abraham Cowley, <i>English Poems:</i> Cambridge University Press 0 4 6 +Richard Crashaw, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +Henry Vaughan, <i>Poems:</i> Methuen's Little Library 0 1 6 +Samuel Butler, <i>Hudibras:</i> Cambridge University Press 0 4 6 +JOHN MILTON, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Oxford Cheap Edition 0 2 0 +JOHN MILTON, <i>Select Prose Works:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +Andrew Marvell, <i>Poems:</i> Methuen's Little Library 0 1 6 +John Dryden, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 +[Thomas Percy], <i>Reliques of Ancient English Poetry:</i> + Everyman's Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Arber's <i>"Spenser" Anthology:</i> Oxford University Press 0 2 + 0 +Arber's <i>"Jonson" Anthology:</i> Oxford University Press 0 2 0 +Arber's <i>"Shakspere" Anthology:</i> Oxford University Press 0 2 0 + £3 7 6 +</pre> + <p> + There were a number of brilliant minor writers in the seventeenth century + whose best work, often trifling in bulk, either scarcely merits the + acquisition of a separate volume for each author, or cannot be obtained at + all in a modern edition. Such authors, however, may not be utterly + neglected in the formation of a library. It is to meet this difficulty + that I have included the last three volumes on the above list. Professor + Arber's anthologies are full of rare pieces, and comprise admirable + specimens of the verse of Samuel Daniel, Giles Fletcher, Countess of + Pembroke, James I., George Peele, Sir Walter Raleigh, Thomas Sackville, + Sir Philip Sidney, Drummond of Hawthornden, Thomas Heywood, George Wither, + Sir Henry Wotton, Sir William Davenant, Thomas Randolph, Frances Quarles, + James Shirley, and other greater and lesser poets. + </p> + <p> + I have included all the important Elizabethan dramatists except John + Marston, all the editions of whose works, according to my researches, are + out of print. + </p> + <p> + In the Elizabethan and Jacobean periods talent was so extraordinarily + plentiful that the standard of excellence is quite properly raised, and + certain authors are thus relegated to the third, or excluded, class who in + a less fertile period would have counted as at least second-class. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_SUMM" id="link2H_SUMM"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUMMARY OF THE FIRST PERIOD. + </h2> + <p> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +19 prose authors in 36 volumes costing 2 1 6 +29 poets in 36 " " 3 7 6 +48 72 £5 9 0 +</pre> + <p> + In addition, scores of authors of genuine interest are represented in the + anthologies. + </p> + <p> + The prices given are gross, and in many instances there is a 25 per cent. + discount to come off. All the volumes can be procured immediately at any + bookseller's. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XII — AN ENGLISH LIBRARY: PERIOD II + </h2> + <p> + After dealing with the formation of a library of authors up to John + Dryden, I must logically arrange next a scheme for the period covered + roughly by the eighteenth century. There is, however, no reason why the + student in quest of a library should follow the chronological order. + Indeed, I should advise him to attack the nineteenth century before the + eighteenth, for the reason that, unless his taste happens to be peculiarly + "Augustan," he will obtain a more immediate satisfaction and profit from + his acquisitions in the nineteenth century than in the eighteenth. There + is in eighteenth-century literature a considerable proportion of what I + may term "unattractive excellence," which one must have for the purposes + of completeness, but which may await actual perusal until more pressing + and more human books have been read. I have particularly in mind the + philosophical authors of the century. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +PROSE WRITERS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. + JOHN LOCKE, <i>Philosophical Works:</i> Bohn's Edition (2 vols.) 0 7 0 + SIR ISAAC NEWTON, <i>Principia</i> (sections 1, 2, and 3): Macmillan's 0 12 0 + Gilbert Burnet, <i>History of His Own Time:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 + William Wycherley, <i>Best Plays:</i> Mermaid Series 0 2 6 + WILLIAM CONGREVE, <i>Best Plays:</i> Mermaid Series 0 2 6 + Jonathan Swift, <i>Tale of a Tub:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 + Jonathan Swift, <i>Gulliver's Travels:</i> Temple Classics 0 1 6 + DANIEL DEFOE, <i>Robinson Crusoe:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 + DANIEL DEFOE, <i>Journal of the Plague Year:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 + Joseph Addison, Sir Richard Steele, <i>Essays:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 + William Law, <i>Serious Call:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 + Lady Mary W. Montagu, <i>Letters:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 + George Berkeley, <i>Principles of Human Knowledge:</i> + New Universal Library 0 1 0 + SAMUEL RICHARDSON, <i>Clarissa</i> (abridged): Routledge's Edition 0 2 + 0 + John Wesley, <i>Journal:</i> Everyman's Library (4 vols.) 0 4 0 + HENRY FIELDING, <i>Tom Jones:</i> Routledge's Edition 0 2 0 + HENRY FIELDING, <i>Amelia:</i> Routledge's Edition 0 2 0 + HENRY FIELDING, <i>Joseph Andrews:</i> Routledge's Edition 0 2 0 + David Hume, <i>Essays:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 + LAURENCE STERNE, <i>Tristram Shandy:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 + LAURENCE STERNE, <i>Sentimental Journey:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 + 0 + Horace Walpole, <i>Castle of Otranto:</i> King's Classics 0 1 6 + Tobias Smollett, <i>Humphrey Clinker:</i> Routledge's Edition 0 2 0 + Tobias Smollett, <i>Travels through France and Italy:</i> World's Classics 0 1 + 0 + ADAM SMITH, <i>Wealth of Nations:</i> World's Classics (2 vols.) 0 2 0 + Samuel Johnson, <i>Lives of the Poets:</i> World's Classics (2 vols.) 0 2 0 + Samuel Johnson, <i>Rasselas:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 + JAMES BOSWELL, <i>Life of Johnson:</i> Everyman's Library (2 vols.) 0 2 + 0 + Oliver Goldsmith, <i>Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 + Henry Mackenzie, <i>The Man of Feeling:</i> Cassell's National Library 0 0 6 + Sir Joshua Reynolds, <i>Discourses on Art:</i> Scott Library 0 1 + 0 + Edmund Burke, <i>Reflections on the French Revolution:</i> Scott Library 0 1 + 0 + Edmund Burke, <i>Thoughts on the Present Discontents:</i> + New Universal Library 0 1 0 + EDWARD GIBBON, <i>Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire:</i> + World's Classics (7 vols.) 0 7 0 + Thomas Paine, <i>Rights of Man:</i> Watts and Co.'s Edition 0 1 + 0 + RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, <i>Plays:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 + Fanny Burney, <i>Evelina:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 + Gilbert White, <i>Natural History of Selborne:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 + Arthur Young, <i>Travels in France:</i> York Library 0 2 0 + Mungo Park, <i>Travels:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 + Jeremy Bentham, <i>Introduction to the Principles of Morals:</i> + Clarendon Press 0 6 6 + THOMAS ROBERT MALTHUS, <i>Essay on the Principle of Population:</i> + Ward, Lock's Edition 0 3 6 + William Godwin, <i>Caleb Williams:</i> Newnes's Edition 0 1 0 + Maria Edgeworth, <i>Helen:</i> Macmillan's Illustrated Edition 0 2 6 + JANE AUSTEN, <i>Novels:</i> Nelson's New Century Library (2 vols.) 0 4 + 0 + James Morier, <i>Hadji Baba:</i> Macmillan's Illustrated Novels 0 2 6 + £5 1 0 +</pre> + <p> + </p> + <p> + The principal omissions here are Jeremy Collier, whose outcry against the + immorality of the stage is his slender title to remembrance; Richard + Bentley, whose scholarship principally died with him, and whose chief + works are no longer current; and "Junius," who would have been deservedly + forgotten long ago had there been a contemporaneous Sherlock Holmes to + ferret out his identity. + </p> + <p> + POETS. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +Thomas Otway, <i>Venice Preserved:</i> Temple Dramatists 0 1 0 +Matthew Prior, <i>Poems on Several Occasions:</i> + Cambridge English Classics 0 4 6 +John Gay, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +ALEXANDER POPE, <i>Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 +Isaac Watts, <i>Hymns:</i> Any hymn-book 0 1 0 +James Thomson, <i>The Seasons:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +Charles Wesley, <i>Hymns:</i> Any hymn-book 0 1 0 +THOMAS GRAY, Samuel Johnson, William Collins, <i>Poems:</i> + Muses' Library 0 1 0 +James Macpherson (Ossian), <i>Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +THOMAS CHATTERTON, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +WILLIAM COWPER, <i>Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +WILLIAM COWPER, <i>Letters:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +George Crabbe, <i>Poems:</i> Methuen's Little Library 0 1 6 +WILLIAM BLAKE, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +William Lisle Bowles, Hartley Coleridge, <i>Poems:</i> + Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +ROBERT BURNS, <i>Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 + £1 7 0 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_SUMM" id="link2H_SUMM_"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUMMARY OF THE PERIOD. + </h2> + <p> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +39 prose-writers in 60 volumes, costing 5 1 0 +18 poets " 18 " " 1 7 0 +57 78 £6 8 0 + +</pre> + <p> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XIII — AN ENGLISH LIBRARY: PERIOD III + </h2> + <p> + The catalogue of necessary authors of this third and last period being so + long, it is convenient to divide the prose writers into Imaginative and + Non-imaginative. + </p> + <p> + In the latter half of the period the question of copyright affects our + scheme to a certain extent, because it affects prices. Fortunately it is + the fact that no single book of recognised first-rate general importance + is conspicuously dear. Nevertheless, I have encountered difficulties in + the second rank; I have dealt with them in a spirit of compromise. I think + I may say that, though I should have included a few more authors had their + books been obtainable at a reasonable price, I have omitted none that I + consider indispensable to a thoroughly representative collection. No + living author is included. + </p> + <p> + Where I do not specify the edition of a book the original copyright + edition is meant. + </p> + <p> + PROSE WRITERS: IMAGINATIVE. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +SIR WALTER SCOTT, <i>Waverley, Heart of Midlothian, Quentin Durward, + Redgauntlet, Ivanhoe:</i> Everyman's Library (5 vols.) 0 5 0 +SIR WALTER SCOTT, <i>Marmion</i>, etc.: Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +Charles Lamb, <i>Works in Prose and Verse:</i> Clarendon Press (2 vols.) 0 4 + 0 +Charles Lamb, <i>Letters:</i> Newnes's Thin-Paper Classics 0 2 0 +Walter Savage Landor, <i>Imaginary Conversations:</i> Scott Library 0 1 + 0 +Walter Savage Landor, <i>Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +Leigh Hunt, <i>Essays and Sketches:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +Thomas Love Peacock, <i>Principal Novels:</i> + New Universal Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Mary Russell Mitford, <i>Our Village:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +Michael Scott, <i>Tom Cringle's Log:</i> Macmillan's Illustrated Novels 0 2 + 6 +Frederick Marryat, <i>Mr. Midshipman Easy:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 +John Galt, <i>Annals of the Parish:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Susan Ferrier, <i>Marriage:</i> Routledge's edition 0 2 0 +Douglas Jerrold, <i>Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures:</i> World's Classics 0 1 + 0 +Lord Lytton, <i>Last Days of Pompeii:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 +William Carleton, <i>Stories:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +Charles James Lever, <i>Harry Lorrequer:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Harrison Ainsworth, <i>The Tower of London:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +George Henry Borrow, <i>Bible in Spain, Lavengro:</i> + New Universal Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Lord Beaconsfield, <i>Sybil, Coningsby:</i> + Lane's New Pocket Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +W. M. THACKERAY, <i>Vanity Fair, Esmond:</i> Everyman's Library (2 vols.) 0 2 + 0 +W. M. THACKERAY, <i>Barry Lyndon</i>, and <i>Roundabout Papers</i>, etc.: + Nelson's New Century Library 0 2 0 +CHARLES DICKENS, <i>Works:</i> Everyman's Library (18 vols.) 0 18 + 0 +Charles Reade, <i>The Cloister and the Hearth:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Anthony Trollope, <i>Barchester Towers, Framley Parsonage:</i> + Lane's New Pocket Library (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +Charles Kingsley, <i>Westward Ho!:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Henry Kingsley, <i>Ravenshoe:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Charlotte Brontë, <i>Jane Eyre, Shirley, Villette, Professor, + and Poems:</i> World's Classics (4 vols.) 0 4 0 +Emily Brontë, <i>Wuthering Heights:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +Elizabeth Gaskell, <i>Cranford:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +Elizabeth Gaskell, <i>Life of Charlotte Brontë</i> 0 2 6 +George Eliot, <i>Adam Bede, Silas Marner, The Mill on the Floss:</i> + Everyman's Library (3 vols.) 0 3 0 +G. J. Whyte-Melville, <i>The Gladiators:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 + 0 +Alexander Smith, <i>Dreamthorpe:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +George Macdonald, <i>Malcolm</i> 0 1 6 +Walter Pater, <i>Imaginary Portraits</i> 0 6 0 +Wilkie Collins, <i>The Woman in White</i> 0 1 0 +R. D. Blackmore, <i>Lorna Doone:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Samuel Butler, <i>Erewhon:</i> Fifield's Edition 0 2 6 +Laurence Oliphant, <i>Altiora Peto</i> 0 3 6 +Margaret Oliphant, <i>Salem Chapel:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Richard Jefferies, <i>Story of My Heart</i> 0 2 0 +Lewis Carroll, <i>Alice in Wonderland:</i> Macmillan's Cheap Edition 0 1 + 0 +John Henry Shorthouse, <i>John Inglesant:</i> Macmillan's Pocket Classics 0 2 + 0 +R. L. Stevenson, <i>Master of Ballantrae, Virginibus Puerisque:</i> + Pocket Edition (2 vols.) 0 4 0 +George Gissing, <i>The Odd Women:</i> Popular Edition (bound) 0 0 7 + £5 0 1 + +</pre> + <p> + Names such as those of Charlotte Yonge and Dinah Craik are omitted + intentionally. + </p> + <p> + PROSE WRITERS: NON-IMAGINATIVE. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +William Hazlitt, <i>Spirit of the Age:</i> World's Classics 0 1 + 0 +William Hazlitt, <i>English Poets and Comic Writers:</i> Bohn's Library 0 3 + 6 +Francis Jeffrey, <i>Essays from Edinburgh Review:</i> + New Universal Library 0 1 0 +Thomas de Quincey, <i>Confessions of an English Opium-eater</i>, etc.: + Scott Library 0 1 0 +Sydney Smith, <i>Selected Papers:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +George Finlay, <i>Byzantine Empire:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +John G. Lockhart, <i>Life of Scott:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Agnes Strickland, <i>Life of Queen Elizabeth:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 +Hugh Miller, <i>Old Red Sandstone:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +J. H. Newman, <i>Apologia pro vita sua:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 + 0 +Lord Macaulay, <i>History of England</i>, (3), <i>Essays</i> (2): + Everyman's Library (5 vols.) 0 5 0 +A. P. Stanley, <i>Memorials of Canterbury:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 +THOMAS CARLYLE, <i>French Revolution</i> (2), <i>Cromwell</i> (3), + <i>Sartor Resartus and Heroes and Hero-Worship</i> (1): + Everyman's Library (6 vols.) 0 6 0 +THOMAS CARLYLE, <i>Latter-day Pamphlets:</i> Chapman and Hall's Edition 0 1 + 0 +CHARLES DARWIN, <i>Origin of Species:</i> Murray's Edition 0 1 0 +CHARLES DARWIN, <i>Voyage of the Beagle:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +A. W. Kinglake, <i>Eothen:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +John Stuart Mill, <i>Auguste Comte and Positivism:</i> + New Universal Library 0 1 0 +John Brown, <i>Horæ Subsecivæ:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +John Brown, <i>Rab and His Friends:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Sir Arthur Helps, <i>Friends in Council:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 + 0 +Mark Pattison, <i>Life of Milton:</i> English Men of Letters Series 0 1 + 0 +F. W. Robertson, <i>On Religion and Life:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Benjamin Jowett, <i>Interpretation of Scripture:</i> + Routledge's London Library 0 2 6 +George Henry Lewes, <i>Principles of Success in Literature:</i> + Scott Library 0 1 0 +Alexander Bain, <i>Mind and Body</i> 0 4 0 +James Anthony Froude, <i>Dissolution of the Monasteries</i>, etc.: + New Universal Library 0 1 0 +Mary Wollstonecraft, <i>Vindication of the Rights of Women:</i> + Scott Library 0 1 0 +John Tyndall, <i>Glaciers of the Alps:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Sir Henry Maine, <i>Ancient Law:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +JOHN RUSKIN, <i>Seven Lamps</i> (1), <i>Sesame and Lilies</i> (1), + <i>Stones of Venice</i> (3): George Allen's Cheap Edition (5 vols.) 0 5 + 0 +HERBERT SPENCER, <i>First Principles</i> (2 vols.) 0 2 0 +HERBERT SPENCER, <i>Education</i> 0 1 0 +Sir Richard Burton, <i>Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Mecca:</i> + Bohn's Edition (2 vols.) 0 7 0 +J. S. Speke, <i>Sources of the Nile:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 +Thomas Henry Huxley, <i>Essays:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +E. A. Freeman, <i>Europe:</i> Macmillan's Primers 0 1 0 +WILLIAM STUBBS, <i>Early Plantagenets</i> 0 2 0 +Walter Bagehot, <i>Lombard Street</i> 0 3 6 +Richard Holt Hutton, <i>Cardinal Newman</i> 0 3 6 +Sir John Seeley, <i>Ecce Homo:</i> New Universal Library 0 1 0 +David Masson, <i>Thomas de Quincey:</i> English Men of Letters Series 0 1 0 +John Richard Green, <i>Short History of the English People</i> 0 8 6 +Sir Leslie Stephen, <i>Pope:</i> English Men of Letters Series 0 1 0 +Lord Acton, <i>On the Study of History</i> 0 2 6 +Mandell Creighton, <i>The Age of Elizabeth</i> 0 2 6 +F. W. H. Myers, <i>Wordsworth:</i> English Men of Letters Series 0 1 0 + £4 10 6 +</pre> + <p> + The following authors are omitted, I think justifiably:—Hallam, + Whewell, Grote, Faraday, Herschell, Hamilton, John Wilson, Richard Owen, + Stirling Maxwell, Buckle, Oscar Wilde, P. G. Hamerton, F. D. Maurice, + Henry Sidgwick, and Richard Jebb. + </p> + <p> + Lastly, here is the list of poets. In the matter of price per volume it is + the most expensive of all the lists. This is due to the fact that it + contains a larger proportion of copyright works. Where I do not specify + the edition of a book, the original copyright edition is meant: + </p> + <p> + POETS. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> £ s. d. +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Oxford Edition 0 3 6 +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, <i>Literary Criticism:</i> Nowell Smith's Edition 0 2 6 +Robert Southey, <i>Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +Robert Southey, <i>Life of Nelson:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +S. T. COLERIDGE, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Newnes's Thin-Paper Classics 0 2 + 0 +S. T. COLERIDGE, <i>Biographia Literaria:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +S. T. COLERIDGE, <i>Lectures on Shakspere:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 + 0 +JOHN KEATS, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Oxford Edition 0 3 6 +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Oxford Edition 0 3 + 6 +LORD BYRON, <i>Poems:</i> E. Hartley Coleridge's Edition 0 6 0 +LORD BYRON, <i>Letters:</i> Scott Library 0 1 0 +Thomas Hood, <i>Poems:</i> World's Classics 0 1 0 +James and Horace Smith, <i>Rejected Addresses:</i> + New Universal Library 0 1 0 +John Keble, <i>The Christian Year:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +George Darley, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +T. L. Beddoes, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +Thomas Moore, <i>Selected Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +James Clarence Mangan, <i>Poems:</i> D. J. O'Donoghue's Edition 0 3 6 +W. Mackworth Praed, <i>Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +R. S. Hawker, <i>Cornish Ballads:</i> C. E. Byles's Edition 0 5 + 0 +Edward FitzGerald, <i>Omar Khaayyám:</i> Golden Treasury Series 0 2 6 +P. J. Bailey, <i>Festus:</i> Routledge's Edition 0 3 6 +Arthur Hugh Clough, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +LORD TENNYSON, <i>Poetical Works:</i> Globe Edition 0 3 6 +ROBERT BROWNING, <i>Poetical Works:</i> World's Classics (2 vols.) 0 2 + 0 +Elizabeth Browning, <i>Aurora Leigh:</i> Temple Classics 0 1 6 +Elizabeth Browning, <i>Shorter Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +P. B. Marston, <i>Song-tide:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +Aubrey de Vere, <i>Legends of St. Patrick:</i> + Cassell's National Library 0 0 6 +MATTHEW ARNOLD, <i>Poems:</i> Golden Treasury Series 0 2 6 +MATTHEW ARNOLD, <i>Essays:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Coventry Patmore, <i>Poems:</i> Muses' Library 0 1 0 +Sydney Dobell, <i>Poems:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 0 +Eric Mackay, <i>Love-letters of a Violinist:</i> Canterbury Poets 0 1 + 0 +T. E. Brown, <i>Poems</i> 0 7 6 +C. S. Calverley, <i>Verses and Translations</i> 0 1 6 +D. G. ROSSETTI, <i>Poetical Works</i> 0 3 6 +Christina Rossetti, <i>Selected Poems:</i> Golden Treasury Series 0 2 + 6 +James Thomson, <i>City of Dreadful Night</i> 0 3 6 +Jean Ingelow, <i>Poems:</i> Red Letter Library 0 1 6 +William Morris, <i>The Earthly Paradise</i> 0 6 0 +William Morris, <i>Early Romances:</i> Everyman's Library 0 1 0 +Augusta Webster, <i>Selected Poems</i> 0 4 6 +W. E. Henley, <i>Poetical Works</i> 0 6 0 +Francis Thompson, <i>Selected Poems</i> 0 5 0 + £5 7 0 +</pre> + <p> + Poets whom I have omitted after hesitation are: Ebenezer Elliott, Thomas + Woolner, William Barnes, Gerald Massey, and Charles Jeremiah Wells. On the + other hand, I have had no hesitation about omitting David Moir, Felicia + Hemans, Aytoun, Sir Edwin Arnold, and Sir Lewis Morris. I have included + John Keble in deference to much enlightened opinion, but against my + inclination. There are two names in the list which may be somewhat + unfamiliar to many readers. James Clarence Mangan is the author of <i>My + Dark Rosaleen</i>, an acknowledged masterpiece, which every library must + contain. T. E. Brown is a great poet, recognised as such by a few hundred + people, and assuredly destined to a far wider fame. I have included + FitzGerald because <i>Omar Khayyám</i> is much less a translation than an + original work. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_SUMM" id="link2H_SUMM__"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUMMARY OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. + </h2> + <p> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +83 prose-writers, in 141 volumes, costing £ 9 10 7 +38 poets " 46 " " 5 7 0 +121 187 £14 17 7 +</pre> + <p> + GRAND SUMMARY OF COMPLETE LIBRARY. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Authors. Volumes. Price. +1. To Dryden 48 72 £ 5 9 0 +2. Eighteenth Century 57 78 6 8 0 +3. Nineteenth Century 121 187 £14 17 7 + +</pre> + <p> + 226 337 £26 14 7 + </p> + <p> + I think it will be agreed that the total cost of this library is + surprisingly small. By laying out the sum of sixpence a day for three + years you may become the possessor of a collection of books which, for + range and completeness in all branches of literature, will bear comparison + with libraries far more imposing, more numerous, and more expensive. + </p> + <p> + I have mentioned the question of discount. The discount which you will + obtain (even from a bookseller in a small town) will be more than + sufficient to pay for Chambers's <i>Cyclopædia of English Literature</i>, + three volumes, price 30s. net. This work is indispensable to a bookman. + Personally, I owe it much. + </p> + <p> + When you have read, wholly or in part, a majority of these three hundred + and thirty-five volumes, <i>with enjoyment</i>, you may begin to whisper + to yourself that your literary taste is formed; and you may pronounce + judgment on modern works which come before the bar of your opinion in the + calm assurance that, though to err is human, you do at any rate know what + you are talking about. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Chapter XIV — MENTAL STOCKTAKING + </h2> + <p> + Great books do not spring from something accidental in the great men who + wrote them. They are the effluence of their very core, the expression of + the life itself of the authors. And literature cannot be said to have + served its true purpose until it has been translated into the actual life + of him who reads. It does not succeed until it becomes the vehicle of the + vital. Progress is the gradual result of the unending battle between human + reason and human instinct, in which the former slowly but surely wins. The + most powerful engine in this battle is literature. It is the vast + reservoir of true ideas and high emotions—and life is constituted of + ideas and emotions. In a world deprived of literature, the intellectual + and emotional activity of all but a few exceptionally gifted men would + quickly sink and retract to a narrow circle. The broad, the noble, the + generous would tend to disappear for want of accessible storage. And life + would be correspondingly degraded, because the fallacious idea and the + petty emotion would never feel the upward pull of the ideas and emotions + of genius. Only by conceiving a society without literature can it be + clearly realised that the function of literature is to raise the plain + towards the top level of the peaks. Literature exists so that where one + man has lived finely ten thousand may afterwards live finely. It is a + means of life; it concerns the living essence. + </p> + <p> + Of course, literature has a minor function, that of passing the time in an + agreeable and harmless fashion, by giving momentary faint pleasure. Vast + multitudes of people (among whom may be numbered not a few habitual + readers) utilise only this minor function of literature; by implication + they class it with golf, bridge, or soporifics. Literary genius, however, + had no intention of competing with these devices for fleeting the empty + hours; and all such use of literature may be left out of account. You, O + serious student of many volumes, believe that you have a sincere passion + for reading. You hold literature in honour, and your last wish would be to + debase it to a paltry end. You are not of those who read because the clock + has just struck nine and one can't go to bed till eleven. You are animated + by a real desire to get out of literature all that literature will give. + And in that aim you keep on reading, year after year, and the grey hairs + come. But amid all this steady tapping of the reservoir, do you ever take + stock of what you have acquired? Do you ever pause to make a valuation, in + terms of your own life, of that which you are daily absorbing, or imagine + you are absorbing? Do you ever satisfy yourself by proof that you are + absorbing anything at all, that the living waters, instead of vitalising + you, are not running off you as though you were a duck in a storm? + Because, if you omit this mere business precaution, it may well be that + you, too, without knowing it, are little by little joining the triflers + who read only because eternity is so long. It may well be that even your + alleged sacred passion is, after all, simply a sort of drug-habit. The + suggestion disturbs and worries you. You dismiss it impatiently; but it + returns. + </p> + <p> + How (you ask, unwillingly) can a man perform a mental stocktaking? How can + he put a value on what he gets from books? How can he effectively test, in + cold blood, whether he is receiving from literature all that literature + has to give him? + </p> + <p> + The test is not so vague, nor so difficult, as might appear. + </p> + <p> + If a man is not thrilled by intimate contact with nature: with the sun, + with the earth, which is his origin and the arouser of his acutest + emotions— + </p> + <p> + If he is not troubled by the sight of beauty in many forms— + </p> + <p> + If he is devoid of curiosity concerning his fellow-men and his + fellow-animals— + </p> + <p> + If he does not have glimpses of the unity of all things in an orderly + progress— + </p> + <p> + If he is chronically "querulous, dejected, and envious"— + </p> + <p> + If he is pessimistic— + </p> + <p> + If he is of those who talk about "this age of shams," "this age without + ideals," "this hysterical age," and this heaven-knows-what-age— + </p> + <p> + Then that man, though he reads undisputed classics for twenty hours a day, + though he has a memory of steel, though he rivals Porson in scholarship + and Sainte-Beuve in judgment, is not receiving from literature what + literature has to give. Indeed, he is chiefly wasting his time. Unless he + can read differently, it were better for him if he sold all his books, + gave to the poor, and played croquet. He fails because he has not + assimilated into his existence the vital essences which genius put into + the books that have merely passed before his eyes; because genius has + offered him faith, courage, vision, noble passion, curiosity, love, a + thirst for beauty, and he has not taken the gift; because genius has + offered him the chance of living fully, and he is only half alive, for it + is only in the stress of fine ideas and emotions that a man may be truly + said to live. This is not a moral invention, but a simple fact, which will + be attested by all who know what that stress is. + </p> + <p> + What! You talk learnedly about Shakespeare's sonnets! Have you heard + Shakespeare's terrific shout: + </p> + <p> + Full many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain-tops with + sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale + streams with heavenly alchemy. + </p> + <p> + And yet, can you see the sun over the viaduct at Loughborough Junction of + a morning, and catch its rays in the Thames off Dewar's whisky monument, + and not shake with the joy of life? If so, you and Shakespeare are not yet + in communication. What! You pride yourself on your beautiful edition of + Casaubon's translation of <i>Marcus Aurelius</i>, and you savour the + cadences of the famous: + </p> + <p> + This day I shall have to do with an idle, curious man, with an unthankful + man, a railer, a crafty, false, or an envious man. All these ill qualities + have happened unto him, through ignorance of that which is truly good and + truly bad. But I that understand the nature of that which is good, that it + only is to be desired, and of that which is bad, that it only is truly + odious and shameful: who know, moreover, that this transgressor, whosoever + he be, is my kinsman, not by the same blood and seed, but by participation + of the same reason and of the same divine particle— how can I be + hurt?... + </p> + <p> + And with these cadences in your ears you go and quarrel with a cabman! + </p> + <p> + You would be ashamed of your literary self to be caught in ignorance of + Whitman, who wrote: + </p> + <p> + Now understand me well—it is provided in the essence of things that + from any fruition of success, no matter what, shall come forth something + to make a greater struggle necessary. + </p> + <p> + And yet, having achieved a motor-car, you lose your temper when it breaks + down half-way up a hill! + </p> + <p> + You know your Wordsworth, who has been trying to teach you about: + </p> + <p> + The Upholder of the tranquil soul That tolerates the indignities of Time + And, from the centre of Eternity All finite motions over-ruling, lives In + glory immutable. + </p> + <p> + But you are capable of being seriously unhappy when your suburban train + selects a tunnel for its repose! + </p> + <p> + And the A. V. of the Bible, which you now read, not as your forefathers + read it, but with an æsthetic delight, especially in the Apocrypha! You + remember: + </p> + <p> + Whatsoever is brought upon thee, take cheerfully, and be patient when thou + art changed to a low estate. For gold is tried in the fire and acceptable + men in the furnace of adversity. + </p> + <p> + And yet you are ready to lie down and die because a woman has scorned you! + Go to! + </p> + <p> + You think some of my instances approach the ludicrous? They do. They are + meant to do so. But they are no more ludicrous than life itself. And they + illustrate in the most workaday fashion how you can test whether your + literature fulfils its function of informing and transforming your + existence. + </p> + <p> + I say that if daily events and scenes do not constantly recall and utilise + the ideas and emotions contained in the books which you have read or are + reading; if the memory of these books does not quicken the perception of + beauty, wherever you happen to be, does not help you to correlate the + particular trifle with the universal, does not smooth out irritation and + give dignity to sorrow—then you are, consciously or not, unworthy of + your high vocation as a bookman. You may say that I am preaching a sermon. + The fact is, I am. My mood is a severely moral mood. For when I reflect + upon the difference between what books have to offer and what even + relatively earnest readers take the trouble to accept from them, I am + appalled (or should be appalled, did I not know that the world is moving) + by the sheer inefficiency, the bland, complacent failure of the earnest + reader. I am like yourself, the spectacle of inefficiency rouses my holy + ire. + </p> + <p> + Before you begin upon another masterpiece, set out in a row the + masterpieces which you are proud of having read during the past year. Take + the first on the list, that book which you perused in all the zeal of your + New Year resolutions for systematic study. Examine the compartments of + your mind. Search for the ideas and emotions which you have garnered from + that book. Think, and recollect when last something from that book + recurred to your memory apropos of your own daily commerce with humanity. + Is it history—when did it throw a light for you on modern politics? + Is it science—when did it show you order in apparent disorder, and + help you to put two and two together into an inseparable four? Is it + ethics— when did it influence your conduct in a twopenny-halfpenny + affair between man and man? Is it a novel—when did it help you to + "understand all and forgive all"? Is it poetry—when was it a + magnifying glass to disclose beauty to you, or a fire to warm your cooling + faith? If you can answer these questions satisfactorily, your stocktaking + as regards the fruit of your traffic with that book may be reckoned + satisfactory. If you cannot answer them satisfactorily, then either you + chose the book badly or your impression that you <i>read</i> it is a + mistaken one. + </p> + <p> + When the result of this stocktaking forces you to the conclusion that your + riches are not so vast as you thought them to be, it is necessary to look + about for the causes of the misfortune. The causes may be several. You may + have been reading worthless books. This, however, I should say at once, is + extremely unlikely. Habitual and confirmed readers, unless they happen to + be reviewers, seldom read worthless books. In the first place, they are so + busy with books of proved value that they have only a small margin of + leisure left for very modern works, and generally, before they can catch + up with the age, Time or the critic has definitely threshed for them the + wheat from the chaff. No! Mediocrity has not much chance of hoodwinking + the serious student. + </p> + <p> + It is less improbable that the serious student has been choosing his books + badly. He may do this in two ways—absolutely and relatively. Every + reader of long standing has been through the singular experience of + suddenly <i>seeing</i> a book with which his eyes have been familiar for + years. He reads a book with a reputation and thinks: "Yes, this is a good + book. This book gives me pleasure." And then after an interval, perhaps + after half a lifetime, something mysterious happens to his mental sight. + He picks up the book again, and sees a new and profound significance in + every sentence, and he says: "I was perfectly blind to this book before." + Yet he is no cleverer than he used to be. Only something has happened to + him. Let a gold watch be discovered by a supposititious man who has never + heard of watches. He has a sense of beauty. He admires the watch, and + takes pleasure in it. He says: "This is a beautiful piece of bric-à-brac; + I fully appreciate this delightful trinket." Then imagine his feelings + when someone comes along with the key; imagine the light flooding his + brain. Similar incidents occur in the eventful life of the constant + reader. He has no key, and never suspects that there exists such a thing + as a key. That is what I call a choice absolutely bad. + </p> + <p> + The choice is relatively bad when, spreading over a number of books, it + pursues no order, and thus results in a muddle of faint impressions each + blurring the rest. Books must be allowed to help one another; they must be + skilfully called in to each other's aid. And that this may be accomplished + some guiding principle is necessary. "And what," you demand, "should that + guiding principle be?" How do I know? Nobody, fortunately, can make your + principles for you. You have to make them for yourself. But I will venture + upon this general observation: that in the mental world what counts is not + numbers but co-ordination. As regards facts and ideas, the great mistake + made by the average well-intentioned reader is that he is content with the + names of things instead of occupying himself with the causes of things. He + seeks answers to the question What? instead of to the question Why? He + studies history, and never guesses that all history is caused by the facts + of geography. He is a botanical expert, and can take you to where the <i>Sibthorpia + europæa</i> grows, and never troubles to wonder what the earth would be + without its cloak of plants. He wanders forth of starlit evenings and will + name you with unction all the constellations from Andromeda to the + Scorpion; but if you ask him why Venus can never be seen at midnight, he + will tell you that he has not bothered with the scientific details. He has + not learned that names are nothing, and the satisfaction of the lust of + the eye a trifle compared to the imaginative vision of which scientific + "details" are the indispensable basis. + </p> + <p> + Most reading, I am convinced, is unphilosophical; that is to say, it lacks + the element which more than anything else quickens the poetry of life. + Unless and until a man has formed a scheme of knowledge, be it a mere + skeleton, his reading must necessarily be unphilosophical. He must have + attained to some notion of the inter-relations of the various branches of + knowledge before he can properly comprehend the branch in which he + specialises. If he has not drawn an outline map upon which he can fill in + whatever knowledge comes to him, as it comes, and on which he can trace + the affinity of every part with every other part, he is assuredly + frittering away a large percentage of his efforts. There are certain + philosophical works which, once they are mastered, seem to have performed + an operation for cataract, so that he who was blind, having read them, + henceforward sees cause and effect working in and out everywhere. To use + another figure, they leave stamped on the brain a chart of the entire + province of knowledge. + </p> + <p> + Such a work is Spencer's <i>First Principles</i>. I know that it is nearly + useless to advise people to read <i>First Principles</i>. They are + intimidated by the sound of it; and it costs as much as a dress-circle + seat at the theatre. But if they would, what brilliant stocktakings there + might be in a few years! Why, if they would only read such detached essays + as that on "Manners and Fashion," or "The Genesis of Science" (in a + sixpenny volume of Spencer's <i>Essays</i>, published by Watts and Co.), + the magic illumination, the necessary power of "synthetising" things, + might be vouchsafed to them. In any case, the lack of some such + disciplinary, co-ordinating measure will amply explain many disastrous + stocktakings. The manner in which one single ray of light, one single + precious hint, will clarify and energise the whole mental life of him who + receives it, is among the most wonderful and heavenly of intellectual + phenomena. Some men search for that light and never find it. But most men + never search for it. + </p> + <p> + The superlative cause of disastrous stocktakings remains, and it is much + more simple than the one with which I have just dealt. It consists in the + absence of meditation. People read, and read, and read, blandly + unconscious of their effrontery in assuming that they can assimilate + without any further effort the vital essence which the author has breathed + into them. They cannot. And the proof that they do not is shown all the + time in their lives. I say that if a man does not spend at least as much + time in actively and definitely thinking about what he has read as he has + spent in reading, he is simply insulting his author. If he does not submit + himself to intellectual and emotional fatigue in classifying the + communicated ideas, and in emphasising on his spirit the imprint of the + communicated emotions—then reading with him is a pleasant pastime + and nothing else. This is a distressing fact. But it is a fact. It is + distressing, for the reason that meditation is not a popular exercise. If + a friend asks you what you did last night, you may answer, "I was + reading," and he will be impressed and you will be proud. But if you + answer, "I was meditating," he will have a tendency to smile and you will + have a tendency to blush. I know this. I feel it myself. (I cannot offer + any explanation.) But it does not shake my conviction that the absence of + meditation is the main origin of disappointing stocktakings. + </p> +<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 3640 ***</div> + </body> +</html> + |